March Hare

Another kind of rabbit hole.
Ghastly dark and bruising.
No recompense of wonder.
No luxury of child’s imagining.
No spritely tea time story.
Only caustic mud awaits below
at tumbling’s end.

Young rabbit hops
beside Edenic flowers,
sniffs puissant nectar in the air.
I am complete in this instant.
Now, I leap to a farther garden
to taste the bitter charms,
the salty repartee, tropic spice
and cold beer. Sense, sensation,
cessation of sensation —
not happiness, not bliss.
The essential can not
be sought.
No destinations wave aloft
as banners.
We act.
We affect.
We move on.

I am the rabbit.
That chic Alice had the hots
for me and we had planned
to hole up for awhile.
But then thing’s got too
surreal. Lewis Carroll,
wacky jabber?
I began to feel used
as a plot device.
Can you blame me?
I ate some of Caterpillar’s
mushroom, grew into
a pooka and moved
in with Jimmy Stewart.
Redubbed myself Harvey.
Loved the cocktails.
Later, I haunted Donnie Darko,
puzzle poser of his final fall.
What I mean to say is
that fiction
is born, bred, propagated
out of pain, vanity, desperation
and the humor we conjure
to spite it all.
I have no legitimacy.
It is enough if
I deign to cavort at your call.



Pearls iridescent from the Sun
Diamonds extracted from the Moon
Gold-dusted silks from
exotic worlds.
Valued in danger, chances of doom in transit
from there to here.
Fine old wood,
mellowed wisdom
tasting of Earth,
eloquently regales with tales
sage and pure.

Young Percival took knight’s oath seriously. To protect and to serve King and country.
The old King afflicted, declining, perhaps dying. Soul sickness they said.
Crops fail to thrive. Floods, droughts, oppressive climate. The peasants too sicken,
die, live while they do hungry with poverty, disarray.
In a vision, Percival beholds the Holy Grail – dazzling jewels upon a golden chalice,
generating elixir of immortality.
Filled with such reflection, he hastens in the direction of adventure. He leaves the dying kingdom
to its decline, in search of a promised land’s magical curative power. Thinking not of King or country,
roused by urgent ecstatic pounding he knows to be
his own heart.

Where do you ride, fair Percival?
Off to find the healer’s Grail?
Learn your song and tell your tale.
Become a son of Sky and Earth
and rain
to return with the wizardry you gain
some wondrous day.
Break the curse.
Expel the kingdom’s pain.

He seeks the skills of seers, demons, subtle sorceries and charms. Growing ever
stronger, healthy exercise, happy purpose enrich his will. Over terrible trials
and deceptions, treacherous opposition, ever nearer his divine prize appears.
These trials are key. They test mettle while bestowing lessons, confidence,
resource acquisition, glimmerings of wisdom. The prize glitters, shines, glows
brilliantly in auric distance, delineates focus, a clear point, fixed star to contemplate
through twisting, turning, misty mythic roads.
Sometimes the brick is yellow. Some paths are more intuitive, furtive steps in dark,
brambly forest, hostile terrain.
Percival knows what a hero does. A hero perseveres. A hero scales the tower to free
the enslaved damsel; goes where others dare not tread because fear is his worthy companion.
Trudging, fighting, sometimes dazed, momentarily forgetting his quest, he perseveres.
He need but give pause, look beyond to see his Grail shining, calling him forward.
Of course, he reaches the Grail, discovers the codes, incantations, ensorcels dragons,
defies giants, generally blazes through to capture his destiny.
Returning triumphant, he brings joy to the kingdom, drop-kicks the curse, cures the old King
of soul malady, is gifted the throne to wisely guide his subjects into delightful prosperity.
So the story goes.

Agrarian Age

In Spring we speak of seeds.
Bundled possibilities
foresee market days hale and fair.
Succulent fruit, trilling herbs,
vitalizing veggies
and all the spicy chatter of conviviality.

First there was the seed
plowed under to taste Earth,
swell with water,
burst into fecund brew designing
cells of chlorophyll to catch the fire,
symbiotically breathe, exchange,
enrich atmosphere, feed broader life.

Sacred seed
honored in mystic ceremonies,
deeply deified in chthonic memory.
We carry the seed of our fathers,
the toil of our mothers,
the hopes and fears of our teachers and tribe,
over rocky terrain, in hidden caves through
ice and flood and slavering predation,
never doubting nobility of destiny.
On appointed days, carefully watching solar/lunar
our assigned labor commences. Busy as any
bird or bee, we commit seed to chosen ground
with all the magic we can command.
Then, off to bacchanalia, reveling in a grand scheme
promising sustenance, renewed strength, ebullient plans,
romances, unnumbered chances for pride
and glory.

