The First Thing

The first thing was an orange crate.
Cake tin lids for wheels and a room
filled with things to bump into or
around. A forest of chair legs 
cushions wooden cubes and woven
circles cylinders and the high plateau
where we raised our arms and ate
red green white brown yellow.
He sat behind a paper screen
held wide open a wall of alphabet
black and white an M a J an F
between us. My crate full of toys.
His slippered feet speed bumps or
sleeping policemen he called them.
But today when I burst through
onto his lap the world exploded.
He was the center and it did not
hold. That was the day I met
his anger. When did the days

begin to have names? Sunday
was a real day beginning to end.
Down the avenue of trees we walked.
Hand in hand with the giant
through the dark tunnel.
It was safe with him really.

We came out onto a river bank
where knots of men hunched
darkly over their fishing poles
divining the world beneath
the surface. Each tied on
to something I couldn't see.
Once a log floated by. No
a branch waving its shredded
stump caught up in the current.
Until I saw that the river
was a wet road you could
not cross. He answered
every question I asked.
Tomorrow will be Monday.

The Hair Of The Barista

Just when you're least expecting it
you lift the lid of a boxful of pastries
and there straddling the circles
rectangles and spirals is one
long black hair silence descends
a hand reaches for the strand
plucks it away from the icing
and holds it aloft what more
can one say? Why proceed
further along the dark line
leading us back to the Doctrine
of Signatures to understand
better nay read what the barista
had written only minutes before
with one continuous line of sentiment
what curls what long dashes what
backwards twists and crossed
intentions conveyed by our conveyor
of delights. What expressions
from the espresso presser what
finds among the grinds we
can't resist this line

All morning from sun-up she
encounters the endless parade
across her counter the caffeine
needy who count on that cup
a shot a bit of froth that
bathéd every veyne in swich licour
it is April after all only
this rain has fallen therefore
the mysteries of the morning
shall remain locked up
in that dark filament

The Love Of Your Life

Best not to think too hard sometimes
you squint and strain your brain
runs and hides in front of the television
or surfs the internet for hours the sphincter
has a shadow that grows tall at noon
best to breathe and open your eyes
but all this preamble too skirting around
the love of your life instead of sitting close
doing nothing in particular they say the skin's
the biggest organ in the bodily scheme
of things start there and peace be to
your winning smile that opens
up your difficulties with nonsense
and confusion your tang toungled
negotiations I'd say the love of your life
might best be other because holding
the bird too close as you know will
crush it and all oxygen will whoosh
out of your cave so the other it's true
is the mother of love's invention call it
simple reflection the possibilities
permutations are the stuff of conversation
and the rich activity of the arts and sciences
as usual words aren't going to get you
anywhere only action let's just say interaction
those moments that disappear as soon as we
notice I said we touch them love is
the Venn diagram where overlapping
leads to long napping leaning into other
with longing is the avocado pit in the pond
circle upon circle the marriage of true
circumferences breached by kissing again
and again

The Trait Most Deplored In Others

It's already started with the cold air
at our backs we begin to blame our
aches and pains on others just as we
expect Nirvana to be handed us by
anyone but ourselves waiting for
the Buddha to wake up and reach into
his pockets pull out the winning ticket
and say in broken English with a sublime
smile here you are you are here
it's here the thing you've been looking for
you can take it all at once or so many
now and some later at intervals
I suppose what I most deplore in others
I recognize with wincing familiarity
but since you asked I think too much
probably I think too much how much
time we spend in banter a deplorable thing
but then again without it we would learn
nothing indirectly and our lives so clean and sharp
would cut us we'd be a bloody mess in our
stasis without friends how about instead
stupidity even more deplorable than say
just being silly and larking about
no I'd say stupidity is up there
but even so I'd qualify it I've met
people with low intelligence a questionable
statement at the worst of times and
anyway they were fine decent people
who would do anything for you especially
that most precious gift compassion
also warmth also seeing you for who you are
no no pessimism would be it the person
who like E.F. Schumacher once brilliantly said
is afraid to even make a start the pessimist
is most deplorable

