Words in the dark

Words come to me

in the dark,

when the sun

is just a promise.

Are they the dreams

i don't remember

sneaking up to

the horizon?

Like the glow

that grows above

the eastern hills

and all the stars

hide from the furnace

of the one that warms us,

but keeps us at the end 

of gravity's leash?

I don't know.

The vapor trails

chase the tails

of the days first flights

across the sky.

The gulls wake up,

take up their perches

on the street lights

dimming out.

Begin their search

to break their fast,

their cries announce

it's here, I've found it.

And if I pay attention,

I find something too,

before the hiss

of traffic on the bridge

and what all I need

to do today takes over

and reverie is replaced

by practicality and light.

She watches me

She watches me.

from her perch beneath

the wooden Buddha's smile

Does she share

that everlasting peace?

I put her there so she could see

all I do, even if that means

she laughs at me -which I expect

she often has reason to.

Hope she doesn't mind

that I've commandeered her desk

and take up the whole bed

now that I have room.

Because I'm here and now

with all the itches and the kisses

yet to be. And the channels I choose

to put me to sleep are not

her cop dramas and mysteries.

Winter solstice has now passed,

each day the light grows stronger,

the streams begin to flow,

and the hills are showing green.

I think she approves of the things

I keep and those which get passed on.

That the tears I shed can be again

for things of wonder, love and beauty.

I bet she laughs and shakes her head

when I get misty about some corny song,

Yeah, I'm still here and I haven't tossed out

all your souvenirs and soaps and magnets.

Are you happy now,

in a place I can't imagine?

or here, perched beneath

the wooden Buddha,

smiling like he does, at me.

Christmas '72

The grass was brown.

matted. Everything

was winter naked.

No duties.

no letters from home.

Just a slip

of paper with

a drop of LSD.

A way to pass

……….the day,

the emptiness.

And it wasn't like

the way

I remembered.

Except for the metallic

taste on my tongue.

and the tension

crawling up my back

when coming down.

The leaden sunset

of the night to come

loomed much too long.

I scored a nickel

of creamy looking

smack from Lizard

that he and Dimartini

had brought back

from Amsterdam.

Put it up my nose.

and then……

the barracks room

was a golden palace

and I was molten.

Like an infant wrapped

in swaddling cloth...

and the music

on the stereo…

was like a chorus

of angels…….

but it was just

the Rolling Stones.

I had disappeared

inside the euphoria.

So the morning

after Christmas,

I knew that I would heed

the warning:

Do not feed the tiger.

Roseanne

Roseanne is balanced

on a branch above me.

Pries a chunk of bark

off a rotted section

of the trunk.

Oh, she coos,

in her froggy voice

deeper than a boys,

deeper than mine.

She holds up

a slender, gray,

ensatina, what we call

a tree salamander.

It does not struggle.

We climb back

to the ground.

Inspect our prize.

It looks at us

with placid eyes.

Roseanne reaches

up the tree and releases

the delicate creature.

We head further up the hill

to the rocks where

blue belly lizards bask.

She's as good or better

than me, her quick hands

dart with grace and skill

grabbing lizards and never

breaking their tails.

We catch a few

then let them go,

decide to go back down

behind the barn to throw

rocks in the manure pond.

There's a cat licking kittens

in the sunshine in the doorway

of the barn. She lets us pet them.

Manuel, the dairyman is coming

down the gravel driveway

from his house.

We go inside and climb

up the hay bales to the loft.

To spy and whisper things

about him, as if he were

a villain. He's not.

But he thinks we'll upset

the cows and it's almost

milking time.

Tossing rocks into

the manure pond,

to make big splashes

like erupting green lava,

will have to wait until tomorrow.

So we go around the back

and zip across the driveway

to the pale stucco farmhouse

that her family rents.

The garden has hydrangeas

and snapdragons.

Those are the ones we like,

because you can pull off a blossom

and manipulate the petals

to imitate a mouth speaking.

That's what we do,

talk to each other with flowers.

I want to kiss her.

Boys and girls our age

supposedly don't share

that desire. I do but I don't

dare to ask.

Too shy and too afraid

that she doesn't feel the same way

and we'll never climb trees again

or throw rocks in the manure pond.

