Everything Irie

How strange to hear

the birds singing at

midnight. There is a

great spaciousness

in the air.

It's funny how

lonely cars

moving through the

suburban night

sound so much like

waves on a full moon beach.

Sit quiet late one night,

windows open,

listen to the air. Listen to

the plants moving

in the breeze. Listen to

planes and planets moving

through the sky. Listen from

deep within your center.

Presence is gently waiting

like a quiet, patient lover.

The sun

continues to shine

even on the

darkest night.

Que será,

será, but at some point

it becomes apparent –

Life is breathing through us.

No need to secure anything more,

better by far to lighten the load

- all items must go!

If I could I would embrace

this slice of existence

made available to me.

If I could I would undo

all of the mean things

I have ever done.

If I could, I would pay my respects

to all of my ancestors,

and all of the stars.

If I could, I would tell you;

    You are perfect -

    exactly as you are.


-------------------

Baker

Broke camp at six.

Slow through the canyon with the

only station lonely outta Barstow;

Static in the A.M. band. Erratic

over canyon sand.

Highway 15,

follow the exit to Baker.

Under a Texaco star,

solo drifter drops to a ghost;

trash blowing over.

Clouds run fast.

Stop for gas at the Seventy-Six.

Mexican tags on a dusty Fiesta,

rusting frame shaking from

Baja to Nevada.

Mad Greek breakfast,

blueberry bun, coffee black, then

Main Street back to

trailer park, paler trees,

Mexican flags crack the silence,

red, white, green in the breeze.

Nothing to do but

wheel away onto

Kelbaker, wide awake;

In Baker,

everything's jake.

My Hands Are Shadows

My hands are shadows,

    your hands are doves.

I dream of myself

in the mid-night

futility and insanity of

an uncomfortable half-sleep,

drowning in the

cool gravity

of the paradox

of human existence.

Giving up on sleep,

a walk around the grounds,

my heart beats

with an annoying insistence

as if it were

not my own.

The skies are confused

and seem to be

expecting something

from me.

The earthy smells

of farm animals

rise and contrast with

the sweet aromas of the

perfectly formed roses

out in the night garden.

Barn cats chase and kill

the small, living things

that populate the nooks

of this rural Burgundy farm.

It's 3AM, and the galaxy of stars

over Beaune

is as sharp and perfect

as any I have seen

since wandering the Mojave

years ago.

My mind is a shadow,

contracting and collapsing

under the sharp points

of the sky.

Earlier I saw rainbows

    the size of small moons.

Tomorrow I drive to Paris

    burning like a comet.

The Death of Jan Cox in the Foothills of California

It's a helluva thing, you know, when the

pickpocket marks the carny. When the

witch doctor runs for governor and a

lanky street preacher

tickles the ivories.

Summer '94. Embarking from

Wy'East to Stone Mountain.

    Boot camp to Uncle Heavy Dude.

        Disciplined respect to joyous chaos.

Rolling into humid suburbs, dancing

beside a summer party pool.

As a deafening bass rattles the neighbor's day,

    a Frisbee separates the lazy air.

Later that night, OK, alright,

I and I tripping the light? Fantastic!

Swing and sway

the night away in

Little Five Points joint.

    Up, with this, we shall not put!

Dasn't we hasten the lesson that

     ten pounds of shit

     into a five pound bag

     will not fit?

Eventually, once you begin to see it,

it's a slam-pipe-lead-dunk cinch -

Epiphanies-R-Us,

the game's afoot,

the nippers wander asunder and try not to

screw the pooch;

Now that the Old Man

has flown the goddamn coop!

Seattle Washington, 2010