= \ / =

anahata

2012-02-10T11:13:00.002-06:00

the heart traverses much in its journey

youthful exuberance gives way to experience

faith slips into the mysterious unknown

ecstatic peaks and the dark abyss

the bare desperation of the dying ego

brought down in violence by its own hand

glimpses of something more subtle

dreamlike just out of reach

by candlelight a path in the darkness

cuts through the here and the now

Into the Black

2012-01-11T19:59:00.003-06:00

When darkness beckons, dive in to it.

The only loss is to avoid what you are feeling.

They all are parts of you in search of liberation, anyhow.

Nothing to fear, no need to numb the sensations, just down.

Now, feeling all the way, down deep, into the black.

and nothing as my guide

2011-09-12T23:32:00.005-05:00

everything i am inclined to hold onto, let it go.

every object, every belief, every opinion.

to become clear, like the reflection in a mirror.

an empty vessel, in all ways free,

with gratitude for all, and nothing as my guide.

summer musings

2011-09-12T23:28:00.000-05:00

i am just passing through (why is it when you want to say something profound, it just turns out scatalogical?).

Student at campus art reception says, "art is like the Blob, it's always moving". Not quite sure I got it, but I like the analogy nonetheless.

Dreamt I was in a crowd of people, when a racoon runs up, jumps in my arms and starts nibbling at my fingers. Then another does the same. Then a monkey jumps up and I'm holding all three in my arms...

Electrical storm lights the moist night sky, lights flicker and fade, all downtown is blackness for a moment.

The future is always unknown to us. There is an element of trust in stepping from this moment into the random uncertainty of the next. But that's how it works. Uncertainty reminds us that we are here to fully occupy this moment, now.

baby steps on the road to nowhere...

Sometimes you have to give up a good idea to get to a great one.

The end game of all dualities. Paying homage at the altar to the Clowns who run the Big Top.

Midnight, hallucinatory rays of light skimming across the desert. A voice fades in and out, airwaves mixing with overtones: "Tibetans call it the rainbow body"...and that moment the rain hits. Splashing across the windshield in torrents and flashes of lightning. Suddenly everything accelerates. Satori rides shotgun. ‎...and let it not be said, when history writes its' fabled lore, that destiny let these two brave men slip from her storied grasp.

Dreamt of a slight man, dyed blonde combover, pale leisure suit, holding me and a roomful of others hostage, planning us harm. As he explained why, I looked at the others, whispering "are we going to allow this?", then turned off the lights as we descended on him en masse. Drivin' all night in the summer time...kooky hallucinatory am radio callers fade out as self-important right wing djs massage their egos across the black empty sea of night, now giving way to sunrise over Amarillo, and on into the hot oven blast known as Texas.

calm abiding.

what have i learned so far? 1) i like shooting pool w/friends 2) complete solitude truly reveals you to yourself 3) i'm not yet fully comfortable with that 4) the self-balance of nature seems a form of perfection, yet involves killing to sustain itself. more investigation required. The real, revealed in the mythical, spoken of in dreams and broken fragments of perception. Today I will use my imagination to recreate the world, beginning...now.

Yes, it is absurd. And yes, it is a caricature. But rap culture got it exactly right: we create an image of the world we as we want it to be, then walk into that picture. Such is the power of the imagination. Strip away the ego while doing so, and you have hit the jackpot.

I learned a new visualization technique last night on the road. Early in the trip my tire shredded, leaving me with no spare and four hundred miles to go. I kept focusing my mind on the sound of the gravel driveway under my tires ahead at my destination. Eight hours later, I was there, pulling into that real driveway.

Dream Journal (Recent Dreams)

2011-08-09T23:05:00.001-05:00

Staying with an elderly Tibetan woman on a mountain at 16,000 feet elevation. She is tiny and gaunt, with deep wrinkles across her face. Lying in the glowing embers of the fire inside of her hut are various hand-smithed metal tools: a spear, a hoe, and a third, unknown implement. I look up from the fire, seeing her face in the shadows, and ask her to teach me how to make these tools. (June)

- - - - - - - - - -

Working in a hospital as an orderly. A helicopter drops through the roof, and a team gets out, unloading three clear bins of organ transplants, floating in water. They set them on a bed. I clearly see a heart in one bin, still beating, and note that it is alive. Doctors come into the room and push me down the hallway, closing the doors. Walking further down the hall, I see Dustin Hoffman, playing a character who has lost the top half of his head and all of his brain. He is gesturing at me as though he wants to talk. I then realize that this is a movie, and that I am playing a role. (early July)

- - - - - - - - - -

I watch Billy Bob Thornton in cut-off jeans flirting with an attractive woman. He is unkempt and hasn't shaved in days. He drops down on all fours, scampering away down the median of a road, looking back to urge the girl to come along with him. (July)

- - - - - - - - - -

I am on the wing of a plane that is flying thousands of feet above the earth. Upside down, I cling to the wing, without concern for the greatness of height. I climb into the cabin through a broken window, and find myself in the company of other fliers, about 5 Latin men with aviator goggles. We each grab at and pass around sheet music, which is blown about by the wind passing through the cabin, and once settled began to sing "Special Lady" by Ray, Goodman and Brown. (mid July)

- - - - - - - - - -

In an SUV, driving another gallery owner to the airport, I realize that I am sitting in the backseat with her, and that the vehicle is driving itself. As we are about to pass under a bridge, I see a plane on the runway above, then look out at the highway and marvel that we are going straightways along it. Becoming concerned that no one is behind the wheel, I lean forward, stretching my body until I am in control. Then, the traffic becomes unpredictable, and I am forced to steer off the road, as large rocks begin to congest the highway. Steering with precision, I maneuver around the boulders, while also avoiding the chaos of the other drivers. (mid July)

- - - - - - - - - -

Driving an old beat up pickup truck in West Texas. My dad is riding in the passenger seat. We travel over rolling hills, coming to a landfill. I realize it is the wrong path, and put the truck into reverse, then turn onto another road. It is a steep hill, which overlooks the city at its top. I realize I am dreaming, and gun the truck over the hill, flying into the air. Suddenly, the truck is gone, and I am flying in the open air. (early August)

- - - - - - - - - -

Fighter planes flying low, pursuing helicopters. Machine guns strafing the ground in my direction. Running into a grove of trees, I step into a hole in a large cedar. Inside it is open and expansive, its smooth walls the size of a house, and forms a refuge from the conflict. (early August)

sunyata

2011-05-13T22:58:00.003-05:00

don't tell me what's real

(i'll not see it then)

your truth equals my pain

(and my apathy your chains)

my horses want to run free

(watch me hold tight to nothing)

Mt. Athos (St. John)

2011-05-08T08:01:00.003-05:00

It had been many months since we last spoke, and yet I remember the light in his eyes, even as his body began to tire of the struggle. "Hitler gave special protection to the monks there", he said, "even as he catalogued their works for seizure".

It was then I thought of how good and evil were so limiting as concepts in describing our experiences on this plane. I could equally vilify either the antibodies or the newly malignant cells and their relentlessness, or marvel at how they have now become points of departure for the kindness in his voice or the lack of fear at what lies next.

All I know is that I don't want him to go, and yet I also realize this is selfish, that we can't hold back one who is ready for that next step. And how could I blame him? In these existences, marked as they are by suffering, why should one not be ready to jettison them?

Looking into his eyes, I saw compassion and acceptance growing like wildflowers, even now spreading to overtake the conflict and turmoil they live among. Before leaving I held him, and felt the brevity of our lives on this plane. In those few seconds, I wanted to learn and feel all that he felt and to see the world through those same eyes.

It then dawned on me that these moments are sacred, even as they are almost immediately swept out from under us. And more than anything else, there was an underlying gratitude, not anger toward any imagined cause of his body's suffering. Gratitude that the flesh and blood we inhabit gives us the opportunity to experience such things as this.

verses (pt. iv)

2011-05-01T23:13:00.001-05:00

you mock me for my beliefs, then tell me you believe.

each time you let go, the freedom is illusive.

and so, you can't help but to try again.

experience itself is the truest teacher.

every time an end, and you're coming back into this body.

there is no solid ground with us.

that is the nature of this, always flowing, always moving.

running for so long, and for what, from that which cannot be escaped.

distraction only works for so long.

what to do, when none of this feels real.

pushing against what is possible to express.

verses (pt. iii)

2011-04-20T17:22:00.002-05:00

i trust the validity of my experiences.

they give me insight into reality.

this basic truth is accessible to all.

when i slow down and observe life, i become aware.

with this awareness, existing power structures no longer matter, be they social, political, or religious.

this includes those that i have constructed inside my own mind.

they tell me to be fearful for my soul, my freedom, my reputation.

i realize that these are only words to reinforce an outdated sense of self.

beyond that, there is an expansiveness that envelopes all.

it is still, quiet, and yet more powerful than any weapon made by human hands.

verses (pt. ii)

2011-04-18T17:18:00.000-05:00

musky scent of fresh rain falls / fresh yet pungent too /earth calling us to itself. (04.15.11)

outside of time, we haven't yet been born, and we're already dead...from that perspective, what becomes most important right now? (04.14.11)

so many faces, so many expressions of reality, so many directions we throw ourselves in, connections all. some more distant, others so near, all in ebb and flow. (04.11.11)

The only hells that exist are the ones we create for ourselves and others. (04.04.11)

brisk feeling in the air, diffused light glowing on the landscape, birds calling in the trees, a fleeting limnal state all. (03.30.11)

The material world presents itself to us in oppositional terms. So those who work really hard at being peaceful, are usually the ones who are the most turbulent on the inside. Yeah Randall, I'm talkin' about you. (03.24.11)

When I'm taking long road trips, I come up with so many cool FB status posts while out on the road...pithy, meaning laden quotes. By the time I actually log onto FB, they're all gone, vanished back into the muse. (03.22.11)

lying in the pool, looking up, i saw a flock of birds gliding aimlessly on the currents of wind, many hundreds of feet up in the clear blue sky. later, in the evening we saw them gliding in to nest for the evening...a flock of huge, graceful vultures. (03.19.11)

(( wild abandon )) (03.11.11)

so grateful that there is love, to give and to receive. (03.03.11)

verses (pt. i)

2011-03-17T17:16:00.000-05:00

compassion for those trapped in the service of death

dismantle from the bottom up

only you can imprison your own heart

last moments of the dying ego

cynicism is the easy way out

those with the most power are the most fearful

i will never be a corporate brand

love embracing all existence

one moment of clarity

all is possible with nothing left to lose

discarding that which no longer works

true strength lies not in oppression

do not be afraid

2011-02-04T17:35:00.000-06:00

it's ok,

it's so easy to say,

don't be afraid.

yet, we're all afraid

aren't we?

what is it my love?

what is your greatest fear?

please, relax if you can.

don't fight it,

the tide, the pull

feel it, whatever it might be.

it is your true self calling:

fear, longing, regret, love.

dark night (bodhisattva)

2011-01-12T17:03:00.003-06:00

the darkness, it holds no fear to me

knowing it so well through

all these years and lives untold.

embracing, pressed so close

as to take into myself

no self, it matters not.

stumbling now, without balance

down, spiralling downward

empty and free of hope.

past countless imagined apparitions,

demons and afflictions, no power they

for to them, the same as to i.

and to you i say, be not alone

rather take me, take me there with you

reach and find me there, deep into the black.

Christmas Karmic Eve

2010-12-25T13:34:00.004-06:00

My recent practice has involved applying the methodology of the Tibetan Book of the Dead, in particular, that of passing through the Bardos of the wrathful deities. The logic being that if you apply this practice in life, you will make progress here, and be familar with it after dying.

