Thursday, November 27, 2014

Every Time You Look Around

Every time you look around
some new intruder’s there.
Both of you are naked:
you can’t fake it when you’re bare.

that isn’t true.
Intruders lie like bandits
clothed or unclothed – so do you.


Wednesday, November 26, 2014

The Thing That Lives Between Your Legs

The thing that lives
between your legs
never gives
never begs.

Doesn’t have to.
Won’t behave.
Irremediable snafu.
You’re its slave.


Late November

For some reason these past two or three years especially have taught me to love every seasonal moment -- I can't say HOW they've taught me, maybe it's the product of a more conscious practice of paying attention to light & shadow & the rest which breeds a growing receptivity to seeing beauty in every gradation of the Earth's relation to the sun, I don't know. But - late November maybe still edges past the rest of the year's glory for me - ah, with the Brahms Fourth playing right now as soundtrack on wqxr, and the sharp cold dark day out there, and the regaling warmth inside of my 19th century apartment -- well, that's the ticket of course -- my spirit lodges in about 1887, I think -- anyway, this is the extended moment of the year -- ripening through darkening days to culminate in the Winter Solstice - when I feel most dimensionally alive. It's been this way for as long as I can remember, back into earliest childhood. This is the time of Soul for me. And these pics - outside & inside - are its emblems. How grand it is to be able to feel so much pleasure.


Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Although It’s Cold Out

Worries scurry in and out, around, about:
money, aging, illness, sex – a roundelay
of arabesques in chaos in a sort of random sway
which, if you saw the shape of it,

you might find wasn’t random after all.
Even now you think you sense a pretty cataract –
a glinting waterfall – of shimmering exasperation –
glimmering anxiety – yearning urgently for form

and finding it. Although it’s cold out you’re not
minding it. In here you’re warm. Your shame,
despair and emptiness prepare the way for beauty.
Perhaps that is their duty.