Saturday, April 16, 2011

Poetry 2.0

When we die

every toenail will become a seed

for another spring flower

our molars will chip against stone

the black mulch of skin

will be swallowed by crabgrass

our bones will hollow and dry

but when the rain comes

all things will yield

and the water will wash us to sea

the fine dust of our body

will float on the surface

and then, slowly,


its long descent home.

Six Sense Doors

-- the Buddha

Leg pain, back pain,

stacked bones are pain.

Loud pain, soft pain,

each pitch has pain.

Word pain, thought pain,

all tongues speak pain.

Sweet pain, reek pain,

lust breeds more pain.

Your pain, my pain,

to see us is pain.

Brain pain, mind pain,

the home of all pain.

But no pain is pain,

since sense is self pain.


These cells

once were

a pebble

in the surf,

the salty

leather of a


the underbelly

of a sliced

red pepper,

a blue ribbon

tied neatly,,

the innermost


of a lemon—

but now

they are



When I sit

I feel my body like an object

Turn it over in my mind,

To acquaint my self with self.

Every time, the first time.

Except in this object,

Unlike other objects,

I can feel it change

(because they all do)

And learn.

I learn.

Sometimes sharp—

Red anklebones,

Leg veins like wires.

Prickling nerves,

Too many edges.

But then deep, deeper

Blood hum, liver groan

A distant thickness,

Things ticking,

The surfacing of bones.

Mind follows,

Motion organ!

Always spinning

Quick quick!

I anchor stones.

And then finally

(not always)

it comes



only breath bubbling up from a cold mountain spring.