Poetically enough the wrathful deities, like the three wise men, decided to visit me on Christmas Eve. A peaceful evening walking with throngs of Christmas revelers later gave way to a deep sense of anxiety and nightmares.

Toward the deep existential dread that came up, I was able to hold no grudge and remained fairly neutral, understanding it as karmic residue that I could accept as coming from within myself. This was a marked departure from the teaching I received early on that these feelings are evil, and need to be exorcised.

As the experience unfolded, I began to find compassion toward that young child I once was, and also toward those well-meaning, but ultimately ignorant teachers and preachers of my youth. I also found gratitude that my own children are progressing at a much younger age toward wisdom and realization than I was able to.

Through a Christmas night filled with unsettling dreams I ventured, not attaching myself to them, nor pushing them away, but trying just to be present and allow the energy to complete itself.

And so this is my current resolution, to experience the karmic residue of a million existences, and watch as it burns itself out, at its own pace. I couldn't escape the irony that this realization came on the symbolic night of another very celebrated painful birth into this world.

This seems to me like an honest path to liberation.

among the ruins

2010-11-23T12:46:00.005-06:00

the old ways no longer work.

though they still stand, they are incapable of carrying meaning.

those established forms will either evolve, or crumble.

there are new forms emerging, sprouting up from among the ruins.

they will engage new directions, even as the old gives way.

we are in this transitional space already, even though it is not readily apparent.

the old symbols continue to serve a function, that of providing a framework,

even as they are subsumed into the new.

the earth goddess, ancient rome, mithras, each had their time and place.

when they were no longer beneficial, new forms came into being,

born out of and adapting what was useful from the former.

and so it is with the time and place in which we find ourselves, here at the cusp of something new.

2010-11-02T10:22:00.004-05:00

Vipassana Pop

These are new works on paper I've just finished. The project began as a "tabula rasa", in which I would complete a collage, then paint over it, obliterating the image, and lastly add a final layer to coax something out of the background.

Deni Bleu, Discourse on Emptiness, 1,2,3,4 (Joey)

They were conceived as band posters for a bar in a decrepit alley behind an ancient cathedral.

Been a Son

I place them on the street, some in alleyways, some outside of a club, or by an old railroad trestle, and photographed them in each of these settings.

Pieta Cola, Vipassana Pop, Rockfu

The energetic history of each of these locations interacts vividly with the works. This is a fundamental idea that comes out of my curatorial projects, that of art existing in real world contexts.

notes on (no) self

2010-09-06T10:01:00.008-05:00

you are an unruly child,
wielding violence and the cruel, thinking yourself just.

yes, you are right, against
all that is wrong, so maintain your illusion.

and reinforce yourself through concepts,
your faith, your holy book, your flag, your right, my wrong.

and what is it really,
this need to push so hard to justify your existence.

against the fear of emptiness,
of the infinite space that permeates the body.

of connectedness, of bridges
crossing the great spaces of the immaterial.

of the pulse, the flow,
the vibration of your own unsustainable nature.

cease the struggle, resist not,
only then does your illusion give way to the real.

Clouds

2010-07-03T13:12:00.007-05:00

"I've looked at clouds from both sides now, from up and down, and still somehow, it's clouds illusions I recall, I really don't know clouds at all." - Joni Mitchell, Clouds

"One potent metaphor for the Void, often used in Tibetan art, is the sky. As the sky is the emptiness that offers clouds to our perception, so the Void is the 'space' in which objects appear to us in response to our attachments and longings." - Phillip Rawson, Sacred Tibet

Yesterday evening, I watched a gathering thunderstorm as I walked. Having brought along my camera, I began to take pictures of the clouds, slowly, deliberately. These images became the starting point for an exploration of the processes of the mind, to look at the ways in which it constructs meaning, reinforces its own conditioning, and attempts to justify its own existence.

Later, as rain fell outside, I worked with the images on my computer, cropping and mirroring, using pattern and repetition to create fractal heavy mandalas from the original photos. As I continued, striking images emerged, some humorous, some haunting, all demonstrating 'clouds illusions' quite vividly.

From one image, two faces, framed by large curly locks, stared intently into each others eyes. In another, a pair of devilish skulls guard either side of a dark chasm. In a third, a wrathful Tibetan deity looks out at me with googly eyes.

And then I realize, it's all there...and not. It becomes clear that the mind looks for and sees not only anthropomorphic patterns, but also, and more subtly, connects to and reinforces the layers of memory and interpretation that it has already created.

So my conditioned responses tend to see Dio album covers, Franklin Ajaye in the movie Car Wash, Thangka paintings, angry wolves, and, duh, sexual members both positive and negative in form. Depending on the time and place of your existence, you will see what is particular to that experience.

It was a potent realization of the ways in which we as sentient beings take in essentially neutral phenomena, and project onto them our sense of meaning and identity. 'What you see is what you get', right?

Guess again: that is where the Matrix effect kicks in, as the images metaphorically tumble into cascading 1s and 0s, and reality begins to unfold with more clarity. The constant procession and change of the clouds in a blue sky is equivalent to the ongoing mental processes taking place in the mind.

And this vivid demonstration reveals that the 'I' which sees and experiences all of these things is just that, another formation of changing clouds passing through a clear sky.

So...I...let it go... With awareness I can watch these transitory thoughts and images as they rise and fall, seeing them as temporal chatter unfolding against the backdrop of a larger, undefined reality.

It's all an illusion, not in the sense of being fundamentally unreal, but in its incomplete grasp of that reality. And yes, it's a richly immersive illusion at that, but still nothing to be attached to, or held onto for long.

Yes, it seems that I lost my 'self' in the clouds of last nights thunderstorm.

broke down in Amarillo

2010-06-09T13:08:00.000-05:00

headin' east, the sun behind,
a trail o' smoke kicks up 'n around.
the breeze it's warm, summer's come,
it's Amarillo, and i'm broke down.

((chorus))
broke down in Amarillo,
i'm here w/nothin', nothin' but now.
broke down in Amarillo,
i'll turn the wheel, get out somehow.

met a young brotha', name o' Kevin,
reads the Qur'an, 'n drives a tow truck.
picked up my ride, let me crash at his place,
said "i been there, been down on my luck."

((chorus))

a fella called Nick, so it says on his shirt,
but his name's not Nick i was told.
he's under the hood, changin' the hoses,
will i get to the next round, or will i fold?

((chorus))

my mind is open, it's free and it's empty,
like water moves in a clear running stream.
where to next, where will the flow take me,
on a hot sunny day, in this waking dream?

((chorus))

i am not (prajnaparamita)

2010-05-21T12:59:00.000-05:00

i am not this body, these sensations
neither the pleasure, nor the pain

i am not the tender hug, or the sweet smile on your face
neither the ecstatic embrace, nor the first smile of morning

here, the emptiness always unfolding,
in such proximity, yet always just beyond reach

i am not the numbing fatigue, the half-closed eyes
stumbling, somewhere between waking and sleeping

i am not the laughter after the joke
nor the ringing in my ears

again, a sensing of the all expansive,
yet nowhere to be found, no place, no time, no thing

i am not the dull ache of distance and separation
neither the memories, nor the regrets

i am not the racing thoughts of this mind
not the watering in my mouth, nor the scent of a lilac

here, passing through all these experiences
my true self is revealed through what i am not

The Illusion of Separateness

2010-04-17T12:47:00.002-05:00

I just got an e-mail from a close relative entitled "Divorce Agreement". It proposes dividing the country up according to ideology and beliefs because, "this relationship has run its course" (i.e. America). On one level, it is interesting how the language of racism evolves, but always keeps the same motivation, i.e. to define the "other", and to maintain a sense of separation from that "other".

In this context the letter states "you are welcome to Islam, Scientology, Humanism and Shirley Maclaine...we'll keep our Judeo-Christian values...we'll keep the capitalism, greedy corporations, pharmaceutical companies, Wal-Mart...". It then descends into a thinly veiled screed against "homeless, homeboys, hippies, and illegal aliens".

At least two things stand out here in sharp contrast. The first being that few of us fall sharply into any one camp of belief or lifestyle. There are gay Christians, Darwinian Hummer drivers, and tree hugging NRA members, scattered like leaven throughout this country. So, to enact such a decree would literally mean severing ourselves into pieces, using the wisdom of Solomon.

The second consideration being that ignorance and divisiveness are tools that propagandists use to weaken and divide a potential threat. Who is it, you may ask, that would want to keep a populace divided against itself? Simply ask yourself who stands to benefit by continuing to undermine the concept this country was founded on, i.e. "We the People".

You can find the answer for yourself. And a hint that no, it's not a Republican or Democratic conspiracy to hold the other side down. To think that is to perpetuate the illusion of separateness. What if the world is not so black and white?

Truthfully, my world becomes more gray each day. I find elements of truth in just about any system, as well as faults and corruption. Within my own context of life experiences I am a descendent of Arkansas hillbilly, Oklahoma dugout born native, taught to think for myself, while influenced by Christian, Hindu, Buddhist spirituality, and dancing to soul, funk, deep south field music with tablas and a Krishna beat.

There is no way to separate out all of that cultural mishmash. Not even Solomon, in all of his wisdom could, or would even want to. So next time I'm out and about, I'll see you at the Chaat stand, standing on a crowded D.F. Metro, sitting at the Zen center, listening to AM radio on a country dirt road, or drinking horchata with my homeboys.

time unto time

2010-04-10T19:09:00.003-05:00

lights illuminate a passing landscape
memories, a flood of sensation
a glimpse, a chance, time unto time

i miss you, and have no one to tell
of what was, what might have been
and what yet could be

across the desert, the rolling hills
once dunes of an ancient ocean,
dried tears now, endless sunswept plains

there is still much left
to work out between us
from lives before on to the next

what little light is fading now
and forms a gradient of
orange to blue to purple to indigo to black

and where are you now
and what are you thinking
and in your heart: love, hate, indifference?

falling now to a dark valley
from end to end without light
but the stars, and endless sky above

Ouroboric Living (Closing the Circle)

2010-03-29T19:08:00.000-05:00

I am setting out to deeply explore the cycles of consumption and waste within my own life, using the Ouroboros as a model. The circular image of the serpent devouring it's own tail, ancient symbol of self-contained consciousness, will now be applied to an exploration of the existing cycles of my own activity, in order to raise my awareness, to gain self-suffiency, and to promote a vision of smaller, local, autonomous businesses.

When I consume anything, I want to be aware of where it came from, how it was made, and what it is made of. My goal is to get as close as possible to the source, the method of trade, and what happens when I take it into myself. When I eat an egg, I want it to come, if not directly from under the chicken, then from the farmer who raises the chicken. That way, I can ask them questions about their chickens, and consequently, know more about the egg I'm eating.

To this end, I have begun to read the ingredient lists of everything I consider buying at the store. If there is any ingredient that I don't understand in plain language (i.e. chemical compounds), then I won't buy the product. I look for where the food item is made, in order to buy from local businesses whenever possible.

Some products have moved so far away from their original, natural sources that they are hopelessly entangled in chemical additives. For these, I have begun to make my own versions, from basic ingredients. These include toothpaste, which I now make from baking soda, salt, aloe gel, lemon peel and essential oils, and dish soap, which I have replaced with finely sifted wood ash from my fireplace.

Fresh produce from local farmers is now my first choice when buying fruits and vegetables, and I plan to learn how to garden this spring. When purchasing manufactured goods I look at second-hand options such as craigslist and thrift stores, and want to begin barter exchanges with others. This undercuts the planned obsolescence features that large corporations use to keep us hooked into their cycles of consumption.

