He once thought that
the weight of his vision could
carry him elsewhere,
where neither pain nor profit prospered,
but then he wondered,
what incentive does God have
to be merciful
when all God loves
dies anyway?

To live in this dark quiet mess,
where the sanctification of stupid
still holds sway,
is to accept the Promethean limitations
of such a being,
the very concept

The unsetting sun


Near midnight,
The sun is still there, above the
Horizon, bleaching both books
& thangkas on the walls
Just outside this room
Where the cool golden glow
Sneaks through the door and,
Turning from my desk to see,
I sense the years as leaden weights
Lying under a cold sky.

The Coming Spring Storm


Squealing through opaque windows
the whistling gusts sweep papers
to the floor
in a frenzy of mortal chaos
changing the afternoon´s plans to simpler tasks
for now.

Finally gathered together, the desk is set, the window shut,
and, pulling the shades higher to see the storm´s dark blue origins,
the mountains a mile or two beyond stare back,
giving away no secrets, the wind, granting no quarter, the skies, merciless.



I am not to be ignored
passed over, neglected, torn from community,
discarded, rent from the bonds which bind me to
all others.
I am.
So we are.
And by the dignity of being, I am to be respected.
I am a worker.
A laborer, a crafts-person, a field hand, a driver,
a carriage maker, a cab driver, a shoveler, a digger,
a plasterer, a midwife, a nurse, a caretaker,
a teacher, a driller, and nailer, and a builder.
Only where I am is there “civilization”.

But where I struggle, is everywhere.

I am not the owner of my labor, the beneficiary of my work
I receive paper and coin, forced to beg for more each year
and in the morning I will awaken and begin again until I die.
Today though, is my day,
Today is May Day.
I am not to be ignored.
I will not be oppressed, denied, abandoned or forgotten.
I will stand with others together, raise my fist up high
and welcome the day
when together we will take what is ours
and create a new world.
I am a worker.
Today is for all of us.



“let the hair down, a little
yes, just like that…”

the belly trembles
her waist wanders
along with her attention
“is he real?”

in defense,
he whispers to the air between them
“now is elevation of concern
walk with me there”

nodding, she turns to the mountain
lifts her hands
cries for something solid
so that the ground will hold her up.

between the trees and the rocks
there will be sun today.

MOAB & the End of the World


they die just as easily on bright days
the sun pressing down on hard valleys,
the dirt of the bombed out cars
cooling the doors to the rare touch.

in cities, the old couches in old apartments
are filled with smelly stuffing,
on top, fading dreams are forgotten
as the corpse smells in the summer heat-
the air turned off years ago
the payments ended long before.

somwhere out in the country, trees laugh at the huts
they still occupy, papa´s rummy eyes rubbed by calloused hands
after a day of field work
the water he drinks is brown, like his children
whose sick eyes are flat, day after day.

elsewhere a biblical Moab flattens part of the horizon
making children scream 10 miles away,
their world ending
though they have forgotten
it has ended long before.



She rules naked space, riding clouds,
Dancing into my heart with fervor & sharp steps while
Crashing into my Ego´s walls-
Tearing down barriers that prevent
The arising of luminous Wisdom,
Grabbing me by the scruff of my neck
Kissing me madly with lips speaking the Dharma,
Reminding me of Death´s presence
Just beyond,
& then, holding my hand,
Carrying me to the palace of power,
The shining evanescent place
Where clarity is united with emptiness
&, seeing things truly for the first time
I cry with delight & tears of gratitude
Flying through the empty skies,
Riding on rainbows,
Dropping Blessings wherever I go.



Does it matter the dead stay quiet,
Refraining from commenting on the state of the world
Where behind black-rimmed glasses,
On shiny tables where soft, pink elbows rest &
Blank eyes tell themselves stories they don´t believe
& sign papers
Commanding another series of
Eyeless projectiles from
Buttons pushed in air-tight safe clean rooms
To destroy targets, always far over there,
& the dead eyes which blankly stare back into the skies
Remind us all that we too
Signed with our silence
Their death warrants?
Does it matter?

Does it matter the mother´s grief howls
Over empty nights
& sucks the life from the dry days
Among the hot sands
Where her children were scattered
Among ancient rocks
Along with bitter & broken fathers?

What matters when those thin-lipped suits & red ties
Stand before the cameras,
Staring at some horizon of history
Speak to the cameras & tell those stories
Designed in a room with paneled walls
& paintings of princes of commerce
Lamenting the carnages they grind with every meal
& the dissonance is heard only
On the cold floors of bloody morgues where
The children are stiff
& the families hearts emptied but for
The heat of vengeance?

Does it matter that when we watch
& when those cries are heard or
Those weeping mothers
Reach out to dead open space,
Their arms in twisted soul pain,
That we click to a new channel, nodding as
Praising statesmen & their suited minions
Reflect on camera, reflect on cue,
“This is for the better”?

If this doesn´t matter,
What matters now?



There are long strings of pain
which fall so heavy on the breast
the heart murmurs in sad discontent,
wavering between a sigh and a cry
of loss for us all.

There were lions of courage who faced the world
with no strings attached
leaving a remembrance
of Time when it shimmered and waved
to us with warmth.

Now, in the grass the plastic stays beyond imaginable Time
choking the land with reminders
of our presence,
never wanted, never really needed

All around are the gutted remains of hope:
emaciated reeds, sickly threads
of fabric made from hearts and bodies
now torn and tender
losing their color and their capacity to

When the lights turn off, the kitchens silent,
the computers and related tools die,
the rays of warmth from above
becoming deadly fires to take refuge below
the ground, where the damp is dried out and
the night harsh and sterile,
will the plastic bags we find
say “Recycle”?
And what will be done, then?
The strings connecting us in netted
graves, well below the regenerating Earth
will bind us just as tightly,
though with mummified horror.