Song of Myself

"A human being is a part of the whole, called by us "Universe," a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest- a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole nature in its beauty. Nobody is able to acheive this completely, but the striving for such acheivement is in itself a part of the liberation, and a foundation for inner security."
-Albert Einstein-



"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,


And what I assume you shall assume,


For every atom belonging to me


as good belongs to you.





I loafe and invite my soul,


I lean and loafe at my ease


observing a spear of summer grass.





My tongue, every atom of my blood,

form'd from this soil, this air,


Born here of parents born here from parents the same,

and their parents the same,


I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,


Hoping to cease not till death. "

-Walt Whitman-

navigation

fixed on you
like Magellan on a star
my heart ready
to drop onto the floor

silly to pick a word
to mirror my heart
one word should be
light as a dove
but comes out
heavy as sludge

a word can't mimic
the bliss of your touch

or taste of your tongue

amen, Bob Dylan!

"Yes, to dance

beneath the diamond sky

with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea,

circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate

driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today

until tomorrow."

efflorescence

Kissing you is like

inhaling the moon,

drowning in dark light,

falling into bloom.

Dead delight reversed,

this powerful pull.

A possible curse,

or beautiful fall?

having the flu and with nothing else to do

by Charles Bukowski

"I read a book about John Dos Passos and according to
the book once radical-communist
John ended up in the Hollywood Hills living off investments
and reading the
Wall Street Journal

this seems to happen all too often.

what hardly ever happens is
a man going from being a young conservative to becoming an
old wild-ass radical

however:
young conservatives always seem to become old
conservatives.
it's a kind of lifelong mental vapor-lock.

but when a young radical ends up an
old radical
the critics
and the conservatives
treat him as if he escaped from a mental
institution.

such is our politics and you can have itall.

keep it.

sail it up your

ass."

independence day

Magic sparks and shimmers

across the sky

it'd take a fool to try

to hold that hot flame

captured until it's cold.

A dead cylinder

in the palm of your hand,

to capture the glowing magic of night

and hold it in a jar,

only to wake up and realize

that you killed it dead.

What was once a luminous mystery

now a sterile tangle of legs and feelers.

If my thoughts of you

were like locks of hair,

I'd wind them up in my fingers

until the golden tendrils

became so curled and kinked

that it hurt to be turned,

I couldn't let go.

I am the berry plump and juicy,

ready to be picked.

You are the thorn, sharp and hidden,

ready to prick.

Now it's independence day,

so drop away

drop away.

city blocks

East coast women

hairy beast women

study Lady Brett,

decide if she's a bitch.

Making a living,

these days too many

reaching dead hands

to the numb wind.

Yapping maw of femininity

screeches, scrawls

winter, eternity

lives all close and crowded.

things that are certain

Stars have their fires

the fly its flitter

churches, their spires

the rain its hammer.

How many wrinkles can eyes hold?

Night draws his curtain

these stories all told

a hundred year clock, our burden.

Sure release of eggs

insures against the certain scythe

cramp of blood, pain, dregs

of unfulfilled life.

So lay out the tools:

tin nails and typewritten pages,

paint tubes, tape and broom

to protect while body ages.

the return of lost things

suddenly

all the lost objects

re-appear.

one guitar pick

camouflaged tortoiseshell

on the table

and wait, here are two more,

here are those pink knee socks

(whore socks, Junior called em)

and look here,

on the ground,

a spare key,

ninety dollars worth of gold.

all the lost things returning

from their place of ether

here comes that smart guy from school,

the nice one, strolling across the aisle,

and the soulmate, she's back too,

singing those shiny radiant songs

fueled by grapes and cheese.

another friend pops her head in the window,

says 'help me with this wedding'

and the old guy wants to

watch the old dog

like in the old days.

broken webs repaired,

like magic.

there's Hugo, the deer with three legs

maybe he'll find his lost leg in

river's rivulet over there,

in the dark woods.

let's dream big

fill up space with grand dreams

of beautiful new lives

dreams multiplying into infinity

with Hindu goddess arms.

How about a restored frontal lobe?

Pure untainted flesh?

A whole family on holiday?

Belief in real enraptured love?

Trust, purpose?