Last summer, my son and I furnished our casita completely with good quality finds from the local thrift store for under $150. Our like new sofa came from a neighbor who was moving and didn't want it anymore. The computer I am typing this on (an Apple iBook G4) was purchased from a student for $350 cash.

On the other end, as I consume goods, waste is produced. Although I don't yet know what the city actually does with it, I recycle glass, plastic, metal, and paper, on the hope that it actually is reused. Food waste goes into a compost heap that has begun to provide fertile soil for my plants. Wood and paper scrap that is not recycled goes into the fireplace to help heat our rooms. Then, ash from the fireplace is used to wash the dishes.

Still, there is much that I have not yet addressed. In the area of transportation, I still buy 1-2 tanks of gasoline per month, no doubt produced by a big oil company, for my 1989 Honda Wagovan. I pay my cell phone provider way too much for a service I can probably get for free on the internet. I could find a way to utilize gray water (non-toilet based waste water) from the shower and kitchen sink to water my plants with.

So, this is just a beginning, but where to from here? I envision a world made up of small, independent businesses and individuals, collaborating together in widening circles of trade. A world where disconnected large governmental and corporate structures become irrelevant, because we have quit feeding their endless appetite, and have chosen to do business with real people we can see, know and meet face-to-face. A place where waste products are used and reused to participate again in the wheel of consumption, just as in nature. It is here that the creative cycles of consumption and waste will begin to meet and the circle of the Ouroboros connects.

interconnection (three minutes sitting)

2010-03-01T19:07:00.000-06:00

sitting, i am watching my skeleton lying on the ground.
my awareness leaves the skeleton going up to an apple on a tree.
now, i am inside the apple, looking out, a feeling of ripeness about to burst.
and on, inside a pile of fresh fruit at the grocery store.

i move down through the tree to the earth and across its surface.
stopping, inside a blade of young grass, yellow and green,
the warm sun is shining brightly on me.
bursting joyously from the ground, i spring up toward the light.

now i am a cold mountain stream moving rapidly,
over pebbles, rocks, the contours of land.
i see through the eyes of a cow grazing beside the stream.

into the heart of a mountain, solid, metallic stone.
steadiness, time changes and slows in all around me.
whirling in and through the wind now, into and out of many things.

i become a swirling mass of maggots consuming an animal carcass.
gradually, falling to a pile of dirt on the ground, and merging into the earth.
a handful of grass pushes up from this bare spot,
as i transform into buzzing flies, energetically cirling up and around.

the grass becomes a stand of verdant growth beside the stream,
which flows down the mountain, passing beside the apple tree, and on beyond.

moving jake

2010-02-01T19:02:00.000-06:00

standing outside the slightly ajar door, i breathed out the crisp morning air. pushing it open i saw jake, tall and skinny, long stringy gray hair like phil spector in a fright wig. "i'd shake your hand if mine wasn't already clean", he said. i got with the other guy, jack, and we loaded the first trunk onto the trailer.

a dozen trunks later, the place was still filled with garbage. i noticed a five dollar bill, two ones and a stack of dark chocolate bars in the pile. "i gotta get outta this town", jake said, "the people here are energy vampires, they'll steal your energy with all their new age bullshit." we loaded some cartons of bottled water next. "i've only drank evian for the last thirty years", he added.

his adobe backed up to the mountain, it's peak almost within reach. i set the trunk down and shivered, hearing a pack of coyotes yelping up in the scrub, so close i could almost feel 'em. my cell phone rang.

"you got a cell phone?," jake yelled. "yeah." "you too jack?" "uh-huh." "goddamn if you knew what those things'll do to ya'. i don't get within three hundred feet of 'em." just then jack said, "i gotta go, another job's waitin' for me."

jake threw his laptop into the corner. "damnedest thing i've ever seen, my mac it crashed, should'a never used the public e-mail. alright here's yer dough."

"call your son up, tell him we got chicks and dope, that'll get him up here." alone now, i shrugged off the suggestion and loaded his rugs in next, egyptian, kazakstan, frayed and crumbling. right on top of the psychedelic fillmore posters in broken frames. wrapping a decrepit wooden chair in a blanket, i threw it in. "that's faye dunaway's barstool", jake quipped, as he wolfed down the thick t-bone steak he had just grilled for himself.

ten hours in cary, the young landlord, walked in. "i'm takin' two hundred dollars outta your deposit for the cleaning crew to come in here, and sixty dollars more for your phone bill." "it's clean, and your mom paid the phone bill last week!", jake yelled, standing in the midst of one dissheveled pile. "we're done, we'll be outta here in two minutes." cary walked out.

"hey, where's that five dollar bill and those chocolate bars, look in the garbage will ya'?"

"jake, can i use your bathroom?", i interrupted. "no i can't stand other people using my toilet. no wait go ahead, it's not mine anymo..." his voice trailed off as i walked outside. hawks circled something high up on the mountain.

stepping out into the yard, i saw the town spreading out across the valley below, blue mountains on the horizon punctuating the bright light of the setting sun. i let out a sigh of relief and pissed on the piñon tree as the last rays of light flickered through the branches.

dreams @ 7,000 ft. (pt. ii)

2010-01-30T19:00:00.000-06:00

(flying around town) late afternoon, i am walking down a sidewalk. suddenly, i realize i can float, and hang a few feet above the ground. spreading my arms like wings, i fly forward at a gradual pace and test my new abilities. moving into a park, i bank left, then right, and upward through the bare branches of a tree.

others are watching, and i realize i must concentrate to be able to fly. moving beyond the park, i drop down to the sidewalk again. i am walking now, in front of my old gallery. the building is run down, and guys are walking in and out, using the abandoned space as a restroom.

i pivot and fly up and around the corner, now through an empty field. a convertible is following me on the dirt road alongside the field. my best friend from high school is in the front seat. jesus, in the form of a black man with long hair flowing in the wind, is in the back seat.

i give jesus a knod and bank off into the distance.

----------

(girls at basketball arena) i'm sitting on the top row at the basketball arena with my mom and dad. the game is going on way below. a few rows down, on the aisle walkway, two girls walk by. one stops and looks up. i smile, catching her eye, and hold it there for a few seconds. she smiles back, and bends down, beginning to reach for something from beneath her dress.

still fully clothed, she pulls out a bra and panties, velvety purple, and throws them up to me. i catch them, then lean down as they start to walk away. i ask her name, and she stops. what's your facebook?, i ask, and she smiles.

----------

(art show improv) i'm walking through the halls of an elementary school with the new gallery director. under my arms i hold the drawings i have made. turning a corner, they fall from my arms onto the ground, and scatter. i bend down to pick them up, and notice an old love note on blue paper, torn to pieces, lying on the ground.

gathering them all, i walk with the director to the gallery, an unwieldy freestanding stucco wall outside the building, punctuated with a window and doorway. not much room to hang art on. he says "how much time do you need for the install? we can start the reception at 12:45, or 1:15 if you prefer." that's an hour from now...

i decide to improvise, and hang my drawings and assemblages, overlaid with pieces of the love note and other past memory ephemera, salon style on the oddly shaped walls. i like this idea, and think "this is gonna be a good show".

* footnote to footnote to howl *

2010-01-05T18:59:00.000-06:00

holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy!
all existence, connection, and touch,
the tongue, the flower, the flowing waters,
all places, change and being,
each an angel masquerading in time.

the salty cold wet of the east river
the faked in black eye of an aging skaterboy,
dark alleyways, pulquerias, mariachis for hire,
everyone stacked in the back of a van,
barefoot, sneaking in by a south beach backdoor.

an artist crawling by candlelight,
a chord growled from darkness,
a prisoner underground waiting to emerge,
old woman in the elevator asking "do you go down?"
the year of bleeding profusely, of sacred revelations and betrayals.

chaos, liquid form and structure,
dirty dancing with the girls at a gay club,
stories told, retold, and changed along the way,
holy Robert, holy Michael, holy Val, holy Mary, holy Thor,
sing along and change the words.

playing in the night,
eating, drinking, smokey hookahs, secret recipes,
from this night on we are the party,
the sacred intensity of Riley's ink,
backyard yurts and quiet lonely nights.

diving into ice cold pools and shivering
nothing but stars and a moon crossing the sky
the beauty and affliction of John's line,
one long live serenade of truth,
singing along to such glorious insanity, the only way.

Night into Day

2009-12-18T16:37:00.000-06:00

The night opens up under your wheels: black, empty and infinite. A multitude of stars reaching up and out to forever, and inward just as far. You feel your heart open too, like an orchid in the darkness. And then Freddy Mercury, on your Ipod singing "oh, won't you take me home tonight", just as morning breaks in your rearview mirror. Now colors gather on the horizon: orange, cyan, magenta, and chase the night across the sky, the same as every morning, only this time you're here to see it unfold. So you follow the colors too, as they lead you back home.

nothing here (just me and my skandhas)

2009-11-12T16:29:00.002-06:00

senses perceive, feeling, tasting,
seeing, hearing, smelling, touching,
into the mind they race, rapid fire.

now forming into ideas, concepts, meaning.

sensations of pleasure and of pain,
sometimes full, but mostly not,
dark emptiness, cold air, exhilaration.

the limitations on what is possible, and what is beyond.

only these little ways into and out of
this body, this vehicle, such importance
given it, and how little it gives in return.

and endless reality undifferentiated, overlaying it all.

before form only awareness,
after form awareness again,
here now, this place in between.

senses mostly aware of that which they sense not.

* full moon over quanah *

2009-09-30T16:16:00.000-05:00

(11:00 pm)
driving by the light of
jupiter following the moon
at just the right moment
the timing belt shreds

(12:00 midnight)
lying bundled in an empty field
up above, the cold night sky
football field on the road just ahead
sign says this is "indian territory"

(1:00 am)
son to tow truck driver
he was a native chief? "yep"
so how'd he get his own town name?
well...(long pause) he was an "indian"

(2:00 am)
walkin' in to quanah parker inn
sleepy indian pulls on slippers
scent of curry through open window
"good evening sir, smoking or non-smoking"?

(3:00 am)
son walks outside the smoke-free room
pulls an additive free smoke
from a pack of natural american spirit
and lights a match

(( end without world ))

2009-09-12T16:05:00.002-05:00

cool wind upon your cheek,
stillness in the bones beneath.
flesh and blood, on the day of birth,
scattered soon upon the earth.
all here is yes and all is no,
all in motion, ebb and flow.
sun shine on and through to know,
from conscious high and callous'd low.
down stream now, against, diffused,
pick up, divert, awake, reuse.
symbols shout, and push, and crowd,
none clear as nothing, none so loud.
tell of this world, world without end,
on to an end without world again.

dreams @ 7,000 ft. (pt. i)

2009-08-31T16:00:00.000-05:00

(fluffy kitten)

in a building, i find a tiny, fluffy gray kitten, then lose it among the rooms. walking outside and down the sidewalk, in the late afternoon sun, i look up and see the kitten perched on a ledge at the top of the building, two stories up. suddenly, it leaps into the air, legs outstretched and falling, lands heavily on my chest. it's claws dig in to my skin and hold on tight.

----------

(flying scooter)

i am in the house of family friends from fifteen years ago. they are having a party. my son is there, too. feeling as though i don't belong, i walk out into the suburban neighborhood and am suddenly zooming along on a segway scooter. someone is holding on to my back, perhaps my son, or my shadow self. the scooter picks up speed, going rapidly through a wooded park and i hold on to the handles for dear life. nearing a set of descending steps, we accelarate and ramp off the top step high into the air. gliding, i look down and realize we are way too high to land safely. i reach for the willowly tree branches to break the fall, but they are just out of reach. as we careen upside down, hundreds of feet up, i realize that i don't have to fall. it is then that we begin flying through the air in a cascading rhythm of ebb and flow.

