MODERN MONK

I'm a monk with

a television and

a brand new iPhone.

My mantras are slogans.

My chakras have sponsors.

Meditation comes between

commercials for dish soap

and pick-up trucks.

I text as much as I chant.

Is it hard, people ask,

to find enlightenment

in today's world?

You'd already know my answer,

I answer, if you had stopped

to read my latest

facebook status

update.

JAWBREAKER IN JANUARY

After the suns sets

the whole moon rises

over the last hill

like a white jawbreaker.

it reminds me of

my childhood,

of the days when even

a single piece of candy

was as heavenly as the

new Winter moon. 

As heavenly that one,

right there.

DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL

Like static on a car radio,

your signal is intermittent.

The airwaves are gluttons

for interference, so i only

get part of the patter,

a meaningless message,

a snippet of song.

THE LONG BAR (1984)

ten at night.

six or eight of us

piled into a cab

at the san diego

border and headed

to T.J.

the cab was out 

of space, so 

I splayed myself

across the laps

of my posse

as some Culture Club song

played on the shitty

FM radio. we broke

Mexican traffic laws 

all the way to

Revolucion Avenue.

Near eleven, we
walked

the crowded streets

smelled the meat

cooking on the grills

of the taco carts

drank and laughed

in the shithole

bars along the main drag

Just after midnight, as we ventured

back to our own world,

I hooted at the five dollar 

ceramic frogs that sat

like bloated guards 

by the border fence 

and I stared half-drunk 

at the five year olds

who sold the tourists Chiclets

in the exhaust clouds of

the taxi lines.

Moments later, back in

the states,

I remember that

one blonde's arms

around my waist
as we walked to our cars
and as the black

shadows below us
inched

their way across

the darkened arroyo.

DOING IT ONE MORE TIME

it's sweet to get

the word down

while soft jazz

emanates from

the boombox

a cool drink

on the desk

as you put down

what it was like

in the old days

a memory or two

from decades ago

or maybe one small

portrait from the

present

a few words 

from just the

other night

when you were

in the kitchen

and heard a coyote

cry in the open

space just beyond

the backyard.

SOME CHANGE

I am quiet

and still

and receptive

in this peaceful room

boz scaggs'

some change

plays at a

low volume

in the corner

just a touch of
electric guitar

slicing through

the transparent

pane of a lazy

afternoon

EXISTENTIALIST

Everybody sits down

at the chair to do the work

in his own way.

Everybody takes a shower

in water of a varying degrees,

brushes his teeth in a singular rhythm.

Everybody makes his coffee

a little bit different--maybe
no sugar or extra cream.

Everybody hauls the coal

to the mouth of the mine

using particular tools, some

prefer the wheelbarrow,

some the sack. Everybody

stops for a break at a different

time, and welcomes in winter

by looking at the skinny,

naked apple trees

or the narrow frosted fields

as he breathes his visible clouds.

Everybody dreams of not going back.

Except the ones who never

take the break in the first place.
They're the saddest of all.

Everybody dies individually,

unable to reach across 

the chasm and share even
the most infinitesimal part
of the entire isolated feat.

MT. PLEASANT

A storm rages

in the middle of

Michigan, a little more

than two hours from

where she lives. It's

just after midnight,

and they sit at the table

playing Euchre, all of her

relatives stealing glances

at the window and

imagining their own kind

of Spring. I think of how

strong she is and make

her promise to be safe,

not heroic. From two

thousand miles away,

I feel her hesitate, but then

breathe more easily 

when she tells me 

she will not know

if traveling is safe

until the next day's

traffic report.

FOR A MENTOR

if you recognized

even a fraction of

your own gifts, allowed

for even a scrap of their 

magnititude and 

chose to shroud

yourself in these gifts

like a cloak, every-

thing about your place

in history would be

revision, every last

movement and gesture,

from the fingertips on

the shoulder to the

tender, erotic crimes

of your youth and

even those just after

would be allowed

to change and open

like a flower that while

wilted from lack of use, 

is not yet dead.

