synchronos
I. The Night Ordeal
torn from mother and warmth of house
i wandered lost in darkness and dread.
cold seeped into my bones,
no escape from the faceless one.
hungry, i became food as i lay beneath the stars.
wild dogs did not tear my body apart.
they were friends in fitful dreams.
i became small as a mouse.
owls did not carry me away.
they spoke to me and watched over me.
water snake from the dark lake did not enter into and devour
my body.
only the shadow of death ran swiftly by and said he is
not ready to take me yet.
shooting stars appeared at last to dispel leftover fears and
tell me of work i have to do.
red eyes opened with relief to the morning light
it took an eternity to reach.
i was covered with frost.
a gentle steam rose from the enchanted pond.
birds awoke, wings fluttered,
and took flight.
II. The Trail
along the rugged path,
in interior country.
on the trail of tears
cold mountain is here.
isolation takes its toll.
like the oldest range i am worn away.
were it not for this work
i would have vanished long ago.
soon i will burn these pages to stay warm.
mao in the mountain,
watching thunderstorms from the cave.
they said:
this is a war that can never be won.
kali eats men alive like the jungle.
this burning room has no exit door.
hanoi does not permit defeat.
strength made weakness, weakness strength.
candlelit, his hairs fall like rain onto the blue note book page and red ink
was thought lost.
the masterful longest march or the century's greatest retreat.
III.
shaggy homeless men with nothing left laugh at
emptiness. they look so hollow.
they have devoured hunger hungrily
and embraced the void.
ours is not the world they inhabit.
i glimpsed their civilization—
the Great Pyramid below the street,
upside down!
descent into world under world:
rain from the gods begins the 12,000 year
journey of purification in the
manufacture of saints.
heroes are those names erased
slowly bled or
shot in the back of the head.
prize-fight lights of the knock out punch.
faint stains ring the glossy white
questioning room.
in the time it takes a great civilization to turn to dust,
submerged springs superheated by her fiery breath rise.
healing arts heal today's dyslexic auras.
humble nameless one emerges from the cave,
mends many wounded souls with his hands.
our town rests on the top of the great
pyramid of needs. well below, cardboard houses
slide down steep muddy slopes after
heavy rains.
the turning point of civilization
occurred when the angry history-god
tipped the tables & spilled money onto
the floor & was branded communist &
beaten severely.
history-people find it difficult
to see patient geologic-god push mountains up
with a spoon, one spoonful at a time.
i had the dream about the month of august:
on august 13th the mighty death spear
drove through the hearts of white blood cells
lined up single file in my body's defense.
on august 15th i wake early and know i have lost the war.
the walls will crash down soon.
getting used to the idea of death.
if i were a bird could i escape?
at dusk i found my car in the countryside.
the engine missing, transmission gone.
vehicle stripped and made into a shrine:
windowless openings hung with white flowing sheets.
hood, roof & trunk decorated with
flowers and lighted candles burning in bright, colorful pottery.
when i let go i won't need the vehicle anymore.
i'll crawl out of my skin, o what a beautiful sight!
barefoot on the road to life.
easter will be late this year.
a cross + flowers mark the long stretch of highway to
complete the road-emptiness started by the nuclear blast to
clear away other landmarks except at zero ground to
become instantly old to
walk slowly &
breathe the short suffocated breaths of the surviving one.
what happened on the plain flat as a photograph?
a family portrait got teeth knocked out
springtime and doll debris litter the railroad tracks like trash
windows of the small town shattered lie in glittering heaps
only the few buildings that existed before, stand.
her blue eyes beckon me.
her golden hair washes superheated sand.
i dare not imagine her pure body,
her salty warmth in my mouth.
i cannot complete the call to the mainland.
i am paralyzed by more bad news.
howard hughes hidden in the shadowed balcony
speaking softly to common birds.
from safe distance i sketch
a small stretch of beach
while continents drift slowly by
my window like barges.
predestined mechanical problems delay all movement.
all gestures empty, void of meaning. the limits
of patience tested. last tallied domestic score
less than zero. this is where we start.
please pay the driver one dollar to close
the car window. i pray i escape heavy island air
messing remnants of my hair or for better or worse become lost in this dense
memory-less place.
glowing red river runs along the
large underbelly, buddha's
place of strength.
i touch the fiery crevice & am
struck by searing electrical paralysis.
like a lava river
all suffering ingested &
revealed in the crack in the cosmic egg source-of-all-things.
i waken to deepest anxiety:
human form, time,
& check the children as they sleep.