Thus goes the story we retell in lullaby,
in schoolyard intimacies and scholarly lies,
puffing up our little share of knowledge as armor,
protection from overwhelming vastness
of mystery, shades of colors without name.

Unclear on the protocol of shame, unwilling to admit
to ignorance that might unsettle carefully laid
hierarchies, unloose gates inviting chaos or worse,
we designate fruit for sacrifice to gods of greed and vice,
gleefully watch the rending of they who are not me.

“I, too wise for such ill use, repeatedly proven
by my abuse of these unworthy foes I refuse to admit
as kin — sinners, Lord. Surely I’ll not be taken in,
not take them in. Not share the bounty of your seed,
gifted to the chosen.”

Even in these days of polluted dirt, of work
demoted to laughable commodity,
idly watching waste stream into muddy rivers,
we can feel bolstered by occasional feasts
of vicarious blood, throwing hostile unsanctified
into the raging flood,
desperate attempt to stem an unquenchable tide,
while hiding any glimpse of doubt lest shadow
presage disaster.
Devolving, devouring both fruit and seed,
rather than part with
convenience of familiar fantasy?.

ethical dilemma

The room, low in lighting, spare in furnishing, enclosed by walls, floor and ceiling painted in cosmic fantasies, existing as a box within boxes, surrounded on all dimensions. Not so much a door as a semi-permeable veil that could, with an intense act of will, be penetrated to take in vast kaleidoscopic tellings of tales, all sides and all seasons envisioned in an eternal play.

Officer Mirsky had a powerful hate on for them witchy folk. “Always messing with my head, telling me to do things. And not nice things, either.” They weren’t telling him to find himself some sweet young thang, fuck her every which way to exhaustion, cutting her throat when he was ready, then chopping her body into handy sized bits for easy disposal. They never told him how to get away with such wholesome activity neither. They just wanted him to be happy to serve their fine selves. “Grateful I should be that they keep commerce running ever so smoothly, plenty of profit for all so long as well all know our place. Think they have a right to act all superior to normal folks who leave each other’s minds alone and get by on codes of unmentioned rules that everybody knows. Keep yourself to yourself, fit in, join the crowd and take what you can when no one of any importance is looking. If you’re really swift, become someone of importance by stealing big and making the right moves. This forced cooperation is for migrating birds, not human beings, each man king of all he can compile.

Don’t look at me like that, you witchy folk, all superior, knowing, like I don’t count ’cause you’re better than me. You’re not better than anybody. You’re certainly not better than everybody. We can democratically eject you. Once we get you out of our minds.”


Tune in for more; tune out for internal reflection.


Sitting in church on Sunday morning, listening to a stirring sermon on “Getting Right with God,” 85-year-old Grace Whitby realized she had concerns. She did not have much time left to get right with God. Remembering several episodes from her youth, she knew she would have to do something very good indeed to assure her place in Heaven.

Grace was inspired by a plan.

She went home and took out her gun, and lovingly concealed it in her handbag. Then, she set off for the local abortion clinic. Once there, she unobtrusively slipped inside, unnoticed by the busy doctors and receptionists. If any did see her, they probably assumed she was one of the volunteers, there to help counsel the clients.

Grace was able to take her position and shoot down several of the evil heathen before the cops arrived. In the ensuing insanity, Grace was accidentally shot dead. Yes! She was a martyr for her Lord.

Unfortunately for Grace, Jesus was His own martyr, and quite jealous of the position. Much to her surprise, Grace finds her immortal soul now resides in the Muslim Paradise, where she is constantly getting into trouble due to her lack of knowledge of the language and expected etiquette.

