a dream of water

Water means secrets
Something deeply buried
Moving, unconsciously, through
Chthonic thought-rivers,
Emotional waterfalls,
Pools of sacred transformation.
Or sex. Or money.
That which flows,
Yet never without consequence.
Deeply felt; deeply brought in
To those secret liquid pathways
Etching out existence as
We know it.

A dream of water is a prophecy
Written into the DNA,
Waiting for the day to manifest.
It is a dream about secret dreams,
Sacred ceremony,
That which cannot be named.
That which is always present.
Somehow the source is speaking
Perhaps in rhyme and metaphor,
Yet speaking still, insistently.
Let it insinuate into all the senses,
Let it speak.

Times are tentative.
I cannot always know what
Is safe to say. Or whisper.
The dream tells me that
There are secreted beaches
In the cacophony and stench
Of the callous city.
Places meant for refuge, re-creation.
They are hidden from the hostile streets,
But hardly peacefully obscure.
The hordes are slipping through the
Tear in the chain-linked fence,
Pushing, uncaring, blindly moving
Toward the sand.
They push and tumble into the ocean,
Far too overwhelmed by their numbers,
Their size.
No room! No room!
“But there’s plenty of room,”
Roar the jolly clowns
Like over-inflated plastic beach toys.

I must escape the suffocation.
The tunnel out is too small, stifling.
I must crawl, on my knees,
Pulling myself forward
With each wisp of breath.
There is no end,
I am certain.
Just agonizing suffocation,
Superhuman effort again and again.
Until the city reappears.

It is different; it is quiet.
Everyone is at the beach,
Reveling in the sunlight.
Here it is dark. Practically empty.
The store windows are lighted
For the night display, muted,
Like starlight.
It is a long comforting walk
In the night air.

But this is a dream of water.
There, that endless, inky lake,
Reaching out past north and south
Deep, solid, dense, darkly opaque,
I look out over the iron edge of the bridge
Upon which I gently walk along the
There are two children on the bridge,
Quietly playing,
Shining softly in the way
That happy children do,
At peace,
In the water’s protective embrace.


Patty We Hardly Knew Ya

So they took you from your lover’s home — Steven
who treated you like a child & later wrote memoirs
& told them to take anything, but to leave him alone
& they took you.
& they locked you in a closet & used you
for a media campaign to feed the hungry.
You had never known hunger or privation.
You were a princess of the ruling class.
But you had known loneliness.
You learned, finally,
away from your university walls, about revolution.
They called you Tania & plastered your picture on
front page reports & post office billboards &
the Six O’clock News.
Your father wasn’t the only Hearst
who could make the papers.
You became a phenomenon. You became a star.
And the question on everyone’s lips was:
“Where is Patty Hearst?”
& some were arrested & some were destroyed & the LA siege
was just one of many brutal episodes in a bloody war movie, but you were a star.
& all the “little people” — the housewives & the students & the laborers of the
working class took you as their own & discussed your motives & some
applauded you & some said you deserved to be spanked & some said you were
just a pawn, but pawn or queen, you were a star — a media heroine
& no one could ignore you as they had
ignored your wealthy and powerful family.
Month after month you led the headlines.
The FBI was embarrassed
by false leads on your whereabouts.
All those trained bloodhounds searching for one
little girl playing revolutionary.
It could have been made in Hollywood,
But never in CUBA or CHINA or Viet-Nam.
You were so bold, standing in your beret & rifle
in front of the SLA trademark
(and we still may wonder on the significance of
Robbing banks in the tradition of Dunaway and Beatty
— a whirlwind crime spree
to the glory of the “people.”
What did you know of the “people?”
Those who cheered for the circus & those who
condemned you at their mid-morning coffee breaks.
Yes, now you belonged to them —
no longer the sheltered heiress.
So they found you, the pigs, really quite by accident
(the whole investigation being a gaily colored comedy of
& brought you to “justice.”
& Justice took its time-honored time drawing out the headlines —
arraignment through appeals & exposes
(“New Times features Bill & Emily Harris:
at home with the fugitives”)
And when they asked you for your profession on the
official forms you ingenuously proclaimed to be
“an unemployed Urban Guerrilla,” which is certainly as valid
as an unemployed newspaper heiress.
And Squeaky Fromm tried to shoot the President,
but you were still America’s sweetheart —
poor little rich girl gone guerrilla.
But then you were reprogrammed and reneged on your revolutionary ways.
You cried for joy on being reunited with your “capitalist pig” parents &
the family dog —
Just like any Long Island JAP or Sacramento
newspaper heiress back from her hippie jaunt.
And they locked you in your “country club jail”
like they send a naughty child to her room —
“just to teach her a lesson.”
And still the interviewers came
to continue the media comedy.
What fun you had with your “Pardon Me” teeshirt
& your jailhouse romance with your guard.
(And Jerry Ford, who Squeaky tried to shoot, had
pardoned Trickie Dick. And Susan Ford, the First Daughter,
married her Secret Service guard.
And it was the era of Post-Watergate when nothing could be too
absurd for a world weary public worn out by the Stagflation Wars)
And Waffling Jimmy Earl of the Georgia Peanut Dynasty
was in the Whitehouse.
And China was finally invading Viet-Nam
And a fast-talking Orkian
was the rage of prime time.
And discomania mixed liberally with coke and ‘ludes
had taken over Amerikkka’s youthful zeal.
And Werner Erhard replaced Che Guevara in
ex-Yippie Jerry Rubin’s heart & so the wheel turns.
& five years after the kidnapping,
Patty Hearst finally went home.