----------

(grandmother's apartment)

i am visiting an apartment owned by my deceased grandmother. she is there and alive, but feeble. she has leased the space to three college-age guys, who do not want me there. i tell them i am only visiting and will leave by the end of the day. at that point, they leave me alone and i walk over to the open door and lean against the door frame. closing my eyes, i go into a deep, meditative trance, my third eye firing in rushes of brilliantly colored fractal patterns, eventually coalescing into a deep saturated blue circle. then, a sense of leaving my body (or going deeper in) as heavy rhythmic vibrations begin thumping inside.

* awareness (in/finite) *

2009-08-15T08:07:00.000-05:00

heavy clouds roll across blue mountain tops
internal conflict of the human mind
wind whispers through resin flaked branches
piercing insight into my own weakness
staccato rhythm of rain on cemetery grass
anger builds gradually, exploding outward
the valley below, a scene of unspeakable beauty
feeling the emptiness of the miles between us
the play of shadow and light across pale earth

having lunch with jesus carrying the cross
luminous green of sun infused catalpa leaves
coasting downhill on an empty tank
a shaft of moonlight slicing down the wall
the presence in absence of your body
vibration of earth through stone floor night
the sad refrain of a guitar in an empty room
gutted mesas slowly tumble to ground below
stars flicker high above in the night sky

everything and no thing all at the same time
the sticky sweetness of purple sage in your hand
deities staring impassively at time's procession
lying in the dark on a bed of raw cotton
the faraway glow of a distant city beckons
a dim and constant fire burning deep inside
an elusive place where no cliche exists
inked skin peering out from soft hidden folds
a dark quietness of ancient depth and splendor

* last day (tail of the ouroboros) *

2009-08-05T08:49:00.000-05:00

alternative forms of dopamine
beautiful yet weary
connective tissue connecting
dreams of flying
entire nations swallowed
fullness of time, the
google maps lie
hopeful rebirth, an
illusionistic time
justice served w/a side of mercy
kiss for luck, a
losing track of things
mysterious ingredients
none of the above
oil and water mix
potty training progresses
quixotic endeavors ever
reigniting the spark
scenarios, both real and imagined
true, sort of
under the water
violent equilibrium ensues
where to begin
xeriscaping the future
young teaches old
zen unfolding

entering the stream (sotapanna)

2009-07-23T08:37:00.000-05:00

at the edge of a dark stream, further out others flow by.
wading in, you take a last glance back as she fades.
a moment's hesitation, then you step into the swift water,
thinking "i trust".

over the edge now, into vast darkness you fall,
liberated from fear and in peace,
knowing that you will be torn to pieces
when you hit bottom.

and yet, when you land, on the rocks below,
it is on your feet, in a soft cascade of water.

----------

en el borde de una corriente oscura, en la distancia flotan.
usted mira atrás ella y ella se va.
un momento de vacilación, entonces usted camina en el agua rápida.
usted piensa el "confío".

ahora sobre el borde del agua, en la oscuridad grande usted caer.
libera de miedo en la paz,
usted sabe que usted no será no más,

pero cuando usted caerse en las piedras,
está en sus pies en una cascada suave del agua.

tierra encanta

2009-07-10T03:15:00.000-05:00

none own this palace,
they that walk upon.
made to eat the dust,
then to return.
blessed rolling waves
of yellowed earth,
breaks on this heart
and then dispersed.

******

ningunos poseen este palacio,
ellas que caminar sobre.
hecho para comer el polvo,
entonces para volver.
ondas bendecidas
de la tierra amarilla,
rotura en mi corazón
entonces se dispersan.

red sky at night

2009-06-13T11:42:00.003-05:00

walking in, cold and benighted
alone this room, so well appointed
voices outside, a reverie them
the night is young, thrown to the wind

here the air still, and so am i
each heartbeat lived, a life goes by
incense, insulation, breeds some isolation
feeling desolation, end in capitulation

where and when and how to here
how to this place, and where from here
they like it here, so why can't i
be light of soul and feel this red sky

and where to next, the choices through
for time and time and time from you
so here so i, myself can't leave
never an end to this, not me

Approaching Storm

2009-06-08T19:28:00.002-05:00

Riding across the plains, empty of all but desert scrub and dirt, the miles dissolving on the asphalt beneath. Far away on your horizon to the right, you see a thunderhead looming like an anvil into the sky. A few minutes later, still miles ahead and 20 degrees off center, a wall of water falls from the sky.

Nearer now, the wind picks up and starts to whip you around on the road. The deluge stays to your right, but nears with every mile that passes. Dust kicks up now from the fields and slaps across the road in front of you. Lightning arcs through the darkening sky ahead, the air heavy and pungent. A dust cloud rises just ahead, a terracotta funnel that blows by a quarter mile to your right.

You feel tension rising, the inevitability of this moment unfolding before your eyes. A raindrop now, then two on your windscreen, and you tense up heading into the looming storm. Dark clouds drop and roil overhead, and the rain comes down in sheets. There is nowhere to pull over, no shelter: nothing but flat earth and ditches rapidly filling with flood water. The wind, in full storm gusts, blasts in your face, and though full throttle, your bike feels as though at standstill to the road ahead.

And now the hail, marble-sized pellets crashing into your helmet, your chest, your hands. Stinging and ricochets scattered like manna across the drenched highway. The thought occurs that maybe you won't make it through this, and then other thoughts: of those you've hurt along the way, the ones you've left behind, those far away who need you most. You hold them there, bless them, and then let go.

The regrets, you let those go too, and accept that this is where you are and there's no way out. That's when you notice the beauty: a web of lightning crackles and dissipates right above you in the angry clouds, a rainbow column hundreds of feet tall rising up from the dark turmoil of horizon, the jets of mist spraying in all directions.

And then a sign, the first in many miles, an exit to a picnic area one mile ahead. You pull off in the driving rain and lightning, run to the nearest overhang and kneel underneath the concrete table in a puddle, the wind still buffeting all around.

Now you let go of it all, trembling uncontrollably, tears lost against the rain-soaked jacket. And there you learn to embrace the tragedy and destiny of each moment, as they reflect in drops of rain falling and magnified a thousandfold.

Time falls away as you wait there, unable to move, staring at the ground below. Gradually the rain lessens and then stops, and you are able to move again, out and across the soaked and flooded earth.

The Ride West

2009-05-18T10:01:00.005-05:00

Riding west, prairie gradually gives way to desert. Smooth highway rolls out ahead, the smell of wet hay from fresh rain the night before. Huge, cloud laden sky turns to blue as drizzles subside.

Along the way, you see the skeletons of old mom-and-pops, all closed now, replaced by corporate giants of today. Every little town a carbon copy of Loves, Subways and Exxons.

Giant wind turbines speckle the landscape in an irregular grid, visually overwhelming the aging oil derricks. Turning slow and in unison, as if to mark the gradual passage of time. They, along with the privately run detention prisons seem to be the main growth industries out west.

The prison camps, razor-wire eyesores that blight the landscape every couple of hours: Pecos, Sierra Blanca, Fabens. One of them even looks like an old hotel wrapped in metal fencing. Brown people, picked up for having the audacity to cross an imaginary line in the water are disappeared there, well away from the shopping malls in the cities.

Craggy mountain peaks appear, leading edge of the Guadalupe Mountains as I-20 turns west onto I-10. Set in deep shadow, massive and eternal they jut out defiantly from the sand. Rudra, Yahweh, Apu, known by many names, yet always stern, always capricious. Seeing these peaks, you realize why early peoples always had their mountain gods.

Vicious crosswinds pick up now, and a massive dust cloud like so much smog looms to the west. Tumbleweeds gather speed as they roll south, headed back across that imaginary line. And everywhere a vast emptiness here, the kind that's full and waiting.

+ revolutions (pt. ii) +

2009-03-11T15:47:00.001-05:00

again, the moon is full in the night
just like it was 28 days before,
and before, all the way back
before there were minds to
call it a day or a night, or
mouths and fingers to count it out.
all the way back to when
purusha lay with prakriti
and together squirted out this
beautiful mess that the night sky
looks down on tonight. confused?
well don't be. 'cause you're rolling
along slowly with those clouds,
tryin' to cover up that lesser light
which gives such clear direction,
and you, always changing direction.
and guess what? you still
come back to the same place,
again, again, and again,
feels a lot like home, huh?
so how 'bout you stay put
this time, and keep turning
on this wheel, the true one,
the one that's been calling you
since before you had a name,
all the way back to when
purusha lay with prakriti and...

+ revolutions +

2009-02-25T10:24:00.008-06:00

on the sofa now, in dark light she straddles him,
and again, everything old is new
distances of time collapsed in a shared breath.

intensities rise and swell, faster now,
gravity bound flesh bearing witness to
treasures held in an elusive moment.

from below he watches as she leads,
in what is never fully grasped
but rather pushed into and thrown about.

so many revolutions in the turning of the wheel,
and bodies and perseverance succeed
where words fail, and words can never fully tell.

vortex (into the black)

2009-02-02T13:45:00.003-06:00

down, down spiraling into the depths...no longer fearing the pain, but begrudging acceptance, an open wound to accompany you on an otherwise solitary journey. it clamps down, pushing against your chest, forcing out a torrent of tears, tears of longing, of regret, of acceptance, but never of consolation.

through many existences you have fought it, always nipping at your heels, but this time you turn to face, to challenge, even to mock it. because now you understand that the ecstatic heights of affection and oneness would not exist without these depths, and that truly they are one and the same.

you used to fear desolation, but now it seems your soul is big enough to feel it, your heart growing to embrace the hurt and surround it. so you feel, and feel, and feel, feeling your way through the night's blackness. and now it surrounds you, all emptiness and crushing weight, no goddess to save, or even bodhisattva to console you this time, going down taking with you only this one thing, the idea of love into the vortex.

(( vehicle ))

2009-01-25T13:43:00.002-06:00

this body, this vehicle
used up and abandoned,
a car left at the side of the road.

and where is he now,
wandering in the night, no doubt,
looking to steal a new car.

and drive it somewhere else,
to new faces and places, yet in the back,
so many questions still.

and they're along for the ride,
quietly waiting, 'til the next time around,
or the next, or the next...

------------

este cuerpo, este vehículo
consumido y abandonado,
un coche se fue en el lado del camino.

y donde ahora está él,
vagando en la noche, está verdad,
mirada para robar un nuevo coche.

y él lo toma en alguna parte,
a las nuevas caras y a los lugares, con todo en las atras,
tan muchas preguntas a contestar

y están aquí para el viaje,
el esperar reservado hasta la próxima vez,
o el siguiente, o el siguiente…

* al dia *

2009-01-08T13:42:00.001-06:00

riot police huddled on a side street,
wide-eyed fresh scrubbed faces
wrapped in kevlar and plexiglass.

the ancient aztec woman blows smoke
of copal in your face, every step a benidicion
in this city sinking into the earth.

looking down on calle moneda,
sunlight so bright and clear
through the eyes of a young cat.

sitting now in the still, espacio infinitum
of a leaning edifice, heaven above
the stones carved by untold hands.

symbols jumping across the distance
of time brand themselves on skin,
always, but never quite making the leap.

