Mary Mother Of God

Let's just suffer on page one
where the kid comes running in
covered head to foot in pigshit

the rain floor to ceiling in the big house
a veritable omnipresent waterfall
crying leaking or drowning from each eye

the long arms of despair
if that's what you call hopelessness
in deed fault and fear of recrimination

only the barn full of hay
dry at the back of his mind
but his feet wouldn't take him

page two the funeral
he's your cousin
and we'll buy some paint

while we're at it one five
gallon tin on each handle
we'll be weaving back in the dark

killed in The Troubles and found
floating face down where's
the despair now

with Uncle Chris on the table at the bell
singing I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen
not a dry eye in the house

Death far gone
and the rain abated
I was never one

page three for discriminating
between the death of her chicken
by stoning by my own hand

or Leary bloated up North
the cousin I never met
so whenever I found myself alone

say at the Danish fort
encircled by hawthorn blackthorn
and small oak up there

in the ancient enclave useless now
to man and beast
I thought of what came out of my aunt's mouth

and pictured Herself at the North Pole
Her foot pressed hard at the Serpent's throat
His eyes bulging like two moons
trying to break free

Press It

Press it and hold it will anyone come
to let you in or will the entire landscape
disappear and leave you standing
in your birthday suit

I hear there's a sky in heaven
I hear there's one in hell too
I hear he asked you to just
let it go and you're the victim

of course why wouldn't he
say that he came in a dream
but will he answer the door
or better yet get on a bus

head straight for the ocean
not escaping so much as
landscaping your mood
filling in your depression

press it indeed knowing there's
a spark between every button
and the world of existence
it's hard to believe in say

Christmas or Democracy
keep your hands in your pockets
as you walk the shoreline
admit yourself to the witness

protection program for those
who didn't see a thing
for those who walked away
see that interesting shell?

someone's house once
now up against your ear
the ocean becomes your own
and the wind builds roofs

over the dwelling called
without a care or the wearing
away of the long guilt
smoothly we go

with our hollow houses
held tight against the coming
there on the shoreline where
a crab struggles upside down

legs tickling the air
but nobody laughing

Anosognosia

You don't know what you don't know
not that I'm accusing you dear reader
I'm taking a look at myself too and
I know as much as I can say I know
that I have tiptoed over the surface of

the world since infancy sure I broke
off weedstalks to use as fake swords
when I was rescuing fair damsels
in the garden and threw salt over my
shoulder too because Granny said so

and ever since collected other
people's superstitions like baseball
cards except I can't trade them well
maybe I could maybe I could swap
the black cat crossing the road for

don't cut your hair after sunset belief
here in the islands nor can I follow
the old wives' tales like baseball teams
to see who's on first or how many
RBIs and DUIs got racked up by

walking under a ladder or or
but I digress I'm the first one
to say you would be amazed
at how much I don't know
about myself even biologically

anatomically osteopathically
the pathways of the nerves
the web of sensitivity that runs
head to toe I can allude
to these inner workings

but I am not intimate even
with my own physiology
isn't it ironic I'd have to go
to medical school to find out
how the cranium flaunts

its fontanelle like a rift
in the seabed floor of my
blind mind on fingertips on
the home keys right here
just feeling my way

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

Remorse

Remorse is a fog written down
twisted up inserted in a beer bottle
chugged in the back seat '66 maybe '67
thrown out the open window
with a chance of adding
a dent to any sign of authority
the trajectory of its fall
intersecting time and space breaking
arriving here this morning
here on the shore a message
from a younger self saying
help me anyone who reads this

The List

Was that just thunder or someone dragging their chair
over the boards of the narrow porch at Nanbu's courtyard
now there's nothing to say there it goes again
right to the top of the list the one I haven't made yet
the one I will leave on the kitchen counter or right here
where it hasn't happened yet lists don't happen I know
they're written scribed chicken-scratched here's
the ox-heads making their As the double-yokes
their busy Bs the sickle C ready to cut through
Mediterranean waves now nothing just groceries
or things that happened last week so we can say
we're alive the other day I made one up for creatures
starting with wait a minute while I look for it
goats and ending with mongoose don't worry
there were birds in there myna uncelebrated
but everpresent and melodious laughing thrush
hardly present but gloriously celebrated and
three kinds of beetle in case you're wondering
the sort of list where one word say centipede
can conjure up at least five or more stories
like the time in bed when it felt like
all the hair got torn off one arm see that's
wriggling and stinging its way behind
that one word ono too three letters
two of them the same eyeballs popping
when right there by the harbor up it flashed
from the depths a ferocious slippery rainbow

Catching A Ride

Spiders do it spinning a yarn
all the way across the wide Atlantic
how is that possible

Barnacles too on the backs of whales
encrusted they hunker down for long journeys
how did all this begin

