poet

outlaw poet-painter

mad-poet face 2

                       the author as a young outlaw poet                   (photo ©)

Oh, you’re pretty cocksure, son

You’re like a Villonian Singing Nun

Armed with a mandolin …and a Delphic hymn

— Cass McCombs (b.1977) from “Jonesy Boy” 2009

))))) 0000 ((((((

 “Estarei no futuro, digitando poesias….”

 ~ ~ ~  * * * ~ ~ ~

From The Years of the Sows’ Ears

curving back upon the Self

create over and over again from within thine own nature

MAKE

ART

WORK

from San Francisco’s mentholated sidewalks

to Uttar Kashi’s mountain goat footpaths

catalyze compassion to scuttle COINTELPRO & Co

glean vast harvest fields of joy one infinitesimal seed of silent kindness sows

stitch silky new prayerbead purses & sutra dustjackets for ancient liturgies of peace

from so many bristly old sows’ ears.

 

> > > > > O O O O O < < < < < <

 

Tiger’s Yawn

 

The goofiness of corporate coffee chains —

Monday mornings’ single cup before

heading over to campus to teach my 9am

20th century American Lit class:

Always take the corner table

to sit & prepare lecture notes under large poster

of Ginsberg’s gnomic sigil of a three-tailed, one-eyed fish.

First saw his hand-drawn triune wisdom critter

when he signed my copy of Howl some

half-century ago.

 

For all his celebrity Allen soon became a trusty friend.

 

Though seldom seen in last decades

for more than an hour’s gossip over coffee

before or after some sold-out reading

he always remembered exactly where we had left-off

instantly resuming our last conversation from mid-sentence.

When Allen once again signed my then thirty-five year old

original copy of Howl, he took ten minutes

out of a long signing line to carefully add

to his wise old fish sketch

his hand-drawn vision of Blake as Tiger

sighing the primordial mantra “Ah!”

Sanskrit Mother of All Sounds. Then asked if he

could look through my own latest notebook-sketchbook.

 

For all his goofiness Allen was profoundly kind.

 

When I sit each Monday morning

under that rip-off corporate coffeehouse poster

with Ginsberg’s one-eyed fish peering

ever generously over my shoulder,

tears sometimes well-up, drip slowly

into my paper cup of $7 coffee,

splotch the ink & graphite of my latest notebook-sketchbook

 

All those poems are not enough.

 

 

* Note: I wrote this a coupla yrs ago (in one sitting without revision  – “first thought, best thought”), over coffee, waiting to teach my first class of the day. Under the poster of Allen’s drawing my tears fell hot, salting my cup of coffee. Allen died all the way back in 1997, almost 20 full years ago now. A long time gone. The last few days before he died, Allen called everyone he knew to thank them and say goodbye. We had a few ancient friends in common, most of them gone now as well. Just a fortnight ago (Feb 15, 2017), Allen’s final primary Buddhist teacher, Gelek Rinpoche, also passed on, one of our last shared living personal links. Ah!

 

~ ~ ~ ))) OOO ((( ~ ~ ~

 

Ode to Mother Nature as the Twin-Bodied Goddess Flora-Fauna   ©

composed spontaneously to fit on a collaged journal page between a bricolated border design and a dried magnolia leaf.

leaf ode

There were days when the throat was almost as important as the voice…”

BALI – BHUTAN – BOLINAS

MENDOCINO – MAUI – MANALI

I propitiate the twin-bodied Goddess:

FLORA Your Divine Mother Love

inebriates and unites me in holy vegetative

orgasm with the inner living Juice

of every fruit-bearing flower, with

every green-leaved body of Light

standing and swaying, embracing

and ravishing me in holy love

beyond words, beyond thought

FAUNAYour Divine virgin

mother sister daughter

Self to my own animal

body-nature, self-nature,

leaps and dances with

the freedom of the wild

tongue

  • day before Thanksgiving Wed Nov 26 1997

> > > > > > O O O O O < < < < < <

Stone Soup            ©

Coyote-woman, I’d like you to tell me your whole story!

Did your dad live past your childhood? Was your mom a hopeless drunk?

I’d like to know where you sleep at night, and what you dream about.

It’s morning, Coyote-woman, wake up, become a dove,

climb in the air, follow me!

I know of a country with additional dimensions, each one full of joy & pleasures

And where those who die, die in peace, happy to discover what’s next…

In that country, wildflowers grow up through kitchen floor-boards,

they are both spice & the only medicine needed.

There, the fragrance of “the one I love also loves me!” floats on every breeze.

There, the self inside each blossoming heart is a tiny infant, smiling wordlessly to every other.