* esta noche *

2009-01-03T13:39:00.001-06:00

a father banging the drum, playing the trumpet, watching his niña,
cool young studs in fashion gear standing by their shiny motocicletas,
couples fucking in backseat parked cars of darkened calles.

a tired mother, a smile to the little girl crying on the metro,
borrachos and the choque machine man wandering in the plaza,
the distracted policeman sending a text message from his platform.

children lighting fireworks on quiet midnight cobblestone streets,
a friend drinking pulque with a thousand years old cult of sacrifice,
breathing, feeling, dissolving, solo en el noche atras la catedral.

((addendum))

(the burning christmas tree) last night, the final night of this stay in mexico city, i walked down calle mixcalco toward my hotel. passing the plaza nuestro señora de san loreta, i stopped for a moment, to feel the air.

this favorite space, of all the many beautiful ones here, trashy and elegant. an ancient spanish baroque building leaning to the east, and like many of the structures here, literally sinking into the earth. the sense is of the ground breathing in and out.

a block away from the hotel, at the corner, i saw a flash of light in a huge pile of garbage on the street. seeming to spontaneously combust, a christmas tree spiked into the pile burst into flames on the empty street.

bewildered, it stopped me dead in my tracks...coming to my senses, i hustled into the hotel niza, the sound of the flames crackling in my ears.

+ bethlehem + (pt. i)

2008-12-20T13:37:00.001-06:00

fever and nauseous, yet each day better,
no home, amazing simple kindness of friends,
no food no cry, empty and peace to all...

enjoying the crazed, chaotic, frenzied moment,
doesn't matter if the shopping gets done,
beautiful christmas lights of backed up traffic.

displaced hive of bees cut down, left at the side of the road,
load them in the trunk, buzzing energetically around your head,
grateful to be: one man's trash, another's treasure...

losing track of the days, you go to work on saturday
thinkin' it's friday, look up to vibrant lights and colors,
the quarter moon shines through early morning fog.

leave this body behind, this vessel bless it,
is sometimes a prison, subtle vibrations, pulse
of beating heart and lungs, freely received, free to let go...

lux/i/foros (lucid flying)

2008-11-21T15:55:00.000-06:00

"lucifer qui mane oriebaris"...

growing out from a bluff side, an evergreen cedar,
with fascination, he steps out across the chasm,
and into the smooth entangled branches.

looking down, roots like legs send into the darkness,
another moment, it gives way and he falls back,
into empty sky, stars above, city lights far below.

in free descent now, wind beating mercilessly,
gazing deeply, then eyes closed and letting go,
at peace, gravity's weight begins to fade.

* gravity (cualquier cosa sentir vivo) *

2008-11-10T15:52:00.001-06:00

night now the moon is full, ascending to pierce indigo blue,
only a moment later, or two, back again this heaviness of flesh,
reaching, trying to feel, a burning coal against your skin,
now plunging into icy wetness, anything to tell you you're alive,
some connection, to wake from this dream of ghosts and apparition.

noche ahora la luna es llena, asciende para cortar el azul de indigo,
solamente un momento más, o dos, otra vez este peso de la carne,
tocando para sentir, un carbón fiero contra su piel,
ahora en las aguas heladas, cualquier cosa sentir vivo,
una conexión, para a despierte de este sueño de fantasmas y aparición.

"midsummer stupa dream (on impermanence)"

2008-08-14T16:24:00.004-05:00

the monks, in sand colored habits, seated themselves in concentric rings rising up the inside of the beehive like structure. at the base and looking up at them, the elder abbot, neither male nor female with a head of shaved stubble, began speaking of the glories of dying in this way, and of how nirvana awaited directly on the other side for those who gave themselves willingly to it.

he, and a few of the others, knew that their only chance of surviving the gas was to sit near the top of the hive, where a couple of windows afforded an escape path if they could not hold their breath for long enough.

finding a place, he leaned forward with the others into a sitting fetal position. the last thing he saw before closing his eyes was the shaved heads of row upon row of young male devotees. then, the snakelike hiss of gas as all faded to blackness.

now, outside the temple, he rode up in a sedan with the other defectors. they stepped into the darkness and quickly stole up the hillside the stupa was built into. by a flickering firelight, he saw a middle-aged monk directing bhikkus in the disposal of the bodies.

walking into the aftermath, he pulled the cowl over his face to avoid the director's gaze. stepping into a room of scattered bodies, he felt an energetic scurrying and looked down to the floor. a multitude of creatures, ants, grasshoppers, crabs and the like, were devouring each other as they swarmed on the parched ground.

reaching down, he picked up a green grasshopper, intent on eating a tiny ant, even as it was being consumed by a much larger one. they began crawling on and biting his legs and hands. he brushed them away, but then became fascinated by the insistence of their actions, and held still as they continued to swarm...

blue sky (tinged w/crimson)

2008-03-31T16:15:00.010-05:00

the back room of a quiet suburban neighborhood home. they lay there on the carpet, the blue sky of dusk tinged with crimson coming through the skylight. she looked at the pizza menu. his mind loosed, then dropping away into a void, a darkness where blood coalesced, then splashed away by a flood of water.

"ok we're getting pineapple and jalapeno, my favorite!" she said, then a brief silence. suddenly he was back in the present, a loud pounding on the back fence and a shouted "auxilio! auxilio!". at first it sounded like punk music, but something was way wrong about the sound. without thinking, he leapt up and ran into the garage, pushing the automatic door opener.

she followed, with an overwhelming sense of dread, and yelled "don't go out there", but he didn't hear her as he looked for a stick or some kind of weapon. she stopped at the back of the garage, anger in her bones at the impulsiveness and irresponsibility of his rush toward this unknown danger.

as the door lifted, he ran out onto the drive, and stopped cold. a latino man, orange t-shirt (could've been a soccer dad) on all fours at the end of the driveway looking up plaintively. three badasses in black ski-masks stood over him yelling, punching, kicking.

again, without thought, he blurted out a fiction: "get the fuck outta here, the cops are on the way!". immediately they started to run down the alley, and the crack of pistol shots rang in his ear. he froze in place at the hood of the minivan wanting, but unable to go toward the orange shirt. the man on the ground stared up and into the last eyes of mercy he would ever see.

an eternal moment, and he sprang to life, running into the garage, hitting the switch to close the door and falling into the house, almost knocking her down. he could hear the working of the mechanism, closing slowly, way too slowly.

the man, hit now and spurting blood in gentle arcs, crawled toward the narrowing slit of the garage, and collapsed at the foot of the minivan. lying there, bleeding out and fading, his last image of this earth a sideways view up and into the now red speckled blue sky.

in the house, they stared intently into each others faces for a moment, and he left her again, going out the front door and sneaking around the side of the house. lying low, he watched a black navigator,the last of the crew, pull out of the alley. the body was gone.

fifteen minutes later, one cop car arrived out front, and two officers spilled out and into the alleyway. they stood in the front yard with some neighbors, waiting for some news, and tensed up as the gang bangers circled the block in front of them.

back inside now, they furiously piled clothes in a bag, enough for a couple of nights, and ran out to their cars. as they pulled away from the curb, one behind the other, two vehicles passed them, and then dog-legged around the cul-de-sac to get behind them again.

his heart pounding, he dialed her cell phone and yelled "they're following us!". they were almost out of the neighborhood now, and saw the flashing lights of a cop car who had someone pulled over. "pull up next to the cop, alright?", and he hung up the phone. the truck and car following them passed slowly by and exited onto the main road.

catching his breath now, he waited thirty seconds before they pulled onto the road again, and drove up a block to the highway bridge. sitting at the stoplight, he paused and then ((whammm)) a car rear-ended him, pushing his car into her truck.

"christ!" in a panic, he dialed her number again and yelled into the receiver "go! don't get out of your truck!" they pulled ahead and the car sped past them. he was beyond panic now as she jumped out of the truck and ran back to him.

"breathe, o.k.? hare krishna, hare krishna, krishna krishna..." he calmed enough to drive, and they pulled away, into the oncoming night.

" destroy this temple "

2008-02-12T15:15:00.004-06:00

passed out, feverish for days he lay among the rubble. dishevelled piles of stones around him as though burial mounds from some forgotten war. eyes convulsing, he dreamt in rapid fire sequences, image upon image, travelling somewhere rapidly, never at rest, never at peace.

a sound among the ruins and he awoke, it seemed into yet another layer of perception. in the shadows, she was there, crouched and slinking towards him. she crawled the last few feet, drew near and mounted him furiously. plunging into him with a vengeance unrestrained, she leaned in close, as though to steal his breath away. he felt relief give way to fear and panic, as the thrusts turned to violent spasms.

now others came upon them in the darkness, lovers from past lives, themselves in various guises. they joined them, forming a writhing mound among the fallen stones. all the bodies they had ravaged from here to eternity joined in at once, flailing away at every orifice, as flesh began to tear and blood mixed with come and sweat. he mocked her and turned to move away, but was pulled back into the fray.

finishing now, they kicked her back and onto him. he screamed yet nothing came out, the weight of those around and on them having expunged the air from his lungs. the mass of flesh continued to move for a time. some retched now, and gradually all turned back to silence.

some time later, he began to scratch and claw his way out from under the pile of bodies. bruised and shaken, his blood mixed with semen, bile and earth, and congealed into a crust upon him. slowly regaining his senses, he began to break off and pull away chunks of the putrid mud from his skin.

he stumbled now to the quarry, grabbing the last of the kerosene and turned back to the mound of bodies. approaching, he saw her crawl out and away into the darkness. without hesitation, he flung the kerosene onto the remnant, struck a match and threw it onto the pile.

a ball of flames rose up and with the dry blast of a furnace, violently threw him back and onto the ground. burning flesh and bone transformed to huge chunks of ash and sparks as they lifted up into the night sky. scorched now, he threw the holy books, votives and sacramentals that remained onto the pyre, turned and staggered away into the night.

fall dreams (wave ride/night running/catching train/border tunnel)

2008-01-20T23:58:00.000-06:00

((wave ride)) he floated out with the surf, the waves swirling and picking up, lifting him around some rocks and out into the deep, surging water. out further, bobbing and weaving past five or six celebrities, their tanned skin and sunglasses glinting.

suddenly a wave caught him and with a swoosh carried him in, the surf piping into a channel, a fast-running amusement park water ride. gliding in with the others, he rode the waves, the water cold and clean, in under a building now the surf broke on a transitional beach.

he came up out of the water, stepping onto the sand and walked to the side, where he stepped onto an escalator to ride up and back out to the water. two girls, one in front and one behind shadowed him. as they went up the escalator, the one behind pushed her finger through his swimsuit and stuck it into his ass.

he turned to look at her and...

-------------------------------

((night running)) it was night and he was running, running to get away from the authorities. out across a field, a baseball field, breathing heavily he crossed. neon blue laser light beams criss-crossed the field from every direction, moving at random and chaotic intervals. ducking and twisting now as he ran, trying to keep from being cut to pieces by the lasers.

as he moved beyond their range, now into the darkened outfield, the ground became rough and uneven as he ran. each footstep now gave way to a sickening crunch. he looked down and saw the skulls of dogs crackling under each footfall. revolted, he turned his gaze out across the field, and saw an endless stretch of skulls, many thousands of them across the ground all the way to the outfield fence.

-------------------------------

((catching train)) he was on foot, walking through the old-west theme park, trying to find a way through. men in period costumes, round-glasses, and curly moustaches passed by arm in arm with saloon girls. wooden signs with directions painted on hands, extended fingers pointing in various ways only confused him.

he went down a dusty hall and found his way out through a side door. now he was in a large, empty parking lot, trying to get to the local mall across the way. a chain link fence encircled the lot, but he saw a truck going out through a steel gate. he ran and squeezed through just as it closed. down a drainage ravine and back up the other side he passed and was about to cross some railroad tracks to reach the road when a train approached.

as it passed, he saw men sitting on top and hanging from the sides of the dirty freight train. british soldiers and indian peasants in white fabrics, all of them covered in dust. he grabbed onto the handrail of a car and swung up on top of a coal car, and watched as they passed back from where he came, the mall receding into the distance.