woman’s worlds

Your Philosophy
movie plot as object lesson
boys find valuable object
boys lose valuable object
boys fight to get valuable object back
I am woman born
no source of father’s pride
too early in my days, they
track my aroma
I know not to hide
use me in some back room
until my womb rises with a new slave
for their diversions
I am sacred mother
tit tied to feeding, always feeding
(agonized bleeding in secret shame)
No more than a tether, a trough, and
tantalizer of the profane. I am a wrecked
train, a vehicle left to rust, blamed for
slatternly stagnation,
never quite thrown away.
Reject me; reject hard truths,
long trod on diamonds, golden geese brought
to slaughter.
Obscured like icebergs, amphibious myths
kept subdued, symbolic
work songs, prophetic exaltation,
labyrinthine gardens,
we who are only dreams in your philosophy.
You may well be better
stuck, your own
wheel of clay.
My lesson, when I am ready,
is to leave you to your way;
cleave to ecstasy
loose, fanciful, subjective,
Athena’s Gift
Athena fair
stalwart daughter of Zeus
graces her time and place
with divine knowledge.
Today unlined face,
silken hair,
robust yet fragile form
are proclaimed as the graces
of womanhood.
Athena, lost in the pantheon,
whispers to the nightears
of her faithful,
saying:  “True woman’s mind
inclines to wisdom.”
But Daddy’s girl
wants more recompense
for loneliness.
Here at the bar again
Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.
Deepest Scorpio, gusts tinged icy.
Onward toward Chumley’s  2 pm Village poetry reading.
Searching outside book stall for bargains,
found a Paul Goodman
with cat and dog and baby photographs
to give to Cindy
a gift of love for a fragile child
Still affright from last night’s heavy scene,
wherein the police took my man away again,
this time with my blessing and accomplicement.
. . . A man is a hard thing.
Also a drag on my developmental aspirations.
When all he does is loom and threaten
Big Brute Violence
to storm my sensibilities.
(What’s frustrating is he doesn’t hear me
plead for shelter.)
Laughing in the park we loved
Crying in the night we parted
Oh, beseech I, gods above:
Why must you leave me broken-hearted?
(and I know he’ll be returning with more disregards
and diatribes and possibly pistol drawn to fire)
So I sit here in the bar, again.
Drinking sweet Kahlua and awaiting the poetry.
Taking a respite, you see.
Oh, Goddess, for this while,
bar nothing to this troubled child
(for child I feel, though woman grown).
Let peace alone assail me.
Pink and Blue
(and red all over)
Fist shakes from rage
channeled, coursing,
flailing bloodlines.
Caught, snarled,
stagnant dying ocean
willing to be taken down
from fear to violence.
Call wild arms,
breast, sinew, shame.
Chemistry surges, overplays.
One mortal coup de grace
burst sword to heart
that never lived
beyond desire.
If man is fire, dissolved
into greater waves,
why does Woman weep?
Why does not the flood
of pain absolve and
succor?  Why should fate
deny blessings of mortal
release in wash of blood
to lady fair,
snakes and thistles to braid her hair,
expose her tortured face?
Eyes that kill in silence,
stone lips, wrinkled nose,
washed out in times of
stoic denial.  Why must
she kneel, vile, victim
of violence, not its cause?
Who makes these laws of
natural selection?
Who takes the stone?
Who takes the stone’s projection?
cubicle woman
The moments slither by if you forget they’re there.
Sucking in sweetness,
hot sugared coffee, aroma of memory.
It might be a sluggish, clammy
descent of summer afternoon. Hints of autumn
like blackberry spicing the air.
The people here are decent.
They smile to make conversation a pleasant bit of business.
They want me to feel safe, subdued.
It doesn’t matter that we are never more than strangers,
passing faces, complaisant.
They bring me coffee with sugar and plastic sticks for stirring.
In this moment all of the world
turns so skillfully
I move along without pause for acknowledgement,
stealthily aware.

Vacation on Earth

I awoke the morning after my vacation to find myself again
hauling sludge in my home factory.
I am a sludge hauler. That is pretty much all I do. It is my place.
I haul sludge until I am too tired to do more than swallow my rations
and sleep as best I can in the cold.
Every so often we are rewarded with a vacation on Earth.
We are given a life and go about it as we choose, intermingling
with vacationers from other worlds and ways, all here suited as
humans, pretending for our recreation to create our own destinies.
Yet, even here we are still but humanoid renderings of who
we essentially are. Thus I found that during my time on Earth
I was mostly not happy, feeling that I could not fit in anywhere.
There were times that I was very happy indeed, painting
my pictures from my own ideas and imagination. Yes, there
was food and warmth, but these did not really enter my
consciousness as being anything other than routine.
I was dismayed to find that I was really rather surly, unlikeable.
No wonder I did not have a life of good fellowship and
Back from vacation, I find that sludge haulers are a rather surly bunch.
No one has much to say. There’s not much to say about hauling sludge.
Our Earth vacations are so strange to contemplate back here.
We keep what little we remember to ourselves. It is not a
social world here. True, we haul sludge in groups, but not in teams.
We eat and sleep alone, in small cubicles. It all seems rather pointless.
It seems to me that somehow, there must be more. I think about the times
I was happy on my vacation on Earth. There must be some way to
learn from that experience.
I enjoyed creating beauty from my own ideas and imagination.
It occurs to me that I need not actually create a painting.
No one would look at it anyway, even if materials existed.
The beauty is from me, inside my mind. I can look for it.
I can see the beautiful images, watch them move and change
into more beauty.  I can do this while hauling sludge.
No one would be the wiser, except for wise, happy me.
If the beauty is in my mind, if I create it for myself, it doesn’t matter
whether I fit in with those around me. I am around me.
I am always exactly where I am, giving myself the pleasure of
my own beautiful creations. I can be anywhere, my body
engaged in servitude, yet gracefully dancing in the glorious
meadow of my own imagining.