IV. The Reckoning and Release
fog creeps up crisp arroyo + spills
onto freeway like a sudden flood.
armchair revolutions became way too cozy,
damp smoke wanting real fire.
i may run into the wild and never return.
murder my former self and take credit.
secretly count the big cars in identical driveways.
start the countdown of last trees lost until the end arrives.
along the coastal dragon's back
the old man burns sage lest the angry spirits wake too soon.
it is hard to find a place in this world where an original one has not fallen
down and died.
nearby: fog fills the huge ocean like milk in a miniature bowl.
June 1999
houses cling to island's thick green hair,
jockey for sought after ocean view:
water so blue-green ocean sky blue.
distracted by such beauty clouds collide
with mountainsides and let go of
very heavy gold.
Isaac was sacrificed early on that foggy morning.
Brought down, the doctor dug the brief grave under sharp brown lava rock.
500 years since the continental spoils were divided,
last prime lots, shielded by ozone,
near to the sea, are almost gone.
His bones ground like coffee beans together with all wealth
accompanying growth.
Roads, foundations, houses
in a grid neatly overlay
the coastal plain.
To this day forgetfulness such as this angers the old ones.
In complete darkness
their island (unborn) boils
far below the bright blue sky.
"her words enter my head & persistently whisper to me until i pay attention!
then poetry covers me like a flood.
thousand of years pass by, she will not let go. My bones are whitened by blowing sand.
songs slice through the soul's compressed strata
to expose the old old layers of truth"
against great odds
to giant's place
jack climbed the clouds.
his loosed human arrows
struck and cracked the clear
surface of their skin.
their blood spilt into the sky
and onto the city far below.
there both fell to earth hard,
so suddenly slain.
pray, prepare to fight!
create in me a clean heart
this our daily bread provide
the stars from whom all creation flows.
fear lack of change and movement more than more universal stagnation.
draw your own strategic plan in shifting sands.
implement it step by step launched from the stripped pacific rock.
that starlight departed from home well before the thought of this island ever rose from the sea.
like a seaworthy bark build the house brick by brick.
and from the endless wilderness chart where you are going next.
manage your force and resources carefully.
lead lost peoples to greener pastures.
seek stillness and silence in the heat of battle's bloodless light.
rise from the basement covered with ashes and mud.
bring an end to dread
this is where to start.
the dead and missing will be found,
those poor souls who lost their way.
the war began where war ends.
badly burnt ashen souls wander smoldering radial miles
of a Godless Zone.
complete annihilation preceded the first attack.
impossible negotiations had broken down.
children are weeping on the graves of the sacred rock garden.
time moves slowly in reverse,
a dark age envelops awareness in heavy wearying waves.
the victims run back into the burning house.
Number 67
dead before we hit the ground
w/ no inkling of our dying.
it is the best way to go they said
like the funny old men bent w/ age
more focused than their
youthful counterparts (less
plagued by noise, more attuned to
celestial music) they thread
the needle with twinkling sightless
eyes, they find their way w/o a map
and know where you'll be
before you get there. such attention
to detail (you may laugh) is a
true cosmic sense of how small
and imperfect we are. I know
it has been said by old men
how life and death seamlessly
coexist and were never
(for a moment) separated
at our birth.
Number 70
worm is doing what worm does
why does this frighten us?
shattered cathedral glass,
holy wars rage
cancer eats the thin skin of life
on earth it took so long to make.
million years of rain and by accident we grew
from single cell soup to the most destructive race.
what we consume makes us powerful:
the body and blood of heroes who threaten the power structure.
as if their fight could seep inside us,
as if we would want it to.
make up your mind.
(there is so little time)
matter returns to basic forms
angels lighter become
spirit joins the great one.