-------------------------------

((border tunnel)) they were in a construction tunnel, the sides boarded with plywood. it constricted and funneled them to a makeshift entrance, where a guard stopped and questioned them.

passing through, he came out into bright sunlight and the fresh cold air of early spring. green fields stretched out to his right. he turned the other way and walked up a short gravelled hill, then onto a winding, hilly street with large two- and three-story boarding houses that had been mansions for the wealthy a century ago.

(only a month later, he passed on this street in old el paso, only a block from, and looking down on the u.s. mexico border fence and crossing)

\\ namo guan shi yin pu sa //

2007-11-18T19:55:00.000-06:00

(intro: aggressive drum roll: 150+ bpm / 4 measures then bass and guitar add on)

namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
mother of mercies, hear our cries.

he's a big baby, see him cry,
suck on her 'til the day he die.
he got wings, but cannot fly,
mother of mercies, hear his cries.

namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
mother of mercies, hear our cries.

she got needs no man can see,
tired of being on her knees.
needs some refuge and some peace,
mother of mercies, please...

namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
mother of mercies, hear our cries.

temple not made by hands

2007-11-11T22:41:00.000-06:00

for days, for weeks on end, he was listless and numb to the turn of events which he had set into motion. again fear had compelled him as it had so many times before to tear down the temple they had built haltingly and with such trepidation, and yet still it glistened in the fading sun, stones toppled and shining like nuggets of gold scattered in the dust.

at night, camped out among the ruins, glancing through the torn pages of the holy books he searched in vain for some wisdom, something to explain the emptiness he felt inside. when the faltering light of the generator finally sputtered to silence, there in the dark he lay still, the sweat pooling on his skin.

the wind blew as he felt her slip by him in the dark. his breath grew shallow and he sank deep inside, feeling the ravaged heart beating. down he went, down the torrent rushing out and through the arteries and veins, spreading as a wave breaks on the surface of land and coursing through him in a pulsing flood.

finally, when the generator ran out of fuel, he began to place candles among the fallen stones. on his knees he leaned into a heavy rock, and began to push it back into place, then another, and another. in the flickering light her shadow seemed to jump out at him, and then fade like an illusion.

late in the night, it began to rain, a cold relentless downpour, extinguishing what was left of the candle light. his tears mixed with the wetness, as he pushed through the mud, adding stone upon stone.

it was there the realization came over him, empty and alone sinking into the sorrows of new and uncharted depths. he was powerless to halt the worship that had opened in his heart now one year hence. he could tear down the temple once, twice, a hundred times, and scatter the stones to the farthest ends of the earth, yet she would never depart from that place inside him.

that moment he bowed down into the mud, and with great care lifted the next gleaming stone up out of the mire, setting it into place there upon the rock. briefly he paused, and then down again, he disappeared into the void.

* strays *

2007-10-17T14:59:00.000-05:00

MORNING

"goddam that motherfuck'n' motherfuck'r, i'm gonna kill him!!!" hyatt was raging through the gallery space, and stopped right in front of his newly sold artwork. "he took my fuck'n' keys and has my truck and won't answer the phone, and i'm gonna fuck'n' kill him..."

eyeing the fragile floor piece, he circled around it, sizing it up, as though looking for a weakness, some place to land his foot in one tour de force death blow. suddenly he came to a standstill, force gathering momentum, about to reach critical mass.

it was then, jamie bolted in: "where's my fuck'n' shit, hyatt thrush?"

"it's in the motherfuck'n' truck, and chase won't answer his phone!!!"

"that sonofabitch, if i get my hands on him..." she reached out and gave hyatt a hard push.

the artwork, a louis xiv replica chair made of styrofoam sat there, oblivious to the ensuing chaos.

------------------------------

AFTERNOON

chase walked in, paint besmirched tattered hoodie zipped and stretching over his belly, black frame glasses taped together, studious and chill all at the same time.

he looked down at hyatt's piece, now boxed up in cardboard. "hey guys, how's it goin'...sell anything?"

"actually, yes. say, hyatt's been tryin' to get ahold of you."

"yeah, i lost my phone. i've been hangin' out with my friend matt. he drives a forklift, we met at the bar last night."

"the exhibition organizers are throwing a party right down the street, you wanna go with me and m.f.?

we closed shop and walked outside the large exhibition hall, heading with the other hipsters toward the searchlights waving randomly down the street. queing up, we moved steadily toward the door. now at the entrance, security pulled out a flashlight.

"let's see some i.d." we flashed him our drivers licenses as chase fumbled through his pants and hoodie pockets.

"i can't find mine. will you take a school i.d.?"

"hell no."

"let's just go eat guys," m.f. chimed in. we left the line and headed to the pizza pie house.

------------------------------

EVENING

"i'm just existing...existentializing my existence in this space and time, drifting...peace, not looking for trouble. an animated protoplasm of energy and matter, looking for something..."

chase, wasted and high, rambled on in the back seat of the cab as we looked for his hotel. "it's right over there, oh yeah that's the one."

m.f. threw the driver a twenty and we piled out into the cold stiff wind coming in off the lake. scrambling through the entrance, the night manager gave us the eye as we looked for an elevator.

"you gotta use your keycard to work the elevator," m.f. observed. chase fumbled the card out of his pants pocket and held it wavering in his hand.

"lemme help," i grabbed the card and slid it into place...nothing happened. then the night manager appeared, looking over our shoulders. "can i help you?"

"we're tryin' to get our friend to his room," m.f. said as the man eyed us suspiciously.

"i wanna take a look at that card," he grabbed it from my hand. "that's not our hotel, you need to go a half-mile up michigan avenue," and gave us an extra stern look as he handed back the card.

"alright, thanks." we high-tailed it out of the hotel lobby back into the night, looking to see if security was onto us. m.f. hailed another cab, and five minutes later we were in front of the right hotel.

------------------------------

LATE NITE / EARLY MORNING

up in their room on the seventeenth floor, i flopped down on the carpet and started flipping through channels, looking at nothing in particular. chase sat next to m.f. on the bed and started fumbling with his shirt. "you gotta label on there somewhere?"

jamie and hyatt tumbled through the door in from the hallway. "chase, where the fuck'r my keys?" eyes half-closed, chase reached into his hoodie and tossed the keys over the bed. "my clitoris gave birth to your mother," he trailed off into nonsense.

hyatt dove behind the bed, grabbing the keys, and went into a frenzy, pulling open drawers, then leaning into his suitcase and throwing clothes into the air. "where the hell's my glass pipe?!"

"shut the fuck up you lost it, you sonofabitch," jamie yelled back.

"give me my fuck'n' glass pipe," hyatt yelled in reply.

i leaned over and whispered to chase, "say, we'll catch you tomorrow." m.f. and i waded through the pile of empty bottles, dirty clothes and tools on the floor, and pulled the door shut behind. as we moved down the hallway, jamie's voice cut through the early morning haze: "hyatt, you fuck'n' idiot, i got your glass pipe right here..."

johnny rude (indian summer dream)

2007-10-09T21:30:00.002-05:00

it began on the side of a dirt road, late afternoon, leading down into the valley. he was a young girl hanging out with three others, all of them around eighteen. the thin brunette, andrea, peeled off a wad of bills and threw some to each of them. "there's your cut...four-hundred fifty each, y'all have fun."

he pocketed the cash and headed down the road to the little tavern at the foot of the valley. walking inside, the warm, familiar glow of wood paneling and blood orange shag carpet welcomed him.

now a guy, he sauntered over to the side bar and leaned over the cute girl in front of the mini-jukebox. "lemme have a play at that," he whispered as he pushed into her, sliding a quarter into the machine and pressing his selection.

saxophone music rattled out of the blown speakers and followed him across the tiny room to the gambling machine. he pulled a crisp twenty out of the wad, fed it in and the game came to life.

"say, this is kinda like that space shoot 'em up that i used to play," he thought, except the reaction time was really slow. he would press two, three, or four times before a shot would squeeze out at the descending alien ships.

suddenly the lights flickered and someone yelled "closing time!" the game started to shut down and he turned to the door. just then his friend nicki threw a bill at the juke box and yelled to the attendant, "play me that song!", and pushed open the wooden revolving door, stepping to the street outside.

he followed after his friend, walking out into the young night air, neon flickering around him, and started down the street, walking with a fancy cane now. suddenly from behind, the tavern keeper, a middle-aged loser with slicked down hair, ran up and said, "hey you lost your money in the machine!"

"yeah, i left eighteen dollars in there when it shut down."

"well here's your money, johnny rude," said the man throwing a twenty his way. he screwed open the top of his cane, and pulled out a gold ingot from a hidden slot, handing it to the man in a move that surprised himself.

then, reaching down to the ground he picked up the bill, along with the rest of his cash, which had fallen there. shoving the wad into a recognizable stack, he stuffed it back into his pocket. "i'm gonna let my friends play their hands, me i'm buryin' my talents," he thought and commenced to walk away.

spring break

2007-09-29T23:26:00.000-05:00

i looked out the window of the greyhound bus and wished it all away. that whole first year of junior high, the crappiest year yet, but now i had a week to forget about it all, this first spring break ever, starting with the overnight bus ride to see my grandparents in amarillo.

earlier that day i'd worked up the courage to go into the school library and check out a book. i'd been wanting to all year, standing in the hallway, peering through the glassed in front wall at the books. today, heart beating in my chest i went in and found it, the hardback, tom sawyer by mark twain.

finally, on the bus: some good reading in a lounge seat, the overhead light casting a glow all around. nine year old bubba was right next to me, holding the box of donuts mom and dad had left with us as we pulled out from the bus station that evening.

now here we were, halfway through oklahoma,the full moon skimming low over the horizon. bubba yanked on my arm, "i really need ta go to the bathroom."

"it's back there."

"but i'm scared..."

"what are you talkin' about?"

bubba tried to look back down the dark aisle but couldn't. "there ain't nothin' to be afraid of," i glanced back, catching the silhouette of a huge indian in jeans and a ripped-up t-shirt coming down the aisle, long hair flowing, dark eyes burning a hole right through me.

turning back quickly i said, "maybe you can wait 'til we stop."

just then someone leaned out from the row behind us, into the light. "say, my name's johnny and this here's my little sister. she's real cute, you like her?" the boy looked kinda like the ninth graders i tried to stay away from at school.

the bus pulled into a parking lot next to this filling station, to drop off some passengers. johnny glanced over at the pumps and then back towards me and bubba. "hey, you know what my favorite hobby is?" he paused... "pumping gas," he said and nodded knowingly towards us. i took in the cigarette over his ear, as bubba leaned in a little closer to me.

"come on, let's check out what's inside." he led us off the bus and into the little station. bugs flickered around the florescent lights as we sauntered over to the pinball machine tucked in the corner.

"hey, watch this," johnny said as he walked toward the man at the counter.

"say, i lost my money in the pinball machine," he said, gesturing toward the three of us leaning against the machine. the man in the blue uniform stared back at him for a few seconds and then slowly reached into the money drawer, pulling out a dime and flicking it toward him.

johnny held the coin up and snickered as he came toward us. "let me show you how it's done," he popped the money into the machine and it came to life. "ka-ching," the metal ball spun into the field of play.

