Today's beans and rice
tastes like the hands
of a heretic,
who was sequestered for life
in the back room
of a broken-down dream house,
where he found a new life
when he held onto the dear sun
with all his strength
and vowed to never forget
happiness is whenever
he reaches another fork in the road.


The forgotten pulse in the clouds.
The sleepy voices coming from over the stone walls.
The jungle voices slowly choking its followers to death.

By the old river of salvation,
the Asian women in saffron robes
 emerge from yesterday's traditions
to speak softly to the fierce gods
about changing faces in the stillness
or to perish in the dust.


Everything gorse.
The pink lights
of fall.

The salutations spun
in the watery hours
of hell.


Nothing in the sand,
where the old
sizzle becomes rain.

Nothing to find
at home
but shelter

when the rain
is unbearable.


I see everything.

I see everything
in the fog.

I see In the unlit caverns
the dreamless perched
atop the big rocks,

where they swear
to find the words
that have always
 eluded them.


We move slowly
like we all do
when we lose
track of time.

We sit on icebergs
until we no longer

In the absence
of any help,

we sleep through
our martyrdom
in a bed made
of unseen nights,

where we impatiently
wait for a new day.


Bread amalgams, weed powder,
tank oil.
Stuff in a wind tunnel.

The man-centered boulder
shrinking with age under
the Tuscan sun.


Burrows in the meadows.
in the sand.

Frogs croaking
in the wetlands.

The day circles moving
from one destination
to another
with even more sand
to sing in.


Green wheat waves.
Selfish triangles in the East.
A helpless priestly feeling
over living alone.
The slide under my ways
of uncertainty,

that makes one seem
like a better traveler.


The steampot is drawn
from the reeds
of the unfaded sea.

While you,
with your roots dislodged,
stay close to the shore
so you can peel the stalks
back from any
of the visible vessels
passing under the low bridges
again without blowing
their horn for approval.


The birds in Nice
sing of disavowal
for the grounded
who tried holding
onto the tide.

They sing for the children
playing in the sand

and for the skies
that have opened up
with row after row 
of flowers.

They sing of the red flames
of fate that
have swooped down
from the mountains
to choose what
has not been claimed.

They sing of the eternals
who will only speak
when no one stands
in the shadows.


Nothing blows anymore
in the gray sky.

Round-headed shifts
in the wind
stir in the grassy knolls.

A troubled man walks away
from Kasa Devi
more troubled than before.

A penitent
never believes
he will ever
find a tomorrow
to rejoice in.

For those near
the blue lilies
the  rain
will never come
in time.


Rats in the harbor.
Time spinning a web in my head.
A shadow falling down the Chinese wall of a long life.

A mushroom eaten in the wind.
Blood distilled in the lungs.
Couples finding their purse strings in church.

A miner sweating in the sunlight.
The listener asleep before the news can be forgotten.
Strangers with eye patches who follow the same swallows.

We all must learn how to see in the night.
In St. Louis there were no sparks in the summer heat.
Clouds heard voices that came from where the barns were burning.

The sermon betrayed what the causes spread over the tea leaves.
Nothing is what the mind calls the future.
Rain has its own apparel to undress its cold fluids.

The way everything is can never be found again.
There are cities where the tabla players solicit the holy for their prayers.
In Montreal the sober found their identity only when wearing a mask.

All seekers must pass through the stillness
that runs across the sea without a sail to raise.

Before we tap into the maple tree,
we should look over our shoulder
to estimate how far away
we are from the factory entrance
 that Spinoza reached out for
when he created his way out of the back door.