LESSONS

Sometimes the young girls

stare at my ear, focusing

on the right lobe, the one

I had pierced in the mall

during a break from my job

at the local theater in 1985. 

They gape in utter disbelief,

genuinely amazed that this
geriatric man before them, the 
one who teaches them grammar,

red pencils their essays,

and admonishes them not to 

eat in the classroom could ever 

have committed an action

as edgy as piercing an ear.   

What they fail to realize is that

there were other actions, far

edgier, that they will never know

about, that are not nearly as visible

as the decades-closed hole

that, much like the memories of

these other transgressions,

is now nothing more than

a shadowed indentation

in my rapidly aging flesh.

WATER FLOWERS

the other day
the rain came down

like little water

flowers and it hovered

in the air, suspended,

and then fell hard,

splashing against

the cold, gray

concrete

of the sidewalk,

murdering autumn

in the process

ENCINO (1989)

once at the

end of 

ventura blvd.

near tower records

and the trendy

restaurants in

the place they

called little melrose

a few of us 

walked along 

the sidewalk

in the evening

just to see the

sunset crash into 

the valley 

just to watch 

the death

of the decade

living just a little

bit north

of everything

that was so

los angeles

SAN DIEGO SUMMER

Cruising down

the street at dusk

with my arm

hanging from the

open window,

I crank up Social

Distortion’s “Ball

and Chain” and

before long,

Mike Ness’ pounding

guitar makes it not

so much a song

as a prayer.

FIRE PRAYER

Outside, the air

smells of fire and the sky

is a gray, hazy mist. As the horns

rise in the melody of a song

playing in this otherwise

quiet room, where the

intermittent silence is both

salvation and torture,

I ask God to think of me

in his calmer moments

and, with one more sniff,

understand how the flames

are probably only moments

from here and moving closer

with each exhalation of the wind.

RESPIRATION

being alive

is effortless

the breath is

sucked into

and out of

the lungs

w/o a thought

and so it seems

we often 

use our 

remaining

energy

to create so

many

problems

that take 

away 

the natural,

organic breath

and leave us

suffocating

with what's

left after

the wreck 

STUDIO CITY

And then there was the place

that sat next to the freeway

where the smooth whir of the cars

at rush hour sounded like the ocean.

it was a good place

where my days were free and open,

full of close friends, cheap food,

and endless possibility. The nights 

were calm and there was little do 

before sleeping, though sometimes 

I would lie awake listening 

to the couples making love

in the Jacuzzi outside my

bedroom window.  I was alone

and lonely, but never unhappy.

This was a place before the winning

And then the losing, where life scrolled out

before me like an unending ribbon,

where mistakes could be rewritten,

where regrets were few.   It was also 

a place, it must be said, where more
than a handful of my dreams went to die.

DUSK

I believe in

the origin of

lavender smoke 

that rises in

the twilight,

the rich blue velvet

of an evening

when no one speaks

the unutterable need

that creeps in uninvited

and consumes you

as the terrified

moon rises

above a garden

that is now

too dark

for blooming

MY MUSE

my muse

wants to wear 

a red dress

and drink

chilled wine

on a night

when she can

see the round

full moon

in the clear

empty sky

OBSTINATE WINTER

She is anticipating

yet another storm,

another blinding

white sky that

eclipses the

round, full moon

in one of the

most beautiful

parts of the Midwest

keeping her at arm’s

length of her dreams.

This time, she

thinks, winter

means it.

MOUTH BREATHER

I have no patience

for mouth breathers

who gasp and wheeze

as I'm trying to think

and who chortle as they

misconstrue their

pristine inanity

for wisdom.

WHERE MONEY DOESN'T TALK

the rich

also have

their scrapes,

their cuts, 

their sacrifices 

that draw blood.

The only

difference

is that the wounds

of the rich

are rarely seen,
hidden
as they are

behind
the tall trees

enormous hedges

and profound

and exceptionally

eerie silence

found in the
gated communities
of affluence

BLADE

pulling our pants
on in the dark

sometimes we are alone

or sometimes

we are alone, even if
we're not.