"all aboard, we're headin' out," the bus driver yelled in through the door.

i grabbed my brother's hand and took off, leaving johnny and his sister there at the pinball machine. on the bus now, moving away, i caught one last glimpse of him there, working the flippers and pushing the machine up to the edge, just before "tilt". his sister caught my eye for a moment and then we were gone.

the bus lurched out onto the highway and i glanced back, into the sun rising up over the station, and then ahead toward the still dark west and the road ahead. grabbing the box of donuts from my brother i pulled it open. "say bubba, you want the cherry or the maple?"

east river

2007-08-25T10:19:00.001-05:00

we'd been working for days, getting ready for the opening, when dan calls me up: "ran, you and your friend gotta come to this party tonite. it's over by the east river in long island city. it's crawling with writers and such." bobbie and i, inhaling the fumes of early august manhattan weren't in a hurry to go anywhere, except back to williamsburg and the (relatively) cool air of the second floor window box fan.

the jammed in press of days old funk mixed with fresh scrubbed and body washed skin as we hopped the "L" for the long ride under the river and out to bedford street. a screech of brakes and we were spat onto the platform, the mix giving way to straight up dank, late summer subway odor. out we came into the fresh air, and my phone beeped with new voice mail as the signal came back. dialing in, it was dan again: "hey ran, hire a car and get on over here, you don't wanna miss this party." i hang up by the time we begin the walk up the long flight of stairs to dan's raw warehouse.

a dark figure looms in front of the box fan, devon, forty-year old skater boy queen, broken down addicted to whatever, picking at something on his shirt. he was immersed in conversation with himself, a steady stream of unintelligible sound trailing our way. "what's happening tonite ?", i offer up. "sonic youth and yeah yeah yeahs playin' over at the pool, free barbeque at manhole tomorrow, house party in dumbo later on," trailing off into a free-form mumble.

bobbie chimed in, "hey, you know where i could score some weed?" devon, still fixated on his shirt, finally looked up, his fake shoe polish black eyes shiny and mismatched. he says, "lemme find my cell phone, i gotta contact in there." disappearing into his closet of a room, he emerges with this beat-to-hell phone with only three working keys. "there's a number for my weed man in there," he says, handing the phone over to bobbie. sensing the hopelessness of the proposition, bobbie just looks at the pile of electronic crap in his hand and shrugs.

just then, my phone rings again...it's dan: "hey ran, you GOTTA come to this party, they gotta boat and barbeque. it's at mark disuvero's studio." suddenly it hits me, this was a REAL party. "alright, we're there," click.

bobbie, stretched out and sweating on the futon. "dude get up, this is the big shit deal tonite, i'm callin' a car." minutes later, we're bailing out into the darkness of an expansive scrap-yard looking street. a corrugated steel gate slowly swung open, revealing two huge airplane hangar studios on a hundred yard long stretch of dock. "what took you so long?", dan quipped.

we did the walk through, checking out these immense god-like steel sculptures, finely balanced articulation sent rotating around the hangar with the flick of a wrist. out on the loading dock we stepped, hipster group hanging out at tables, drinking, talking, eating barbeque. i did the meet and greet, trying to hold a conversation, but the river called insistently, just off the concrete dock.

breaking away, i jumped down to a floating platform and began stripping off my clothes. city lights reflect across the blackness of the river as i dove into the cold darkness. invigorated, i opened my eyes and tasted the fresh salt-tinged liquid deep underwater. black depths glowing with a neon pulse as i propelled myself up and into the air. i took a deep breath, realizing i was twenty yards offshore.

the others looked small and insignificant, as a wave of fear and isolation ran over me. taking another breath, i dove back under, gliding through the peaceful chill and blind miasma. this time i came up near the platform and awkwardly clambered back onto dry land. shivering, i began to put my clothes back on.

"is he really naked?", a filipino girl asked bobbie, as though she had never seen a human body before. bobbie nodded and then dan called out into the night: "hey ran, that was real huck fin of you, there." pulling my shirt on, i smiled and glanced back into the night.

mule

2007-07-25T10:57:00.001-05:00

nightfall, another hot gulf coast night, found us walkin' down the tracks to a show at crawlspace, a second floor artist-run gallery overlooking this machine shop. chase was runnin' the space then, and had some drawings by a tall gangly vampire fella on the wall. comin' up the rickety wooden steps i bumped into betty, who threw me a sweet if slightly off-kilter smile.

i took a quick jaunt around the show and then settled into the comfy sofa in the boutique area. chase took a quick hit off his wood pipe and then proceeded to show us this cool new video game he had just picked up, "kamachama yo' mama". cardboard critters, woolen doo-dads and other knick-knacks stared down at us from the wall as we focused in on the little 10 inch color screen.

it was 'bout then that betty launched into one of her stories. this one started (like all the others) with a smile that slowly spread from one side of her face to the other, followed by a gleam in the leading eye.

"yeah, my boyfriend and i, we were down in mexico, and he had this great plan to buy up boatloads of liquor at great prices and then smuggle it back into the states so we could have it for some big parties, like. he had seen it done in the movies before, so we knew it could work."

"so he bought up all this booze and then stuffed it into a backpack, and loaded it on me to carry over." (long pause) "he knew they wouldn't suspect me, so he went on ahead and crossed over, then i followed a few minutes later, hee-hee."

suddenly she was distracted..."hey that's an awesome video piece you designed, chase." (he had been playing "kamachama yo' mama" this whole time) "how'd you do that anyway, i mean how'd you make that video? you oughta market that thing to burger king, they'd go for that big time, you know what i mean?"

"that sounds great, betty", chase said absentmindedly and continued to rack up the points on his game. we looked on as the night heat closed in on another round of drinks and more stories from betty.

midsummer night dreams

2007-07-18T22:50:00.000-05:00

he walked along the desert road with his father. a dirt pathway diverted up the ravine, looking like a gully washed out by the last rain. they followed it up and over the earthen spine, coming upon an adobe church, empty and open to the elements.

inside they walked, past flickering candles, and out again, this time into the courtyard. a monumental sculpture loomed ahead, an oversize wooden chair with basket-weave seat all cast in bronze, double life size.

"el diablo" his father exclaimed as they rounded it to the front. seated on this monstrosity was a sculpted devil, a typical one with horns and spiked tail, seeming vaguely cartoonish. though of human scale, he was dwarfed by the giant bronze seat and looked rather infantile perched on this impromptu throne.

they continued on past the seated devil through scrub into the desert wilderness, moving into the late afternoon sun.

--------------------------------

he drove the old land rover over the dirt road, pushing the accelerator as it threatened to die on him. his teenage son fidgeted in the passenger seat and leaned out the open window. the wind was picking up now and heavy black clouds were moving in fast.

for a moment he considered going back and trying to retreat from the storm, but then he gunned it, going full blast into the approaching melee. whirling black clouds dipped down, and dissipated smokelike as they whipped around the plodding vehicle.

the road grew muddy as they moved into the deluge, with vegetation and debris slowing them little by little. finally they came on a roadblock formed of two huge fallen logs. he looked over to his son and then jammed on the pedal, hitting the logs with the full force of the steel hulk.

coming out the other side, they slowed to a stop in the parking lot as the storm cleared and moved away behind them. his son hopped out and ran around to the front of the truck. "fuckin' a..!" the hood was crumpled up, but otherwise intact.

he got out, checked the oil, and got in the passenger side. his son now on the drivers side turned the key, slapped the transmission into drive and they lurched away.

--------------------------------

he cradled the rolled up posters under his arm as he went into the school, walking down the hall and scanning the classes as they passed. the rooms buzzed with activity, kids in parochial uniforms collectively reciting math formulas and language phrases. she came with him, and together they went into the monk's workshop. "i don't know if you can use these, but i'd like the school to have them", he said.

the young monk towered over them, looking vaguely buddha-like with newly grown black stubble coming in on his recently shaved head. "i like this one" he said, pointing to a poster of two people lying on a bed having sex. "we can use it to both teach and provoke."

at a loss for words, he looked her way and nodded his head toward the door. she smiled and they scooted out into the hallway, down the freshly mopped glistening terrazo floor and out the double doors into the bright sunlight of the playground.

"the real thing"

2007-06-04T18:59:00.001-05:00

so there they were sitting out on the front porch late that evening, when the holy ghost came over him. kneeling down on the front walk, he gathered the loose sage, lit a match and made a protective circle around it with both hands. pressing his face into the circle he blew, like some crazed fool smoking a buried pipe.

the beautiful young things on the porch looked on, wide-eyed with amazement, as if a strange public t.v. documentary was unfolding before their very eyes. handsome bud talking to them stopped his come on routine when he noticed their attention diverting.

then it was he reached under and scooped up the burning sage, and brought it up before the two lovers seated before his tiny altar, gently blowing the smoke into their faces. they breathed in deeply and the girl began to chant in foreign tongues. drunk on the spirit, she rose to her feet and started to sing "amazing grace, how sweet the sound", pulling her love up and holding him close.

the girls on the porch clicked their heels nervously and went inside, in search of cold beverages and relief from the spectacle, darling bud following closely on their heels. this was when he went to the hollowed-out tree and lit the candles, the glow coursing out like a beacon in the night.

the two lovers blessed him and moved into the darkness, a portent of things to come. it was then his vision appeared, peripherally she stood in the half-light, faded red t-shirt encompassing her profile. "the real thing" it read, and before the next heartbeat he knew the course his life would take.

later that night 4:15 am, he was lying in bed in the dark, and one of the beautiful girls peered around the corner saying "hey, we gotta go, can you do me a favor?" five minutes later, he was standing at an atm, dazed and confused, taking out $500 and handing it over. somewhere in his stupor the thought occurred to him that this was not a rational decision, but it was good to be done with it, the senselessness of beauty and the valuing of worldly goods, he knew that part of his life was through.

the beautiful people took the cash, and faded into the night. he knew that somewhere she was awake and watching over him, la morenita, the t-shirt now swinging from a hanger. he walked back to the front porch, to where the smoke from last night's rites had left a smudge on the walk and sat. watching the first light of morning break over the horizon, the hint of a smile upon his face. a thirst had come over him.

bloom (in the ghetto)

2007-05-23T15:20:00.000-05:00

on a hot and sweaty any morning
another little baby child is born
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

cause if there's one thing that she don't need
its another little hungry child to bleed
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

and a hungry little girl with a ring through her nose
plays it on the streets as the cold wind blows
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

so she starts to walk the streets at night
and she learns how it hurts and she knows it ain't right
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

then one night she takes a blade and cuts off all her hair
and to herself she makes a vow
she wants to leave but she don't know how
and her mother cries

(based on mac davis' "in the ghetto" 1969)

russians

2007-05-15T10:04:00.000-05:00

the pinata ascended haltingly up the backyard cable, a blue donkey rotating slowly in the air. blindfolded, vlad knelt below it like a knight before battle, his head bowed. the russian had already burnt his hand on the grill, and held the wooden pole with some difficulty.

as he sprang to action, i saw her coming toward me, carrying a bottle of chilled vodka. "we chase it with a pickled tomato", she said. "you hold it to your mouth and squeeze."

vlad had been flailing at the air for some time now, and the little donkey seemed to be smiling at him. its orbit becoming more and more eccentric as the pole sliced through the air, coming dangerously close to the laughter around him.

