Tucking loose hair behind my ear
Eyes dancing,
Lovers in a smoky bar
Fingers crossed and legs intertwined
“I love you” echoes with every beat of my heart
Lighting a candle, locking the door
Warm light splayed across my chest
Breath by breath,
A lullaby
Old sheets tangles beneath our bodies
Languid motions exchanged between lips
Promises made, and kept
To be loved is to be split open
People constantly recommend
I meditate
and it pisses me off.
When I close my eyes and concentrate
on just breathing,
inhale and exhale,
slow, deep draws of air
I start to wonder how many
countless, full-flavor, cigarettes
I’ve smoked.
How deep that oxygen is really getting.
Should my heart beat this fast
when the space around me
seems so quiet?
I’ll meditate myself
right on into a four am anxiety attack.
It ain’t that hard to do
with the way the world is.
The hippiest shit that works for me
personally
is digging my toes into the dirt.
Standing barefoot in a patch of moss
in a square of sunshine
filtered by maple leaves and oak.
And I breathe the best I can
and picture the roots reaching up,
wrapping me up, breaking ground
to meet me in the light.
John’s only tether whizzed through the belay
untied from the cliff he ended his day
a rag doll falling to the desert floor
scared Fuck the last word he’d ever utter.
Every bone broken, every dream dashed,
he now resides in my memory, cached.
Steelworker, poet, a Hulk Hogan clone,
arms thick as corded rope, in Tucson known
for having fine weed and finer women
but then he died and took our joy with him.
Bold hero to some, stoned cad to others,
I was honored to call him my brother.
Many have fallen, some quiet in bed,
the damn list grows longer, good friends now dead.
On this 13th day in the year 2025 three quarters of a century breathed
Today celebrating Forty-two years of sobriety one day at a time
Browsed the Big Book, read not memorized the Twelve Steps and Traditions
Fifty-three years since a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology was earned
Fifty revolutions around the sun since initiation in a TM mantra
Forty-eight x’s 365 days since beginning the book Autobiography of a Yogi
Forty-seven since Pushpa received mantra #2 & became a Yoga Instructor
Forty-six since Acupuncture & Five Element Theory was embraced
Forty-two since a Kindergarten teacher was born
Forty revolutions around the sun since a Resource Specialist was birthed
Thirty-eight years since completing the read of Autobiography of a Yogi
Thirty-six since a learning specialist taught on Kauai
Thirty-five since a Masters in Specific Learning Disabilities was earned
Thirty-four since a Breast Cancer Survivor left formalized teaching
Thirty-three since Edu-Therapy delivered tutoring door-to-door
Thirty-two since a loving daughter said good-bye to her precious PaPa
Twenty-eight years Edu-Therapy has served students in suite #204
Twenty-four years since the Emotional Freedom Technique was introduced
Twenty-two since Mom broke her hip and required our full time care
Twenty-one years since Aunty Vivi moved home to help us care for Mom
Nineteen since MaMa drifted lucidly to heaven no morphine injections
Fifteen since Yogananda’s mantra was delivered via Roy Eugene Davis
Fifteen since Amma’s first hug
Fourteen since the eldest daughter signed over the family home
Thirteen since Amherst Artists and Writers was introduced
Eight years since returning to Integral Yoga Ashram in Greenwich Village
Three years since joining Rebel Cartographers Writing Group
Two years since nestling in a new nest ~ a temporary rest for now . . .
Rat sore n’anxious of course—
even on the day I was born
a dripping, mottled hand
made a bee line to my babymouth
and settled a slop of juicy caul—made
a first meal to contemplate, to pause tonight,
where an old timer said
You’ve lost something. I’d snapped
at pomp unsmoothed that night, popped off
at multitudinous morons shouting cacophony
in nearby Poughkeepsie, that greedy
poor township of grabasses that borders
the edge of Connecticut State was broke
and on the dole that month because
the band KISS had invaded for money—
an army that won, a unit with results,
animalizing, strutting hearts on fire in leather
all metallic, a hint of Camembert,
an Israeli gentleman in a coffin with a bass,
and Paul Stanley’s chest hair, eyeliner, gel, and curls.
