Thursday, December 30, 2010


she stands in the snow
above the stones, words and dead flowers
and the sighs of uprooted plants
beneath the space of despairing love
below the rough rocky mountains
discovering herslf in pure solitude
unable to see the horses that have vanished
surrendering to the cold realms of winter
bleeding to death without summer fragrance
unable to shiver in its silence

this is her dwelling this is her place
the mother of stone and metal
where the blowing greeting of the wind
flows from her welded rusty eyes
over the bare weeping willow branches
climbing up the snow covered stairs
towards the temple of the frozen Buddha
and treasure of hidden shepherd poets
polishing her soul for one last poem
from a list of snow covered words

Wednesday, December 22, 2010


I want to keep dancing
without rushing through the steps
swaying with the trumpets
savoring every moment

I want my mind to be focused
on the here and now
dancing with mindfulness
singing with silence

I want to keep chopping wood
to keep the music burning
sipping hot tea
listening to the birds at the feeder

I want to remain an old poet
who still has more words
floating beneath each breath
entertaining the falling stars

I want to accept death
and the journey beyond somewhere
realizing the trip just keeps moving
knowing nothing it's all a mystery

I want to remain naked
without a trace of prejudice
leaving it all behind
wanting nothing

Friday, December 17, 2010

Dead Man Burning

1. About the Dead Man and Burning

The dead mans' ashes are smouldering with burnt memories.
There are no pressures left inside a pulse.
A throbbing mind in a lost voice.
It surrounds inside a remaing piece of silence.
It sticks to a heart like pain.
The sharp skin pierces the body cloth­.
A dead head attached beneath glowing hair.
One halting breath to a fevered cello.
There are broken strings and soured membranes.
The senses are eating the starving voice.
Nothing is left inside to burn just smoulder.
A heartbeat turned down with the volume low.

2. More About the Dead Man and Burning

Still smouldering with need and churning over with lust.
The body prays it wouldn't pain so damn much.
There are voices of yesterday torching the soul.
Something touches the cavity under the heart.
The burning memories start to bleed away.
Under the bloodshot tears there are persecuted eyes.
The throbbing drumbeats are not ready to sleep.
The memory of Fred Astaire dancing with the stars.
Nothing ends and never stops.
The wind keeps talking in tongues.
A soul never gets tired has no needs.
A dead man keeps living the remembered thoughts.

Sunday, December 12, 2010


the poet walks around after midnight
with many words beneath his breath
watching stillness with closed eyes
soothing the darkness with mantra
beyond the full gaze of the lunar moon
speaking in astral silence
whirling light beyond the kosmos
towards the goddess Saraswati
painting wondrous words

Thursday, December 9, 2010


we turned our back on a world gone mad
unable to face the greed and pitiful lies
we left our bodies tripping to the Grateful Dead
and some acoustic funeral for lovers in limbo
having a rapport with love and harmony

running from the caskets of forgotten wars
unable to see the killings and more lies
we discovered our soul with Axis, Bold As Love
beneath the Avalon Ballroom for dancers in love
revealing self, intimacy and personal feelings

burnt from the flames of unforgiving gods
unable to shed the tears from screaming lies
we searched for our mind with O leery
at the Fillmore dancing with Janis and the gypsies
mutually developing a reliance on each other

scared to death by another sense of sensibility
unable to conform to truth blessed with shame
we saw colors of rainbows and flowers
under the Golden Gate with nude Diggers
fulfilling our needs riding the love wheel

Friday, December 3, 2010


unbalanced on some edge of sickness
hanging from the depths of deepness
beyond the burning bridges crossed
unable to fall because of fear
enough is enough

suffering with some neurotic neurosis
flawed by the flawless imperfections
beneath the expanse of midday darkness
afraid to look because of blindness
enough is enough

anxious from the cutting anxieties
sharpened by the unforgiving gods
hiding behind the Eucharist curtains
forlorn with empty detached thoughts
enough is enough

hollowed by the missing truth of light
between the crevice of a cracked mind
dangling from the frozen space
wretched with rancid rancor
enough is enough

butchered by the blood of Christ
flowing beyond the depressed mountains
towards the empty dead sea
ravished by the violence of crusades
enough is enough

depressed from rowing across the desert
motionless with the unreturning tide
unable to cry with closed eyes
transforming silence with words
poetry is enough

Wednesday, December 1, 2010


four rain bows pour from his glass mind
shouting from his lost soul
that cries for more Jim Beam
the beast of Bourbon street
fore what?

just a short skip to the deep bowl
puke for the rest of his life
only to hear Jim Beam
crying for more
fore what?

jump from the fire of his burning skin
laughing at the four days lost
with only Jim Beam
dancing with the star of Bourbon Street
fore what?

hearing the howl of the dead poet
jump from the loaded page
stained with Jim Beam
dead at the end of Bourbon Street
fore what?