
LOOKING OUT
I am nothing
but thoughts and
feelings housed
in a body looking
out
doing things no one has
ever done before
doing things everyone has
done
Expanding like
paint spilled
over
on the floor
never to return
to the
container again
but now being
uncontained
in a larger
container

ASSASSIN
The blinds are beautiful
with the light shining through
I sit in front
of my Guru
The quiet is surrounding me
and is me
It flows
in awake
of abundance
as I imagine
the walk
up to the
corpse of a material existence
Assassin
I don’t want to move
The stillness is so peaceful

Chaco Canyon
The mesa’s dignified, eloquence. A silent goddess spilled her soul across the horizon. Refined and mysterious is she. I was up early for my drive to Chaco Canyon. The mountain so black, void of color that day. This sky widens up before dawn, floating splatter, biomorphic art. Idriveintotheskyemerging. Drive into the plateaus stretching beyond solitude. I drive through the desert as the sun breaks through the unfathomable indigo, like an iris I cannot imagine. Like the iris in a dream indescribable. Like an iris circled in orange. I drive and I feel like I am receding into the landscape –-and now I am distance. And a bridge says seventeen feet two inches. And I think horizontal only, compelled by horizontal and the view is beyond all calculations. The mountains now watermelon from the orange sky and they call to me with their black seeds and their watermelon bodies. And I drive, I drive, I drive under the 17’ 2″ bridge which means nothing to me as I speed to the land of the ancients, where the ancients built their temples to the stars and gazed upon the body of the eternal. I pass the adobe huts, the cracked mud, the stone, the ground, the gravel. I raise my arms to the sky, a pink sky that blazed across the crow-winged mountains. I follow in the ancient footsteps with clay on my boots. And the windows of Chaco Canyon once filled with sky now filled with stars.

Pronto? (Hello)
Inspired by Robert Rossellini’s film L’Amore
Cold water on lips
Eating, sleeping, why?
Exotic hell in the mirror
Black phone on white pillow
Eyes broken listen
Expectantly
Disheveled hours of waiting
It rings
A storm on a trembling mouth
“I told you not to speak, I’d accept anything.”
“You sound distant, how strange.”
“Hearts and stars, I can see with my ears.”
“The telephone is making strange sounds.”
“Pronto? Pronto?”

I Dreamed About Snow
I dreamed about snow again
Only I can know what that means
As much as you may want to know
You can never know
I dreamed about snow
I told myself to, I told myself to
I made my mind communicate to my Mind
in dream
The answer I wanted, I wanted, I wanted to know
Again, I dreamed about snow
This time it was different
Do you want to know how or why?
Thick-thick, blue-white, deep
snow beautiful surrounding-all- homes- snow
Thick, deep, white, blue, everywhere
Evening
Homes
Snow everywhere
Virgin, untouched, evening blue
White, beautiful, quiet
Dove white
White everywhere
Thick
Solid white
I thought, will I disturb this?
Will I fall through?
Break through?
Sink deep into the knee-deep thick snow?
I put my foot upon the top
Brown-gray, fur-gray, new-gray, warm-gray Boot
Boot up on top
waiting for the crunch and punch of foot to sink into its beauty
but I rose
surprisingly
it held
Support
I rose
I walked above, on top of the snow-covered ground
white snow puff steps
I walked on top of the hard snow
the white blue everywhere snow
I looked around and saw it everywhere
It wasn’t until I woke up and said,
I dreamed about snow
that the answer-dream
I told my mind to tell me, (and here it did so obediently)
telling me what the other Mind knows
Dread dream of snow
Sadness
It tells me the answer
The minds do that
You will never leave because
I dreamed about snow
That you and I will never be together
Snow/white/snow/blue/snow
thick everywhere
white
snow
Cold and vast and beautiful
Separation

Dog with a Club Foot
Dog with a club foot
Innkeeper OK
Dog with a club foot
Innkeeper OK
Just because it’s true
Doesn’t mean it’s interesting
Said the dog

When Angie Speaks
When Angie speaks
It’s not words I hear
It’s the clack of a pool ball mouth
When Angie speaks
It’s the burn of whiskey on a dry throat
It’s crushed cigarettes
Buried deep in the sand
On some Corpus Christi beach
When Angie speaks
I hear agony in Texas grit nightmares
Exploding in her mind
When Angie speaks
I hear her head bashed in
I hear her feet
Wildly trampling over the grass
When Angie speaks
With lowered eyes
I hear caskets shut
I hear the flowers cry
I hear Angie’s joy die
It’s not words I hear
When Angie speaks

For Jack Albee He could sling the funniest sarcastic observations, but he was never cruel. He called our mutual friend Steve Berman, The Maniacal Crayon, Steve, an artist, had his art doodles stuck all over the walls of his Hollywood apartment. And I mean, there wasn’t even any space left to stick on a wad of gum. Albee was a member of the Albee theater family. He was a mime, an artist, a prankster, and one of the most in-the-moment people I have ever known. Jack would come up from LA to see me in Northern California, and we would spend the day in Sausalito. Jack introduced me to the Renaissance Faire, where he used to perform in his younger years. Jack Albee, my friend, I dedicate this poem to you.
He’s a Troubled Maker
It’s time for Joyce
And Joyce is time
For Ireland
My own mind
Honesty-certainty
And Dubliners
Is doubling
Doppelt
Doble
Duppio
Double
It’s time for William’s will
Deliver
Liver
De
Liver
Ah it’s time for Bergman
And hypersensitivity
Hyper-viper
Flashback of Katrina’s
Flashback of Katrina’s
And then there’s Albee
Not Edward—not that one own
But he knew dirty Gertie
That’s what they called her
He’s a troubled maker