Coyote-Dove-woman, I’d like you to teach me every one of your songs!

What did you like best about your first love? Why did it end?

I’d like you to bring me to your office some morning, see what your workday is like.

It’s evening, Coyote-Dove-woman, come with me to my place, I’ll cook us dinner.

Chat with me in the kitchen while I toss a salad from these wildflowers,

you’ll find them slightly spicy yet soothing to the throat & nerves.

> > > > > > O O O O O < < < < < <

raton_pass

Cloud Stallion Pass         ©

Late November, dawn road clear as the empty sky.

No snow on the pass to Santa Fe through Raton.

Wonderfully warm still, the year has yet to turn.

Riding shotgun, my wife hums mantras as we roll.

Spying our exit’s landmark, she calls out “We’re there.”

Six miles up a washboard track we summit the crest.

The Earth falls away from us in all directions.

In a clearing among pinon pine stands our goal,

a small stone shrine to our old friend Yeshe Dorje.

Late rain-maker to the Dalai Lama, he loved

this site as his own, mountain home away from home.

Wild as the storms he scattered, his ashes now one

with the wind. Prayers entrusted to guardian pines,

our wordless road home slowed by gusty snow flurries.

Yeshe_Dorje_Rinpoche3

stupa yeshe dorje

> > > > > > O O O O O < < < < < <

they can't kill us all

dorm window sign in response to US government mass murder of unarmed student peace demonstrators and bystanders at Kent State and Jackson State campuses,  May 1970

They Can’t Kill Us All         ©

Fact is, they can’t kill us all.

Not when we stand and move together.

We must move together, sisters & brothers,

and hurl our blood-red song of love

directly into their empty hearts!

When a million and a half of us surrounded the White House,

and refused to leave, Nixon called-off five thousand twitching cops & began

to withdraw the troops from Vietnam. Not a shot was fired that day in Washington!

We must sit together, children, refuse to be moved

and raise our voices in a message of love

sung directly into their empty hearts!

When half a million of us poured into St Winceslaus Square,

and refused to leave, the old Party hacks pulled back their tanks & began

to flee their armor-clad offices. Not a shot was fired that day in Prague!

We must stand and lock arms together, dear friends,

and hurl our blood-red song of love

directly into their empty hearts!

Fact is, they can’t kill us all, not all at the same time,

If we stand and move together.

Not if we all stand and move and sing together, dear ones!

But alone they surely will murder us all, one by two, by twenty,

by fifty, or a hundred at a time,

shot down in the street, cut to pieces in our beds,

blown to heaven by drones while we dance at weddings,

while we writhe in pain in hospitals slammed by rockets and mortar shells.

Don’t let them murder us all one by one, dear friends!

Fact is, alone they will surely continue to murder us, all of us,

one by one, by the dozens, two by two, by the millions,

just like they are doing right now, every day, all over the world.

Surely they will not stop slaughtering us til we’re all gone, children,

Every last one of us, dear ones, without a doubt.

Unless we stand and move together, sisters, brothers,

by the tens of thousands, by the millions, everyone

Hurling our blood-red song of love

directly into their empty hearts as they turn and flee!

Fact is, as of today 2.6 million individual persons have been killed by US troops

in Afghanistan, Iraq, & Pakistan. No one is counting the people killed

by our drones & jets in Yemen, Libya, and Tunisia, or what once was Syria.

Don’t let them murder those of us who are left, dear friends!

Let us stand together, sing and move together until they turn and flee

or throw down their guns and rush to join us in singing our cry of peace and love!

> > > > > > O O O O O < < < < < <

Philipp Otto Runge (1777-1810) self-portrait

runge mug

the outlaw poet – mugshot  age 30

Realizing Philipp Otto Runge as the Buddha as Yourself

You Feel like Dancing with the Bees               ©

 

Humming all the words you know,

you could die happy like this, tilting your chair

back on the front porch, cooling

your tea, drinking the sunlight,

letting the spider out the screen door.

 

You could lay this open book aside

Just Now

and step inside Everywhere

four worlds away or near,

stand face-en-face, naked or veiled,

and BE forever mercy & wisdom.

 

You could mate with the quaking aspen tree,

with the gossipy stream rippling back

and forth like a green ribbon,

with the fire inside these clouds,

and with the grassy hills rolling

down to the road—all your craziest fantasies,

your earliest intimations.

Mt Vision, West Marin, 1995

> > > > > > O O O O O < < < < < <

“Estarei no futuro, digitando poesias….”

 ~ ~ ~  * * * ~ ~ ~

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