"be my designated driver", he said as she led him inside and up the stairs. the darkened room began to turn slowly as he lay beside her on the futon. pouring a shot over her, he licked the vodka off her stomach and squeezed the tomato chaser into his mouth. "you are what you eat," she said.

the party had moved indoors now, their voices rising from downstairs and breaking free of gravity. he was behind her now, their rhythm merging into the blackness. time sped up, and they fell spent onto the covers.

in the morning the russians were gone, the broken pinata stuffed in the trash can. he staggered into the kitchen and pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge. tilting back his head to take a swig, he saw a mark on the ceiling, a sneaker print. closing his eyes, he saw vlad cartwheel into the night.

escape

2007-05-09T22:19:00.000-05:00

sitting on the fire escape he looked down, eight floors to the ground below. concrete, stone and steel, the city, tough and relentless. a lighted neon cross blared "jesus saves" from the street front mission, car horns shouting as traffic rushed up to the stoplight, people hurrying along the walk.

slowly he took a drag from the cigarillo, warmth and fire pulled into his lungs. he closed his eyes and felt the smoke inside balancing out the cool blasts of wind which buffeted him high up the city's side. he felt himself slipping into a dream, of soft grasses and flowing water under a canopy of trees.

she climbed through the window and sat beside him, her legs resting on the steel bars. "this is kind of nice" she said, and he opened his eyes, looking up at the softness of the sky and beyond. she poured sangria over ice in the plastic cups and handed him one. "to nice" he said, and tipped his cup into hers.

school

2007-04-26T12:32:00.000-05:00

in first grade, he threw a rock that hit a girl in the head. it was an accident, he was just enjoying the way the rocks spun through the air when he threw them. her platinum blonde hair erupted in blood, and next thing he knows, the teacher dragged him up the hill to the classroom, where the principal came and read him the riot act.

one day in second grade, the teacher, a grumpy old woman, lined him up with all the other boys on the playground and swatted each one as she went down the line. he never knew what offense led to this, but all the girls in class were laughing.

in third grade the kids were all playing baseball during recess and he was the catcher. he knelt down to catch the pitch, and just as the older boy swung the bat, she caught his eye. whammmm!!! he's crawling along on the ground, stars swirling around his head, and blood gushing from his cheek. seven stitches later, he returned to class.

fourth grade saw the class moved to a portable building, and he sat behind a cute girl with pig tails. he thought it would be funny to whack her over the head with the plastic tissue bag she kept under her seat. whackkkk!! she started screaming and crying. uh-oh, he thought, there was something hard inside of the bag. the teacher reached in and found an empty cosmetic jar. grabbing him, she dragged him out of class and hit him repeatedly with her ping pong paddle.

in fifth grade the kids liked to run around back and smell the honeysuckles on the fence. one day as the girls were chasing him, he ducked around the edge of the building. cutting a little too close, he sliced his head open on the aluminum trim. this time it only took four stitches and a partially shaved head to return to class.

his last year in elementary school, sixth grade, went smoothly. he kept mostly to himself, until the end of school field trip. at the miniature golf course he thought it would be really cool to slam the ball hard and make it fly off the astroturf ramp. zoommm!!! the golf ball flew through the air, its trajectory on a perfect arc to the side of the girl's head, the one with long straight hair.

next year, seventh grade, he moved to junior high and a new school. he stopped talking to the girls for the next few years and began to focus on his trumpet playing.

(since my baby left me) the well's run dry

2007-04-12T10:44:00.001-05:00

refrain:
since my baby left me,
the well's run dry,
said she didn't need me,
the well's run dry,
got a man 2 <3 her right,
the well's run dry,
oh, pobrecito.

1. i been comin' late 2 work,
took tha' blame 4 some jerk,
now the boss man's fired me,
the well's run dry (refrain)

2. fed my dog a bunch o' scraps,
she went 2 moanin' in the nite,
now she's gone up 'n' died,
the well's run dry (refrain)

3. the ride she's rough got 4 flat tires,
now i walk 'n' don't get far,
the repo man he towed my car,
the well's run dry (refrain)

4. since the twister took my home,
far 'n' wide i do roam,
just like a rollin' stone,
the well's run dry.
(refrain) (refrain) (and out...)

- a little ditty from uncle krishnaremus

purgatorio

2007-04-04T14:09:00.002-05:00

down, down he trudged, through thick smoke, exhaust mixed with the tinge of human sweat and rotting waste. the crush of bodies pushing against, some moving upward, some down, eyes averted each in their own self-made inferno. a few more steps and there he lost his balance. turning in the air it all came to him, every suffering he had inflicted on all of these, the loved and the unloved. falling only a moment yet interminable, he knew it would hurt, and then he hit bottom. blackness, and all around a fog, lying on the mix of footsteps and grime. it was then she came to him, a movement so slight, a gentle touch in this blindness. grasping, lunging, lost in the foul air he felt himself lifted up and against a firm shoulder and the softness of her skin. lowering now, he moved in close, enveloped by her as blackness closed in again.

* reverie *

2007-03-26T16:24:00.000-05:00

he ran out ahead to the playground, hoping to get to the monkey bars before the other kids. but there she was, stopping him in his tracks. he's still not sure now how, maybe she pushed him, maybe another kid blindsided him from below, but there he lay flat on his back staring up and into the face of an angel silhouetted by the late morning autumn sun. she stepped forward and stood over him, fists clenched against her hips. the breeze billowed her pleated plaid skirt and passed cool on his face as he looked up and into the mystery of darkness and beyond.

in love there is no consort with doubt

2007-03-24T10:03:00.000-05:00

as quickly as it all began, it was over...whammm, a hurricane blows through your life leaving behind a trail of devastation. that and a question to the universe, how? and why? a new year beginning in ecstacy and immediately after falling into a feverish state of delirium. waking in the night to sweat-drenched sheets and open sores, seven days in purgatory lying on her sofa, alone with your thoughts. and that, that is the downfall of many a man: "are you sure?" "are you REALLY sure?" synapses going into overdrive as you realize that somewhere someone's despair is balancing out your joy.

for in love there is no consort with doubt. when it gets a foot in the door, it kicks its way into the room. and there you are, intuition laid bare, sliced open and left to bleed out by a moment of questioning. in its wake trust dissolves, connections disconnect, and you are tossed out and back into the world of samsara...and after you hang on as long as you can, but...only now just past the sleepless nights, the turmoil, the chemically induced numbness, left to sort out, to reflect and (maybe) begin again. yet you still find gratitude and blessing, for experience, for failure, for each step along the way, for the brevity of perfection, together spinning on the great wheel of the all.

once more i came upon my treasure

2007-03-21T10:18:00.000-05:00

( ( into the fire ) )

it's friday nite and here i am at the friendly neighborhood winter solstice party. here at the ass-end of this inexplicably glorious year, this year of bleeding profusely. behind me shitloads of sweat and pain, the bottom dropping out of the life i had so meticulously constructed.

so here i am blowing into the embers of a budding fire fashioned by eager yet tenuous loving hands. before my eyes now the fire is blazing, and i am given to leave behind this year of blood and toil, as the persian's brother beckons, "into the fire, all of my sickness, all of my weakness, into the fire". the hand drum begins to beat out a rhythm, that of something new and wonderful.

and there he is, the one who marked the auspicious moment, barely one month hence. mr. drunk persian salesman, the angelic fool who prophesied this new beginning before my very eyes. what could i do but thank him profusely and marvel at the rightness of this moment? then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone.

once more, i came upon my treasure, and we drank chilled vodka with freshly spilled pomegranate seeds, an offering made together on this longest night of the year. then we danced, intoxicated with joy and desire, all the more ecstatic in its falling upon us as true gift.

(original post - Saturday, December 23, 2006)

* miami journal (do you go down?) *

2007-03-20T10:46:00.000-05:00

(day 1: mon. 12/4) headed onto the elevator at miami int'l. airport w/2 60-something mamacitas. one quizzed me about the direction of the elevator, "do you go down?", she said. brief pause, then i replied..."yes, i do".

a short while later i found myself outside the aqua hotel on south beach, bloodied toe sticking out from my sandal (note to robert: "thus concludes the year of bleeding profusely") and ready for adventure...

(edited version from original post - Saturday, December 09, 2006)

waves of regret, waves of joy...

2007-03-19T16:14:00.000-05:00

so friday see He had me on the ropes, hitting hard, waves of regret rolling in and over like a close friend. working the body, a house of pain my lot. endless the list of tasks, the places to be, the calls to make and receive, the devil to pay. decisions past and way past due, a standing eight count, bruised and weak at the knees. in He moved to lay me down for the count.

but along came my second wind, and i started to punch back. mischief and adventure running in the cold clean night air, spinning me around and around, with furtive glances lit by red hot coals. suddenly i was back, joy like a wave, feeling each breath. now i had Him back in the corner, on the defensive and knew i could go another round.

i bloodied His lip with the last flurry...a few more days like today, and i may begin to dream of going the distance and even hope for a split decision. i know He'll be back (He always is) with punches i can feel to the bone, but guess what, i'm ready now... (bell ringing)

(original post - Sunday, November 19, 2006)

holy spirit pt. ii

2007-03-16T13:19:00.000-05:00

the holy spirit descends in the form of a drunken persian salesman

2007-03-14T11:50:00.000-05:00

so there we were at the (kettle), bottle full o' beer, and...standing on the sidewalk i turn and literally bump into my ex-wife and her boyfriend (nice joke there, karma). we exchange pleasantries and then someone says where to now? so we (we being mary, vanessa, polly, shelby, gabriel and i) end up at the metro diner (jade garden closes at 10) and what happens? everyone orders biscuits, i mean EVERYONE (more karma?).

we're trying to decide where to go next (it seems like the party's always around the next corner, nomad-like), and mary says "hey vanessa's gotta hotel room". for reasons i don't wanna go into at the moment, we end up at a party hosted by mr. child actor himself. so polly saves me from walking into the wrong house at 1 in the morning, and safely inside child actor's house, we settle into a cabana in the backyard.

little do we know that mr. drunk persian salesman will show up with an impromptu lecture which goes by the title of "i can sell anything to anyone", which must be true because he promptly sold me to polly for $298.47 (somehow i think the credit card's not gonna go through on that one).

finally, and mercifully, persian salesman's brother takes him home, and we follow out into the streets shortly thereafter. dallas texas, thanks for finally showing me a good time!!!

(original post - Saturday, November 11, 2006)

way down south

2007-03-13T11:55:00.000-05:00

a way down yonder in the land of crackers,
tar babies, computer hackers,
look away, look away, look away, way down south.

there the river mud is dirt brown,
piss is yellow, you're a handsome fella,
look away, look away, look away, way down south.

stole my first car at the age o' thirteen,
back seat drivin', got inside her jeans,
look away, look away, look away, way down south.

sweet honey in tha' rock, mary jane upon the stalk,
watch for snakes where you walk,
look away, look away, look away, way down south.

got back from church early in the morn,
kicked out my t.v. watchin' porn,
look away, look away, look away, way down south.

donde esta...ahhh muy bien,
shake those hips, iniquity and sin,
look away, look away, look away, way down south.

maya, priscilla, rosa and dolly,
mahalia, aretha, flannery, molly,
hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah,
look away, look away, look away, way down south.

(original post - Friday, October 27, 2006)

goddess (la morenita rocks)

2007-03-12T13:14:00.000-05:00

she's the goddess, she's connection,
she's a comfort and protection,
when i'm all messed up, i find a place in her.

she's no body but moves through every body,
reveals herself in a look, the slightest glance,
and tho' i've forgotten her, am loosened at the sight.

where are you now, the child in me cries to be held,
i want you now, the man inside wanting you to hold,
her many faces, she's each at once.

virgin, temptress, mother, companion,
one who fans the flames inside,
yet still a harbor from the storm.

(original post - Thursday, October 26, 2006)