So the snap dragons talk about other things,

salamanders and shit ponds.

Power outage

I awoke in dark silence.

-just another power outage

on the island.

My cell phone lit my way

down the newly empty hallway.

I found some candles on the sideboard

that I'd set up for an intimate dinner

but had never yet

been touched by flame.

Brewed my coffee by candlelight

but I didn't stick around this morning.

Take me to the city's light,

take me to BART.

A poster in the train says ACID solutions

from a company called Fauna

promises to manage damages

from chaos.

I don't recall acid ever doing that.

I suppose it must be something tech.

When I get to the office I’ll  have to check.

The news and book store next to

the Oakland 12th Street exit from BART

is piping Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue

out to the sidewalk.

And Mike who sleeps

somewhere on the street,

already has his shopping cart and milk crates,

his graffitied flags and rags,

parked in the entry way

of the Chase bank on the corner.

He's got his headphones on,

he's hopping from foot to foot,

dancing, singing, talking to the air

in his non stop

twenty-four-seven stream

of motherfucker this

and motherfuckin' that,

delivered in a crackling voice

laced with laughter,

-vocal cords as rough and raspy

as Wolfman Jack’s.

No customers as yet

in the predawn darkness

for the Newport menthol shorts

that he sells one by one.

So apparently ACID stands for

Atomicity, Consistency,

Isolation and Durability.

Ensuring that ACID compliant databases

can complete transactions

in a timely manner.

Right.

I understand that about as much

as Mike's croaking rants.

It will soon be time for Chase to open

and he'll move his shopping cart and crates

to the escalator exit from the 12th Street BART Station.

12th and Broadway, heart of Oakland,

Where he can cackle and laugh

at people coming up the escalator,

sell his cigarettes and bottled water

to people undeterred by his Tourettes.

What I learned this week

I made a pineapple pie.
Like the ones at grandma's
from holidays long past.
This time re-imagined,
for the now.

One fresh pineapple
sweetened with some
of the palm sugar
I brought home
from Cambodia.

I save this sugar
for special dishes.
It was delicious.
Simple ingredients
in the right proportions.

I learned that Venus
would shine extra brightly
before the break of dawn
as our celestial paths
around the sun converged.

So I stepped out into the dark
and watched her rise above
the rooftops across the street.
An amber ember to ignite
the day with hope.

I photographed sixty-two
Thai silk shirts or blouses.
Jackets, tunics or tops?
I don't know what to call them.

Each one hand made
for she who wore them
nearly every day she taught.
There was a lesson in that:
Embrace the world, be her lover
and she will embrace you back.

I hung them one by one in the entry,
where the light was right and strong,
and each one was a stepping stone
to help me across the river
from treasured past to gifted present,
the shore ahead emerging through the mist.

rainy days lead to this

There are eighty six billion neurons

in the average human brain.

More than all the galaxies

in the universe. 

I believe that's quite a few more

than my phone.

How many work in concert

to write a symphony?

Determine the difference

in fine-grained degrees

between wine

and vinegar.

Ponder the mysteries

of the flesh and the divine.
To tie a shoe?

Sink a perfect three

off the dribble,

connect in sweet harmony

to savor a blissful kiss?

To simply maneuver a spoon

between thumb and finger expertly,

requires more than a year

in infancy.

What neural multitudes are involved

to summon the faint recollection

of the sandy den my grandpa's dog

dug under the loading ramp

for that old flatbed truck?

How cool it was inside,

where I could hide

from the burning zenith

of the noon time sun.

And now I have to make

a careful effort to put a key

into a lock. The vision from

my one good eye lacks

the stereoscopic precision.

I heard a woman on the radio

whose injuries stripped her mind

of language. Despite her confusion

she felt a encompassing peace.

Perhaps something similar

occurs to masters of meditation.

Oh what would it be like to tell

those eighty six billion neurons

to whisper, to pay attention

only to this, this fulsome moment

suspended between the one just before

and the next one.

It's alright though, to become aware

that my foot's gone to sleep,

and I need to remember the rent's

due tomorrow, and I'll try to summon

the afternoon's bliss when sleep

enfolds me in her arms.

After all there's a whole universe

that lives in my mind.