Casting those fine dreams

up into the fine air

like a pink blonde witch,

up into the giant question mark

of giant arms and hands

where they'll get sorted

while I tend the garden.

Preacher Casy

"'A girl was just a girl to you. They wasn't nothin' to you. But to me they was holy vessels. I was savin' their souls. An' here with all that responsibility on me I'd just get 'em frothin with the Holy Sperit, an' then I'd take 'em out in the grass.'

'Maybe I should of been a preacher,' said Joad."

from "Instructions to Poets and Painters"

by Lawrence Ferlenghetti

"I asked a hundred painters and a hundred poets

how to paint sunlight

on the face of life

Their answers were ambiguous and ingenuous

as if they were all guarding trade secrets

Whereas it seems to me

all you have to do

is conceive of the whole world

and all humanity

as a kind of art work

a site-specific art work

the whole earth and all that's in it

to be painted with light

And the first thing you have to do

is paint out the postmodern painting

And the next thing is to paint yourself

in your true colors

in primary colors

as you see them (without whitewash)

paint yourself as you see yourself

without make-up

without masks

then paint your favorite people an animals

with your brush loaded with light

And be sure to get your perspective right

and don't fake it

because one false line leads to another"

wave a white flag

by Elvis Costello

"take off your shoes

hang up your wings

stack up the chairs

roll up the rug

savor the things

that sobriety brings

drainin' the last from a jug

but when I hit the bottle

there's no telling what I'll do

there's something deep inside me

wants to turn you black and blue

I can't resist you

I can't wait

To twist your loving arms

till you capitulate

beat me in the kitchen

and I'll beat you in the hall

there's nothing I love better

than a free for all

to take your pretty neck

and see which way it bends

but when it is all over

we will still be friends

wave a white flag

put away the pistol

too many people just can't get kissed

but if there's nothing I can do

to make amends, baby,

hope you don't murder me, gee baby,

hope you don't murder me"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yOUp3IO2IrQ

get in touch

If you have suggestions about writing, want to share your own stuff, have issues with me as a person you'd like to iron out, or would just like to get in touch, call me. 513-678-1941. Anonymity is for the birds! I'm really very sweet and like to keep it real.

sex without love

by Sharon Olds

"How do they do it, the ones who make love

without love? Beautiful as dancers,

gliding over each other like ice-skaters

over the ice, fingers hooked

inside each other's bodies, faces

red as steak, wine, wet as the

children at birth whose mothers are going to

give them away. How do they come to the

still waters, and not love

the one who came there with them, light

rising slowly as steam off their joined

skin? These are the true religious,

the purists, the pros, the ones who will not

accept a false messiah, love the

priest instead of the God. They do not

mistake the lover for their own pleasure,

they are like great runners: they know they are alone

with the road surface, the cold, the wind,

the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-

vascular health- just factors, like the partner

in the bed, and not the truth, which is the

single body alone in the universe

against its own best time."

gratitude

This is not a poem.

I am grateful for my parents. Without their support I would never have been able to do all of the things I have done. I'm grateful for them instilling the values of travel, freedom and independence in me from a young age. I'm grateful for their undying love and support. They are my backbone and my strength.

I am grateful for all of the living I have done in the last decade. I feel like I've crammed an entire lifetime's worth of experience into the last ten years. I'm grateful to have the tools that move me into a more balanced pace as life begins to slow down.

I'm grateful for the sun, the wind, the stars, the moon, the grass, the smells of water on air, the sound of crickets in late summer, fireflies in the trees and bushes, the way new snow sparkles like diamonds, thunder and lightning, strong driving rain, the sunrise and sunset.

I'm grateful for the men I've had in my life, the lessons they've taught me about patience, honesty, openness, communication, vulnerability and forgiveness. I am grateful for my losses for showing me that I can get back up after a fall, and that with time all things change. Hurt doesn't last forever.

I am grateful for my imagination. All the places I've traveled. My friends. My students. My curiosity about the world. Fresh food in plentitude. Plenty of water to drink and bathe in. Heat. Sunlight. My pets for all the love, affection and humor they bring into my life. Good health. Easy laughter.

another day in the rain

Another day in November,

you can pretend there's no problem

until you're face to face with it

at the dinner table

where your brother, he's lost in another world

his face a mask of ever changing mood

menacing smirk

crazed grin

twisted scowl

wide eyed toddler,

a lunatic plunged headlong into darkness

standing in front of the mirror

trying on all these masks,

these horrific identities

since the real one slid down the drain

many showers ago.

