Saturday, March 19

An Ode to a Supermoon

"Take me to the edge of the land" she said with a sigh carrying the weight of Venus. "I need to feel the waters of her living womb." The sound of those new swede brown boots from Spain were the first thing she noticed slipping back into her body, as she made her way down that wooden pier.

There, she saw the pastels dancing. In each wave a desperate attempt to be noticed on the dawning of this super moon twilight evening in March.

"You know, we're made of 78% water" she said to her dear comrade sitting by her side. Shivering, they watched the tide receding following nothing else but natural law. There was a kind of silence that held them both in the stillness of that moment of her glorious rising at the horizon.

Amazing how fast time moves. Even more astounding how deeply one can sense that motion in the moon.

Saturday, March 12

A Connected Ocean of Tears

Slipping over the green moss
from salt to air
onto a foreign land
a wet ocean of boulders
ever so joyously
as they create love between the rows of jetty's 

"Are those human made?" I ask the seemingly happy middle aged couple. They must be coming to watch the sun set over those homes, those homes that sit so neatly in a row overlooking the great momma. Those homes that have not been carried away by water. This time.

"Oh yea," he says, with an excitement of a 3rd grader knowing the answer to a 6th grade question. "The hurricane of '38 wiped out this entire area. They built them in hopes to divert another catastrophe like that in the future."

"A catastrophe." I think out loud. "Hmmmmm, like the one in Alabama..."

As I walk away I wonder about Alabama. I wonder about the Gulf of Mexico there, still full of oil, unrefined and left untended now. I wonder about Japan, and 8.9 magnitude earthquake that happened yesterday, in their backyard, in the ocean. I wonder about those waves that come finding humans, land and cars to throw on top of 3-story buildings. I wonder about our atomic atom and how much trouble its gonna cause.

Sigh. What is happening to life?

There's got to more then white and blue pills popping. There's got to be more then these kinds of catastrophes. How can I go sit in bath when they don't even know how many are dead?

Well, today has been a day of depth, I guess. Of contacting old loves and wondering if their okay. Of looking out and into the unknown and just looking, not trying to find an answer. There is no answer. Just an asking. Learning to pray? Perhaps. But not in the God kind of way. In fact, its not a male thing. Its more like curves in motion. Wetness and fertility. Half moons that hang directly overhead, while making friends in Gemini. Its games of sweet and sour and a date with destiny. Its jumping from dry rock to wet boulder, dry boulder to wet rock on top this slippery patch of fern green moss.

Back to the singing now. They serenaded me into a moment of silence. A place. Something. Somewhere, or no where at all, I'm not really sure anymore. This is not translatable into words. This is not a spoken language that I know.
Its a language of water. Its a language of the sun dawning on-top the moving waves of a lifetime and seeing a reflection stare back.

Still, the smoke of this exhale
speaks of fear
one full of failure
and despair

She asks her friend why sunsets burn though peoples memories?

Her friend looks at her, dumbfounded, and answers honestly, with a laughter and a scream.

And as she inhales this pure form of nicotine
somehow, someway
there is a pause in the pain
and when she looks up and see the sky on fire
she's reminded of being higher
beyond the ideology of those white picket fences
is a dream that never learned to fly
but now
on this cold march afternoon
with the Atlantic on her side
she vies to end this sense of separateness standing by
"my world is failing and i am flying watching the shattered shards fall"

Cause those stoops in the lower ninth ward
are still just stoops
steps leading up to grass now
and those cars uprooted from concrete
still on top of houses in Sendai
are still waiting for the cranes to come
the smoke still smoldering from the fires and the now this: a potential nuclear reactor meltdown
its all still there
even those young girls and women with severed vagina's
are still bleeding somewhere
ground zero hasn't been rebuilt
they are to busy fighting over whether or not to let the mosque in

When I look up, I do the only thing I can
I ask those brown and gray furry pussy willows sitting my desk, still budding for spring,
what would you say to the survivors? what do you feel about the world today?

Friday, March 11

A Taste from the Others

She held me in her small hands
a flash of light beaming
i wonder what her insides will feel like if she allows me to go there

Tuesday, March 8

Superimposed Clouds of Fire

Watching water lapping against the confines of burrows
hollowed out eons ago
listening to the hum of the park lights
thoughts about what this is
what is this?
its people in fleece running by
floating on top of the surface of a mind

And the wind is relentless
but it feels good
it feels like shifting sand
mistakes strewn about
and this
a step into some sort of contrived light

Ellis Island still holds on
and the lady in copper still carries that torch of freedom
a light for those coming in from distant lands
a long as your skin is right

Just sitting here now
trying to see whats written in the sky
whats written on skin

Just sitting there
watching the planes coming in
and the city lights turn on in the race of repetitive cycles
preparing for nightfall

Honeycomb concrete
littered with last years discards

Battery Park, I love you.
I love how real you are. I love how deeply you hold us all. I l love how you stand off Jersey to this city and the backdrop is a setting sun. I love how your wind blows any sort of belief away. All the way up this deviated Hudson, full of laughter and cries, all this, coexisting
at the same time.

Ground Zero, Now

From the grey of the city skyline
I wonder about those chalk outlines
of bodies akimbo
which jumped from the 102nd floor
10 years past

No longer a smoldering mess
just an almost empty city block
save for the cranes attempting to rival those of times before

I ask the bus driver what he thinks of a mosque being built right there
he says "I can't answer that dear, but New York will do what it do, no matter what I say or what say you"

I hear the elder woman from the back say "But it didn't take a mosque to bring the buildings down"
and I'm intrigued by how we attempt to run from ideas

Mostly I notice the seagulls, flying in from Battery Park, circling around
"Can you believe its been 10 years?" I say out-loud to what ever is listening. Whoever is there

Perhaps between the thumping of metal on concrete and Mary Poppins on Broadway we can find our collective consciousness and begin again under this darkening sky.

I wonder about all those people, all these cars that just drive by
that just drive by


Papers flying like birds thru the airstream
neon signs that never rest
an endless array of grey
joining the lowest prices

Cast iron bridges
and a dozen pink & white balloons
a 1973 El Camino
held on this 1909 destiny of bridges

Girls stealing basketballs
from older boys on the courts of east Harlem

People people

Even Mr. Malcolm X himself
was here

Friday, March 4

Whose Beating Heart?

Sitting in a crystallized bath
under this new moon in Pisces
she found herself
once again, stuck
between those wooden floor boards of her mind

Candle light dancing between her thighs
as she's holding Eyes Wide Open in her wet hands
she bleeds into the music of a 16th century composer
fluid flowing
her tears
somehow finding solace in the intensity of a C minor held in the past
that which brings her closer to a truth
she's yet to understand