Some days the skies

are dark as seeds

and some days
the cars and trucks

honk their
way into oblivion

And some days 

the words are nothing

but small factories

that belch the smog

and soot of their ideas

into the thick night.

The razor’s edge

is a sign. 

Some days

It’s closer than others.

DEATH SONG #2

the clouds

are heavy

with snow,

the flowers

frozen on

their stems,

and the

silent, ancient

glaciers

no longer thaw.

This might

be the harshest

winter in
memory.
or possibly 
death.

SEEING STARS (OR, WHY I DECIDED NOT TO BE FAMOUS)

maybe it was Jimi or 

Janis when I was only

seven, sacrificing their

magic in a halluncinatory

dream of alcohol and drugs.

maybe it was Freddie Prinze

when I was fourteen

with a gun in his hand

Quaaludes and bullets

spread on the table 

in front of him like 

deadly M&Ms.

Maybe it was Rebecca Schaffer

when I was twenty-seven

who died, not by her own hand

Or bad choices,

but by a dream

machine that murdered her

with its bottomless need.

Maybe it was River Phoenix

when I was thirty. I watched

the news about him

at a comedian friend’s condo

as he lay dead on the street

In front of The Viper Club. 

Maybe it was Kurt Cobain

Who pulled the trigger

The following year, when I was thirty one

And starting my actual career, waiting

for my family to begin,

who taught me the final lesson

About what is necessary 

for The Art.

BILLY JACK

what I liked

best about

billy jack

was that he

could kick

your ass

twenty times

to Sunday

but tried

really hard

not to because

it was better

to be peaceful.

LAVENDER SKY

Last night the moon

was full and sat in

a pink and lavender sky.

I stared at it from a strip mall

Parking lot, even took

Pictures of it on the camera

On my phone. 

I watched as the night

changed from lavender to purple

To black. I stood there

As the throng of shoppers

buzzed around me

painfully oblivious

to the god-given art

thrumming above their heads.

LIFE WASTERS

To my left are people

I cannot move around,

Imbeciles who, because

they laugh at nothingness,

cannot hear the screams 

of the needy.

To my right, there are people

who block my way,

speak but say nothing,

and ultimately gamble 

their last sweet minutes

on nothing but soulless junk.

I cannot breathe tonight.

Everywhere I turn

each room is full

of the worst kind

of people. 

CLEANING HOUSE

The cleaning lady

cancels and I have

to scramble to find

a replacement. Talk

about first world problems.

but it creates division

in the household,

increases the already

dysfunctional tension

among people barely

speaking to each other.

But this new lady

comes through and

the house is clean

once again. There is

still tension but it's

not the kind that will

land us on the evening

news, more of a low

thrumming pulse that

makes us vaguely unhappy

and takes years off our life.

The bottom line, though,

is that, for now,

I've put out one more

fire. As Bukowski

once said, all gifts

need to be earned

and re-earned.

8:50 A.M.

I sip coffee

by the kitchen

window as the light

pours in, the blinds

slicing the sun

into single rays.

URBAN RENEWAL

the marriage collapses

around me like

an imploding building,

dynamited from

inside to control

the damage,

to make room for

some other structure.

EIGHT BALL

I miss shooting

pool in that quiet
back room in my
parent's house.

sometimes my
best friend

would come over

and we would say

if I sink this shot then

<insert girl's name here>

will have something

to do with me.

It never worked.

NEW POET

I taught my students

how to write poetry

this past week. First,

I shared some of my philosophy

and then we read

a few modern poems

because I knew the old ones

would put them to sleep.
Next, I made them

write some little word

pictures, some portraits

of what they saw

outside of the classroom.

They were gone for maybe

twenty minutes, wandering

around the campus like
little neophyte Ginsbergs and
Kerouacs, observing

and cataloging images.

When they came back

they had a handful

of little word pictures.

As they turned them in

one girl read a few

as they came up her row

and then she looked at me

and said I didn't think

these were going to mean

much but I just read
some and there were

a few that were

so powerful and intense.

Now she knows why

I always say that

poetry has saved my life.