Salacious whispers planted a procreate X
for sex to lure Enterprise—boys skipping school
with the hope four fresh females named Madrigal
would mate to music by Testicular Kabuki spectaculars,
belle enfants filling wards and foster homes forthwith—
strollers in New York for Beavises and Buttheads.
Where in the Sam hell did life start—?
Once more I, more than able, I, pipsqueak,
once thoughtful, his sharp fistfull of finger nails
happycrammed two inches deep in gum-less gloop,
become now a thickheaded fuck with a retainer
in denim wondering whether life began in cars?
Eagerly I fall victim to artless art—
my ex wife molests me under the bleachers,
first to feel me up and down, and then part.
Her braces draw fresh blood from my lips,
white shirt hides everything I need to see.
Yeah, me! The guy who cried in school,
and wandered to bargain swimming pools
on the roof of the academy—me!
slipped a snide bully’s contacts in my eyes,
agreed to see a Hendrix show in ‘85—me!
wondered if Jodie Foster would marry me,
if Mickey Mouse would ever grow up,
whether Mommy 86’d the cocker spaniel,
and did Donald Duck have a tadger
underneath his feather puff?
O, to have lived in a silent film
of dream, in a rusty machine,
then powerless—struggling—unwilling—
unwillkommen by Liza, and Joel Grey’s emcee
the oily two-tone schmuck in Cabaret.
I need you, some money, some sympathy!
My life won’t pass go! a two gallon box of calamity.
Sink-a-slide a silvery wall down
I fall, as mercury pouring.
A string of beads only, answers these in my ears.
Hang up the phones, circus in arrears,
bread lines wrap coastlines for fear. Now’s the time
to have dinner with the President.
If only people knew they were immeasurably worse,
then we could create everything the aliens promised us.
Raining! Raining! This country, pelted with mirrors.
I can fly
I’ve never been this high
Giddy and laughing about all my eyes can steal from the squinting sunset
You entered my dream and I was taken prisoner
You started to tell a story
You know I’m a good listener
Talk of trees and men coming to cut them down
Your face darkened
I pretended not to notice
I put on my most polite frown
Stop talking and fly with me
Talk is for later when our wings are too tired to soar
Right now I need you just to be
There is a twinkling on the horizon
I take your hand and push forward through the scratchy puffs of cloud
Look at me, don’t be frightened
Your hand was soft and I knew we were safe
The dew was forming on my brow
It was time to land near the lake
The one with laughing children hiding
The ones who hid from the school that forgot their names
Some were even inside the houses with vinyl siding
They mold in the shade of dusk
I’m tired, let us rest
My fingers have begun to rust
The ceiling falls down upon my chest
A reddish glow covers my face
Did I pass the test or did I lose the race?
Hold my hand just one more time before I pass
I know it can’t last, forever is just around the setting sun
Touch my face, remind me how we soared so high
I never thought things would be like this when I die
Forever is always just a few steps away
I’ll see you on the other side my love
Be it a cloud, a wall of wood, a puddle of mud
I promise to find you…on the other side
In the realm of consciousness, the subject eludes me. Why, then, is the performance of cognitive functions accompanied by a momentary experience? Why don’t my cognitive functions go on without emotions?
I am full of woe, and grief makes me a stranger, even to myself. A perceived lack of options causes sadness; I’m told to figure it out. Profound things come to me suddenly, but the meanings I do not always understand—clarity is so rare. Rightness settles in when time itself becomes a deep, slow breath.
I’m less happy with other people; I’m more happy with myself.
You read me as just another daughter
My head is the sun
in a glass
warming
warring
with me
free
as free as my grandfather throwing back
his daily Seagrams shot
before drawing hits from a floor-size air tank
free
as a reporter
recorder of the Kent State massacre
showing up in the newsroom
with whiskey on his breath
free
as me
staggering from a Wilmington bar
navigating badly to the hotel
accosted by cops
saved by his editor from jail
all spirits
all blood in a glass
down by some ass
in the grass
