untitled 32

an onymous freeway exit

numb.er 32

appears prophetic

on a Saturday afternoon
drive to Miami

trauma yields repetition yields trauma yieldsrepetitionyields 

change

we do not turn
but it lingers:

numb.er 32

appears, prophetic

untitled 13

pre

sence

ab

sence

a day forgotten
number.s familiar
set adrift on memory

bliss

stolen songs from childhood

resurface in the most 

unexpected places

Last night's dream and soundtrack

Press play, then continue...

Dream of a giant collegiate cafeteria.  The ages of students range from mid-teens to late-twenties,  and Foster the People's "Pumped Up Kicks" is pulsing over the sound system. I notice first and second-year co-eds moving their hips to the music, unconsciously playing their part in the mating ritual that gives rise to birth that gives rise to death that gives rise to birth that gives rise to...

(whisper, "liberation")

I see them age ten years in the blink of an eye, twenty more in the time it takes to take a deep breath. I see them not as young beautiful bodies, but as old beautiful spirits, trapped inside an aging decaying form...

 (whisper, "nothing")

The food on the buffet is overcooked and lifeless. I search ardently for something that isn't meat, futilely for vegetables that aren't oversteamed and drowning in cheese. In the corner I see my boss, alone at a booth under a stairwell. She is sitting alone with two glasses of red wine, both hers, and a pay telephone on the table. 

(whisper, "awake")

untitled II

These shadows are our lives
stretching towards eternity.

The ocean wave of liberation
breaking, receding, never
quite touching the toes.

I watch the shadows grow longer
reaching for the surf –

The  sun going down behind me,
my shadow becomes
indistinguishable from nightfall.

untitled

Thank you for this bumpy gravel road to nowhere, this pristine sidewalk graffiti of thumbprint and initial. I am

not the first to pass this way, not the only traveler on this road, not the only one to mistake the map for the territory – or was it the other way around?

I will not be the last haggard soul, or the final disembodied poet. I look east and see a forest of pens, west lies an ocean of paper. Between

the two there is only me and this bumpy gravel road to nowhere, this pristine sidewalk, graffiti, thumbprint and initial.

a little over three years ago...

The poem below was written a little more than three years ago, and although I didn't know it the night I wrote it, tiny cracks were beginning to appear in the facade of my would-be romance. At the time I was engaged in an experiment with celibacy, which taught me many things, but few of them were what I expected. The mind's ability to project inductions and fabricate deductions is truly stunning.

But this is beside the point.

The point is that growth, change, and shifts of consciousness always happen just beyond our ability to see them. The precursors, however, become visible if we practice placing our attention on them. For me this primarily comes through dreams, poetry and meditation.

Unfortunately, waiting for a dream to reveal our next step can lead to a long time waiting (believe me, I've tried), and even when they do arrive interpreting them is a hazy proposition. Poetry is more reliable, but inspiration follows its own timetable – not to mention the dangers inherit in mistaking the muse for the Muse.

not this Muse

That leaves meditation, which is far and away the most reliable source of clarity and wisdom I have yet to discover. (And by 'discover,' I mean stumble into.) One of the interesting things about meditation is that its benefits are realized through practice, not the practitioner's belief of its efficacy. This mean two things.

First, practicing meditation will provide grounding, improve focus, and offer peace of mind even if the practitioner doesn't 'believe' in it. My own experience with mantra and japa mala has taught me this. Second, believing in meditation without practicing is no more useful than believing in reincarnation or the Big Bang or the price of tea in China. For me, although rare, this lack of practice usually results either from a perceived lack of time (inevitably false) or pleasurable distraction (self-explanatory).

image from Godard's Pierrot le fou,
one of my favorite pleasurable distractions

Anyway, a little over three years ago I was doing a hell of a lot of meditating. There were flashing lights and revelations and cosmos-shaking insights, but the true benefits of this practice were beginning to show up in more subtle ways. All the flashing lights in the world don't make a difference if we stay stuck in the same patterns, and what good is an insight if we don't integrate it into the way we live our day-to-day lives?

The poem hinted at this process of integration, which was happening in spite of my mind's best efforts to twist the actual situation around into a story worthy of John Hughes or Lloyd Dobbler:

Cusak did for stalking what Madonna did for Kabbalah

I hold meditation responsible for what happened, and more importantly, for all the things that didn't happen. I could have stayed spinning in that cycle for months or even years longer, delaying – or perhaps even denying – the peace, happiness and fulfillment I now (don't) take for granted. And all because...

I didn't listen

When we met she told me she wanted to be alone.
But I didn’t listen and soon I was in her bed until
one day she said she needed to be alone. But I
didn’t listen and this was repeated many
times until one night she told me that
she didn’t not want to spend the
night with me. I looked around
her room and saw the cat on
the bed, a stack of books
on the nightstand and
I realized the only
thing in her life
saying she
wasn’t
alone
was
me
.

rabbit rabbit