Impermanence In Stinson Beach U.S. Post Office

The postmistress with an empty bell
and her back to the door letters
packages and more on the floor
her face framed in the year
I stood on the side of the road outside
Eureka one eye looking out for the police
the other on the ditch I had to cross
to reach the trees where sleep was calling
no one stopping to give me a ride
so I picked up her bell by the diamond sutra
handle twisted as it was with flashes of lightning
and drops of dew all cast in bronze
shook it gently to dispel the fog in there
till she turned her head as if she heard
the ringing in my ears what else what else
perhaps sufficient dust particles vibrating
reaching that ancient desk where she
sat with her back rounded with her powerful
fingers spread wide over 868 stamps
I saw her body lift slightly with a breath
one two I waited I had time the silence
kept breaking and breaking beyond
my reach I put my hand
into this pocket that one too
searching for the right change
the right metaphor I knew
she wouldn't take more
especially less I looked up
to see her standing there snuffling
chanting over and over
it doesn't go out from here

Breakers

Tide's in washing every shoreline
with its predictability whether you're
watching or not whether the news
bringing the icecaps or Syria closer
further count the sets see how their
signatures are marked in debris
deceptive with its silent letter delivered
in sticks plastic bottle tops broken toy
shovels in a variety of colors condoms
too the world is littered with our attempts
at preventing life the inconveniences
with their hissing genuflections
their ambient whistling in the dark too
much you say there's too much life
I don't care what you think anymore
take another drink raise your innocent
glass to the half moon at four in the afternoon
before I walk away along the edge
feet sinking in your sinking expectations
over to the trite side that's where I'm headed
dimestore ejaculations and secondhand penumbras
anything to lessen this sense of diminishment
give life breath everything I've got to increase

The Law Of Unpredictable Outcomes

The law of unpredictable outcomes
has not been repealed what a poser
just look out the window if you have one
how about the similarities between yesterday's
ocean drum skin brushed by onshore breeze
and corrugated roofing old weathered patina
undulating rhythmically overhead or here
perpendicular to Holy's Bakery for a wall
and Einstein too the small waves in quantum
or any other language invented to explain
something there is we can't control
so we look for patterns don't we there
there don't be alarmed it's what we do
the silence will most certainly absorb
that person coughing the question now
I suppose the conductor must answer
I can see his baton move
now as we begin to speak

Anything But These Ashes

I have searched all night through each burnt paper.
I can't think about it. I can't get past the breaking
down of things. The composting of all our physicalities.
There's a lot of fear here. For one thing why am I
searching through the wreckage when I know
it will never replace him, never put him back
together. And would I want that anyway?
Would he want it. Hell no. What am I talking about.
He wouldn't even tell me himself. Kept every detail
under the surface like some kind of humble
warrior. What does that make me? The one
ready to spill his guts and pontificate
at the drop of a hat. He never even wore a hat.

I'm looking here for more. Never satisfied—
always greedy. Is that it? And here's a
desperate spin on things—I keep saying
that word 'thing' as if I need to reach out
and touch, smell, anything but these ashes
—it's as if, I mean, the thought just occurred
to me, it's as if I feel that my own perceptions
were inadequate. Quite apart from the fact
that I am a different person now, thirty,
forty years on—but am I really so different?
More guarded, more sensible, more connected
to the 'agreement field' instead of constantly
questioning authority and hiding behind
the hip fashion of the day

—quite apart from all that, it's as though
I cannot or will not trust my own perceptions.
Oh this is ridiculous! History exists because
it is built upon many perceptions. I am
merely adding mine. Detective in cognito
with no hope of finding the body.

Dear Ocean

How many years now I've heard you miles from shore
the roar of your surf in the traffic of the city the endless
ebb and flow of your relentless encounter with the land.

Did we really come from you? Could it possibly
O sea au contraire have been the other way around
That some grown tired of gravity and density

of stone wood metal everything hard unforgiving
would turn to your music and slip inside never to return
their limbs withdrawn vestigial unrestricted

by avenues roadways and interstate grids
loops numbers exits and entrances on-ramps
verges AAA and exhaust no give them

the water road where throat songs travel
at great depths around the planet no boundaries
no passports no pockets...predators of course

food raw necessity and instinct one and because
born in air surfacing now and then for great
gulps of it as the rest of us stand in wonder