Fleas on cats especially those three rascals
up at our place the ones who sit in the rain
I'm not even sure what their question might be

And dreaded coqui frogs in flower pots
or truck beds of visitors from the leeward side
testing their shrill philosophical theories all night

Not forgetting the phosphorous at that chemical factory
where my dad worked after the war
how it came on the bus in trouser cuffs and burst in to flames

Trouser cuffs came into it out on Highway 99
back in '68 hitchhiking 200 miles north to Seattle
I guess I got there and back okay each time

Sometimes it feels like everyone's leaving
catching boats or planes off the island
how come I'm still here and where are they going

Aren't we all anyway thanks to gravity
hustling through the elliptical pathways
slowed down only in our own minds

Sticking out a thumb miles from Dublin
eventually got a ride from an electrician who only wanted to say
we don't do that here we just show our hand on the road

Hailing or hitching these are important things
not Salem to Seattle and all the miles between
but the A to B from me to you from you to me

Snow

Sunrise. Silence. How snow comes falling over the known world
covering all sound. I feel that childhood wonder stirring.
The pure exhilaration of witnessing the miracle of snow
that comes in the night. We wake up in our warm bed
a small world of its own. Pillows and blankets pushed
into a soft fortress against the unknown vagaries of the night.
We survived. We look out then. Step with that tenuous
reaching into the cool air. Barefoot across the boards.
Press against the glass and there it is. The frozen pond.
Familiar boulders statues and walkways all white.
Branches lace-like and delicate where there were once
leaves. We saw them fall. Kicked them into the air.
Smelled the neighbor's smoke. Now this. A quietude.
Evergreen boughs heavy and flocked with the pure essence.

Back inside. They're still asleep. As if the snow
had entered the house and muffled the usual stirrings.
What to do? Back into the cave. The fortress warm still
that held my form all night. There on the wall
the earliest stories. Creatures like deer horse dog fill
the margins but the center lights up with good deeds
rescue attempts and the everlasting battle against evil.
The bow so trusty points its arrow directly at the heart
of the sinister dark lord who seems oblivious...who seems
to be dancing and applauding as if my one mistake
were to believe I could do anything to stop the death
and destruction. I quietly abandon warmth
and race to the window. Was that a dream too?

But there all around—the pure land right where I left it.
Miracle of miracles. Pressing both hands
against the glass now. My face sidelong pressed to ice
it seems to see further to understand more
of what's there beyond the light. And there it is.
Blue sky. Cloudless above all this. And the gods
with their thick glasses surveying the scene.
And that's when I learn how it takes fire to make snow.
How it takes ice to unlock the heart.
I look for strings. Surely those two faces
the darker one frowning surely
they will pluck the lines and bring the day alive
bring buses planes and trains into this scene
the postman the bus driver the cacophony
of everyday life that will most certainly
melt this perfection till it flows back
into the ocean of dreams.

Maple

A man walks by with a Bayer logo bag over his shoulder
I'm in the corner wondering what he's got in there maybe
something for the music in this place with its relentless
heartbeat I myself don't know what I'll do meantime here
in the corner between sips of Americano writing
whew it stopped or rather now it's strung out to dry
in long guitar gently working up to saying it in strings
outside on the way here the wet rounded setts where
First Avenue meets the brow of hill descending
into Pike Place Market a five-ton truck its mouth open
jaw rising up and down in shudders the steel plate
lower lip holding two men holding an empty cable
spool one loses balance steadies himself the other
looks away another on the ground holds an edge
of the big wooden construction what a coffee table
that would make for a giant found furniture is so
passé I suppose at least in the First World today
I live in the Fourth always last writing till it's
time to go today dressed for rain the maple
what kind of red outside the hotel this morning
moreso in the absence of bright sun as Ruskin
liked to point out more pronounced more
beautiful more rich vibrant and alive
on a gray day not cancelled out nor diminished
by bare bulb brilliance even the banana I bought
on the way here Give me 25 cents he said
seemed questionably ripe though I was drawn
to its rather gray pallor and sure enough
upon peeling it perfection put a spring in my
step in November now I don't care about
the synthetic digital percussion coming
through the air where's the speaker
and you know what the barista said
he said he likes the sound of the word
donut the sound the word makes
rather a dull thud though softly I said
not a ring to it though there is a ring
and an emptiness in both word and donut
but getting back to the maple not blood red
nor embarrassed or flushed not a high
pressure red more a force that rose up
and emerged all the leaves of April
May and through till now gone in fire
but here the flames green gives us at the end
life all by itself saying change change
I did it all year long why can't you
and if you don't believe me take this
and that take your photographs
the ephemeral temporal fleeting
here today and gone with a heavy
frost moment take it and fill
your boots with fire light up under
the cloudy sky waiting for passersby
to notice your feathery suspensions
in the next riff and the next
strumming right along now
knowing it won't be long
but while it lasts call it
maple song