fingers
slip and slide along frets with a
vowelular “zzzzzzwwwwwiiiiiiK”
punctuated by tones
singular,
doble,
triune,
dissonantly
harmonious.

the mind behind the guitar
is the sweet thing-
the green guitar
behind the strings.

the green guitar,
tabula rasa,
breathes colour into air,
takes the shapes of many things
and metamorphoses others.

slaps and stings
the guitar rings

and notes-
like missiles-
explode on contact.

just so,
a mind is manufactured
and handed over
in the strangest sense.

pointed pops push
plaintiff slips and sighs
to one side-
playing
PLayIN
on the possibilities.

on the seventh day,
god created the green guitar-
and he played a tune called

boogey woogey watermelon

there is an old hill
where an old man comes
to sit on wednesday mornings.
the sun rises,
those days,
as every other day.
so it’s not about the sun.

the birds flock,
children scream,
and dogs chase frisbees
just like every day.
so it’s not about them.

it’s about the rawness.
wednesdays are raw and aching
for satisfaction
that they do not take-
not like mondays and
not like saturdays
and sure as hell not
like friday nights.

and this old man,
on this old hill,
sits and blinks and
breathes.

sweet sweet thursday-
so many depths to thursday.

thursday is the hazy dew-
cast skyward by the sun.
the grass remains,
and waves,
braves what water shuns.

thursday is the kind word
that follows a smile.

even the word:
t h u - rzzzzz - day
as if in thirst
we find an oasis
in change-

as if crows perched, cawing,
“screw this static equilibrium!”

camels sipping.
coyotes snoring happliy.
poets grinning ear-to-ear.
chuang-tze might even
stop by
for a sip of tea…

the desert fathers didn't mention thursday-
yes, it's true.
it's too holy a day.

moth and flame,
flower and sun,
sea and moon,
of these three, which is the greater?
smelling water, he dug into earth
on hands and knees,
scooping sod aside.
he dug for years.
ground piled high all around him.
he came to gravel and built his house.
again, the smell of water haunted him.
the house is torn down,
shovels sharpened.
down.
down.
he came to bedrock and built another house.
years passed.
water began to seep up through cracks
and crevices, set his dreams afire.
the foundation began to rot, exuding a terrible smell.
a titanium-carbide drill penetrated the hard under-earth.
mountains of rubble littered the landscape. miles
and miles and
miles
below the surface,
things began to warm up.
steam and soot clogged the hole. mud
seeped from the walls. ancient faces
pressed in on him, fleshless bodies, serious.
the dead whispered in this place,
beckoned him to turn back.
he donned scuba gear,
for he was water-crazed.
down through the whispers.
down through the corpses.
down.
down.
down.
down.
a heartbeat was heard there,
drumming all around.
the smell of water was overpowering.
he picked a magma atom,
he split it clean in half,
and leaned into it.
and what happened next-
only he and the moth know.

digging,
trenching,
spading mounds of earth-

some point along the way i musta
fergot what the hell i was doing.
i began at some point to think
i was diggin fer some burried
treasure.
or digging to dig.
dunno.

and then the irrigation canal fills up-
flows-
and delivers water to the fields,
and i gotta say,

“oh.”

“oh!”

So.  Say the holy virgin
comes  along-
with the Beloved
in her big belly and
tears in her eyes,
and she says:

“Sorry I puked on your shoes…
I gotta quit this shit.
it's just that I made some
rotten choices down the road
and now I'm fuckin stuck
and don't know what to do…”

Then, under the stars of your real nature,
you MAY CHOOSE to see
intimacy
the holy fucking christ
taking birth over and over

she grasps your hand for help-
for each of us is the midwife of god.

watching the river flow,
i forgot to breathe
this morning.

a sparrowhawk banked
within my reach,
unaware of me,
chasing a song bird
between the trees.

startled,
inhaling,
i dropped the crucible,
the chalice,
looking east.

my fingers are frozen,
wet with rain,
my face cold- eyes sluggish.
flesh solidified heavy and thick.

the heart is warm.

it’s moments like these that reconcile
myself and I. moments that liberate me
from the thickness of being made manifest.

in the presence of trees,
the companionship of water-
i can only return to what i ever have been:
soil of varying tilth, form and rockiness.

land left dormant for a season invites
all sorts of wildflowers. a stellar jay visits.
wild creatures come into the pastures of my mind,
unhunted and unhunting.

what is this brazen wildness?
only the civilized attempt to answer such questions.
but i’ll tell you.
wildness is the unbreathing, the sparrowhawk darting,
the way of moss on stones
and the echo of god’s own sweet heart.

wildness is a kind of baptism,
a baptism of death
into which some plunge willingly,
and others attempt to escape.

wildness… is a dream.

breathing, cooling myself
in the laser of awareness i cannot call my own,
i re-collect my wild self into one giant lump.
a bose-einstein condensate of super-cold davie atoms.
suprised by the merlin’s flight,
collected so,
a focused intent proceeds,
one single voiced shout into the wilderness.

where are you in this dream of oaks and pines?
where are you?

your smile at my door
waking embraced by sweet night

round and round the floor
venus’ blazing sight

her mathematical arcs
dancing in her light

this heart yearns through marks
to land on kali’s far shore

sometimes
the well goes dry
and i travel many
miles
for a sip of wine.

sometimes
i stay at home
and watch the oregano bloom,
softly.

sometimes
i sleep in til late,
waiting for the
Completed Moment
to come to me,
tired of searching.

what?  youre thirsty too?
well, lets crack open
a fresh bottle- something really bad.
we'll stay up late and watch
kung-fu movies-
laughing until we cry.

my hands and knees hurt-
been runnin a trencher.
smashed my right middle finger with
a log
splitting wood yesterday.
sliced open my left ring finger with
a broken glass
washing dishes the day before that.
and i think i got too much sun-
my eyes are sore.

and no poetry to show for it.

i kept poking and prodding at it-
at the dark waters (sub
conscious) to see if any life
remained.
nothin.

now, its quiet cuz
i let it be so and
the light slips away
and trees wave to me and
i scan through emails
and sip
a
cup
of
tea.

(staring out my window at trees.)

and.
then.

suddenly it occurs to me:
perhaps
the dark waters
are

busy

writing

me.

i.
all day awaiting evening-
when earth and sky are One.

ii.
sweet perfume
of the cedar tree

iii.
expanse between
light and dark
not so wide-
Oh, the sky is not so wide!
darkness is over
the face of the deep and
some Spirit hovers over
Our waters

iv.
what is yet hiding
away in the
dark recesses of the
plum tree-
will never be found
Nothing hides there and
Nothing is hidden.
what folly!
we search after
the very experiences
we cannot escape!

v.
to we enemies of rome
you beseeched peace.
to we enemies of rome
has come war.
the dogs of east and west
are meet-
and we enemies of rome-
we
must
fall.

vi.
true lovers know not the
sound of their own
voices
but smile all the day
with full moon eyes.