Wednesday, January 27, 2010


RWP#111...inspired by this photo...credited to Milad Gheisari


Don't be afraid of me

I just escaped from Essondale

some vortex beyond city limits

a mental hospital

where they think everyone

has mood disorders

where nobody understands sanity

giving brain creasing operations

when I only wanted a sex change

experiencing moments

of my mothers sexuality

dipping downwards

to the lady of death

with a scar on my head

from the lobotomy of menopause

I was a lonely transexual

standing on a bed of thorns

playing a persian piano and bamboo flute

whirling, singing and sufi dancing

a colorful pastiche of gypsy sounds

taking me to some heightened state

looking for the spiritual genius of Buddha

reading Rumi and slurping words

from my bowl of ambrosia

expressing lost thoughts while crying

for the love of a lost mother

inspired by conspiracy theories

and last years nightmare

of the blind locust with a carving knife

when they captured me

taking me to some sanctuary of deprivation

where the wind doesn't blow

amongst the conversations

about squash and onions with no memories

constantly agitiated

jumping, dancing doing push ups

tangled up in delirium

preaching cheap propaganda

I refused to become a slave

of conventional ways of thinking

where ideas get lost in the universe of senses

battered graves with blind vision

and muscular ghosts of sanity

hanging from the burning fire escapes

with lost souls on three legs

wobbly, squeaky not broken

I took my axe to the bughouse square

walking out without my insanity

or black dress

I quickly stood still

putting up my hood to hide my face

to escape the ravages of my mind

and the shivers of terror

looking for the road to Vlychos

to play my flute

or maybe a taste of Bombay

I started the journey

towards the spiritual light of Buddha

and your silence that's not broken

don't be afraid of me.

Saturday, January 23, 2010


RWP#110..not a transliteration. Port-au-Prince-Burning was inspired by four lines of a longer poem by Rainer Maria Rilke..that I translated. Poem tries to express feelings and pain for what has been done to Haiti and its people. Four lines I used are italicized in red.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange, Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blatter treiben.

whoever has no house now will never have one
whoever is alone will stay alone
sit,read, write long poems through the night.
and wander on the streets, up and down.
translated from Autumn Day by Rainier Maria Rilke


There is dye everywhere
the sharp air
of early afternoon
is now the color of blood
a once smooth monument
burned by the brittle sun
busted by the gods
with sunset appearing like a thief
for children, daylight has gone
whoever has no house now will never have one.

Around fires everyone sings
a good time in the worst of time.
brocaded windows crushed
it is safer on the street
the other world is a basket full of bread
ours a cup of stone
cooked by the summer sun
some dead or nearly dead
everything a broken bone
whoever is alone will stay alone.

Nothing left nothing but us
nothing to eat nowhere to sleep
just a crushed kettle boiling dry
crushed windows crushed doors
hiding the dog on the wrong side of the street
wherever she hides
with her scruff and braided tail
avoiding the face of fire
she barks at us
sit, read, write long poems through the night.

Even though there is nothing, no basket
the cool ocean stained air
is reserved for those sipping through a straw
that sing to their gods
dancing around their cups of stone
celebrating the brocaded windows
with those smooth monuments of satin
covering the pale-covered pebbles
burning the basket of fool's gold
and wander on the streets, up and down.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010


RWP#109 using some of the words (in BOLD)


Walking along the Rio Pecos

with some shaman poet

our bodies reverbrating

to the drummed earth below

enthusiasts for the words of truth

unknown pagans asking questions

from the ghost riders

and the black shouldered ravens

that fly in the energy washed skies

moving to the mysteries

of the fertile celestial world

with the guilded monuments of marble

and simple stones

gargling froth from our lungs

corrupted with mescaline

drunk on water and sundered hearts

searching for chaos of the mind

from some Krishna volcano

that surrendered open

listening to buddhist monks

playing jazz with Coltrane

under sundered skies of the Mescalero



along the Rio Pecos.

Saturday, January 9, 2010




cold winter morning

crunching snowshoes in mountain air

begging for sunshine and new words

at high noon

or some midnight dance

with the naked trees that shiver

surrounded by the silent mountains

and three black ravens overhead

chasing the parting clouds

and some lost poem

burried beneath the quilt we walk on

protruding from some dark coffin

the lost sylabbles remain

waiting for the sunlight

as the words of a dead poet

announces the resurecction of a poem

another spiritual mystery.

Friday, January 1, 2010

RWP#107...inspired from this photo "shotgun blast" by Shane Gorski


There was no light

only darkness and tattooed graffito

in the shadows of the dark horse

shooting junk

in the empty church loft

above the back alley of filth

below the street of lost hope

lossing their minds

and collapsed veins

a place to fix

with hollow sounds and silent shots

the mistress of of burnt spoons and dirty needles

took them to the pusher of death

Ken the keeper saw a glow

and remained

knowing that darkness comes before the light

he weathered the storm

of junk and dirty needles

when the ghost of himself appeared

on a tightrope of broken eggshells

and led him to the light

beyond the shadow of who he once was

emerging into the light

like a phoenix

his soul rose from the ashes

awakened with clarity

he made this his home

the shooting gallery of light.