32 Haiku

Things come together contrary to what the old bespectacled Irishman in the tower said
And the center finish that sentence does not hold still it moves
Thirty two years we've been bringing this third person called Us into consciousness
Now no doorbells only a brass lion holding a ring in his teeth daring
The wind speaks about this by pushing against leaves which spring back or fall
I've noticed your belovéd pond is burgeoning with hyacinth dangling their roots on the backs of koi
White tile carpeted hard perimeters tamed with curves always the feminine
A flash of teeth and uncontrollable laughter as I fall backwards the clown
When was that day you squinted and brought the world out of your ear
The old Hawaiian crow is no more so we dream with drums in our noses
Toad after toad leaps closer to me with his wide-mouthed secret
Buckets filled with three weeks' worth of rain sprout with shefflera grasses and impatiens
Red I think red followed you here all the flag-wounds with their feet in the ground
Tricks of the eye turn out to be older magic a giant blue agavé bursts into flame
Ghosts of horses graze in the woods nearby you look up at the sound of their harness
I will never forget the time you cast the dead flowers into the fire with a prayer
There's a heron just west of here who disappeared after the earthquake. He's back
I didn't know till I met you that every living thing flowers eventually
Cloud collecting one day wave singing the next it's all one you say
Your passport says water on every page birthplace address and expiration
Walking out of Suzuki's class one day you took a plane to India and opened your eyes
Like I said flat won't do only bumps rises slopes mounds islands
Leaping out of bed from the cliff over the foothills you freshen the stargazers' water
Dark preferably creamy eventually scoops of night in a white bowl
See what I mean you there hunched over the spinning table pushing into emptiness
An embrace lost in itself a knot with two free ends each seeking the other
Once I saw turquoise black-veined move through the room a flash of red coral
Rivers in Nepal take opals back when you're not looking
The belly oh what did he know about the center the white-haired senator
The archer comes in as a pantomime horse and let's three arrows fly
The cave the wood the road the edge long strokes to reach the ocean
Somebody has to write this down before sunset where I will meet you

Unkempt Dreams

What other kinds are there
there in the dark cinema
of the restless sleeper
stitching time together
to cover naked truth

once creatures of the night
prone to falling out of tree
now the big house in town
sets all the people in lines
facing the flickering lights

dreams mastered and orderly
with names like Rosalee
Goes Shopping or I Am
or Ace Ventura or Thrive
Give me the cliff hangers
of my own youth

the crumpled heaps of imagery
the clouds of memory between
parked cars out on the ocean
or in shadows of hedgerows
at the old farm places names

the man with a drip
on the end of his nose
the rooster who played
the violin the piano
I fell into till I learned
three chords and vibrated
all the next day

untidy dreams wild
and scattered like birdseed

dreams that burble up
in conversation the heartburn
season without rain
calling out with a start
in the dark give me back
night even now at noon

Day Two

Never mind the penultimate
ultimate and finally the first day
our chance to start over think things
through and through until a pattern
emerges in the stream bed yes yes
familiar but oh a surprise that curve
that line the contrast seeing chance
vibrating our plans our precious grid
glowing brightly like that visit to your
house how unexpected the Russian River
pinot translucent a board game kinship
more in evidence if that's what's needed
there in the numbers of course events

like the departure of the bees the burning
of their hive in a kind of rare for me
finality my desire to be no part in their
further demise feeding the blaze

or more quietly the trees planted ohia
clove and madré de cacao olive
lignum vitae pepper tree and avocado
but no blooms truly ever give us wonder
more than those flowers arising from our own roots
trunks branches leaves buds we look at our hands
we touch theirs meeting their wide-eyed gazes
watching them crawl or reach
talk sing cry laugh our little Buddhas
like Jack says coming to teach
us to set aside the wise-ass
know-it-all arrogance and egotism
speaking for myself...to see the world anew

therefore never mind the hundred thousand ways
we ward off evil spirits at the turn of the year
or the way the clocks and calendars
box us in of course they have their uses
but let's set aside the hollow blue egg
the laughing thrush long-fled
let's note the weight
of the purple water lily bud
as it sinks between the flashing koi
and too the smoke rising over the fence
the haze of aftermath with a ship
moving across the sky the one given
back by the land after the long rains

how the scent of jasmine rises
how the sun seeks us out with its
four questions and 12 point plan
it's the second day that counts
the day of year that sets pace and tone
between celebrations the sublime space
between two friends two lovers
thumb and forefinger
calf of one leg resting on knee of another
pen approaching or leaving page
key entering entering
year turning and turning
like the potter's smile
like the flame pulling the air
from the kiln