Be My Valentine

If the greatest virtue we can aspire to is love
And the greatest follies in our lives are due to love
And we can’t cure our frenzied malady of love
But all sages exhort us just to love
And pure poison emanates from loss in love
And pure bliss is promised us from lovely love
And what about those horrid beings we just can’t love
And what about that horrid feeling of being unloved
So what in heaven/hell is love?

There is love that sends you dancing
into romantic lunacy
that feels so right and free
There is love that burns so hot and cold
you never know
quite where you are
There is love that holds a whisper
in a cloaked corner of your being
makes you smile in
that secret special way
makes you want to linger
in a lover’s fantasy
makes your day
There is love that hurts and hates
and kills any chance of saving
face or heart
burns the bright flame of your essence
into ash
leaves you bleeding, pleading
for any drug or thrill to kill that agony
There is love
indistinguishable from insanity
in any way your twisted mind
will go
There is love that lets you know
you have a soul
because it’s growing
What kind of love are you offering
to me?

I offer you a human love,
not constrained to simple delineation.
Part seeking a confidante face,
to find my hoped for reflection.
Part need for nurturing solace
in uncertain days.
Part desire to be hero, adored
shining spirit in your eyes,
because you spark enduring fire
in mine.
You send my boundaries
Your presence increases my
self’s reality,
inspires wider denotation
encompassing we.
Crawling into each other’s
place of essence,
breaking through,
It doesn’t matter where
I am
when I’m with you.


I drink them in, your style and voice,
lithe and light and falling into
Parched vessel that I bring
to party through altered
moods, captured attention,
enraptured elite emotion.
Satisfaction of brief moments
dripping down my throat like song.
Electrical storm blows strong.
Brilliant rain cascades, overruns wandering mind,
sets steam to allure’s magic.
Madness released by resplendent excess
rocks devastation into lullabies,
expressed by Lilithian eyes
way past any limits of light or reason.
In a gentle corner, made of more glorious fantasies,
love’s candle burns,
warms celestial clay.
Worlds orgasmic in grace
explore passion.

The change happens quickly
as in a comic skit,
or excruciatingly creeps,
soap opera romantic thrill
slowly dying.
Added characters may intercede.
Archetypal tricksters vie,
cross our stars,
navigate our fates
in diverse directions.
We grow complacent, calcified,
Angry words burn inside,
Heat no longer a welcome
participant of romance.
Your little ways.
My little ways.
Imps of annoyance.
Is there Hope in this
crate of vexations?
Over and over
yet never irrevocably over
in bodies, souls, sensate
suffering love.

Bearing Water for Brigid

Sketches for a water vessel —
united, bottle and message elide on waves.
Voice of Brigid calls.
All who hear: Imagine.
Exposed to wind, to grit, to rain,
shifts of vibration,
rock faces erode.

Designated fixed space
Seaworthy container
Conveyor through fluid
Creates place, surface to paint
tableaux for amusement,
diffusion of emotion,
beatitude against foment of dueling farce.

Harsh edges polished,
pure shades
blend in the dark.
Brief infusion
of giddy illusion
just enough to guilefully entice.
Sparkling Neural net
a secret
clue revealing
purpose, meaning;
wild eternal child,
ages’ flamboyant fool,

(Voice pours from within)

A wound is a sacred vessel.
Pain carves into flesh
sense memory;
carries the seed
of its own demise.
engulfed in life
learns anew to be whole.

Wounded with the potential for wisdom
when eyes are are pried
from seeping, sucking, suffering
aching to censure what future we admire.
Redefine the schizm.
This wound is our project.
To heal, discover the vision;
realign the seam to fit
self-framed landscape.

Let loose that genie of desire.
Ride rushing blood streams.
Build a roaring pyre of grief,
insane belief in wrath-filled deities.
Revile that old refrain: “life is pain” or a game
to be lost.
No Faustian bargain.
Just a
rambling adventure
to explore
essence of ecstasy.
Don’t wait for the rest to see
and demur.
Stretch your sail.
Take sight of your guiding star.
The only failure is self-denial
in favor of the vile lie
that pain is destiny
instead of faithful friend
lending energy
for change.

Slice vivid memories.
Exult in the tastes, the textures.
Enliven your way.

In the end
the vessel breaks.
There the Goddess stirs.