All you can eat is the lump in your throat

and in silence shove back the tears

the incredible sadness washes, waves

run into the bathroom,

with one lonely bar of soap

and one 99 cent bottle of shampoo.

What is the unbearable sadness of this life?

run into your father's garage,

break down into a hug, a rare opportunity

shake your head, stare at the tools and paint.

The hurt of all these sick generations,

palpable in the fluorescent air

heavy, hopeless,

anything would be easier

than this fruitless game of pretend.

Shove down the potatoes,

a pasty lump of ancestral pain

hand them in heaping forkfuls

to the greedy dog under the table

to get the meal finished faster,

then slide away into the night.

Another day in May,

wondering,

what is this life?

So hard to keep an open heart

with all these faces gaping

and words, words.

Your brother is sick

nowhere in this world for him,

he can't find any love

so he'll take it

with razor blades.

Look at the mugshots,

try to understand something,

only there's nothing to understand.

The kids still play baseball,

people still buy their Friday night beers,

clerks still ring up customers,

while your family breaks.

Float by this day,

just another scared shadow,

shocked.

little wild ones

Come down off that mountain,

my little wild one.

Always liking the misfits better.

Always up in your head,

taking your pants off.

St. Dominic, the patron saint

of juvenile delinquents

and choir boys.

Those sons of bitches

would steal a nickel

right off a dead man's eye.

last spring

laying on the military trunk

breathing afternoon woodsmoke

dried mud caking my feet

paint chips scraping my soft skin

wearing my boyfriend's flannel shirt

and the bradford pear

smelling like a man

listening

Part of being grown

is not giving in

to every urge you may have.

Are you listening?

The turtle carries

her shell, slowly,

but surely progressing.

Are you listening?

The good men out there

build clouds

and us girls lay in them,

laughing hysterically.

Are you listening?

Doing the old dance,

believing what you are shown,

not what you're dreaming.

Are you listening?

Dangling on the edge of a clock,

flying on blue currents

of adrenaline and immaturity.

You could bounce on my smile.

Are you listening?

Lord Byron on poetry

"Poetry is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake."-- Lord Byron

storytelling

Once upon a time

to have been somebody's amazon warrior

been somebody's wide-eyed wild woman

have been somebody's sugar mama

have been somebody's Jackie Kerouac

been the cool side of their pillow.

Reborn in a Nashville hotel room

with the changing of the light

daylight savings

No longer naming myself,

trying to grow my face into masks

which don't quite fit.

Just sit on this cushion

and name bird noises

in the early morning

Scribble silly things in a notebook

and try not to take everything

so damn serious.

The world

needs its clowns,

its sad-eyed poets,

its piss-bottle men,

its lobotomy eyed suburb wives.

They're all lugging heavy hearts around.

On this big road

we are propelled at such high speeds

in chunks of mineral smelted and drawn

from deep inside this earth

fueled by burning hunks

of old dinosaurs

Stars of our little stories,

playing our little roles,

zipping along in metal bubbles.

We listen to voices

of those we've never met

over vast distances.

Blood of the Bag Lady

by Lawrence Ferlenghetti

"Happy he

who held those breasts

apples of bliss

blissfully hanging

once upon a time

Now she of the broken bust

stumbles across the street

looking for butts

Old bag of blood

with a history to tell

of where all that blood came from

coursing through generations of generations

all those swimming unsinkable genes

in veins and arteries of the world

sailing through rife humanity

through that beat body

A walking gene pool

teeming tide pool born of oceans

Mother of us all"

proof of love

take one series of sweet and tender kisses

add a few rolls between the sheets

minus one small shower

factor by two bowls of homemade soup

multiply by

two oxytocin

three vasopressin

one hefty dose of dopamine

divide by six moments of gnawing longing

subtract one thwarted pregnancy

multiply by the zero of unreturned calls

and what do you get?

Sonnet 27

by William Shakespeare

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;

But then begins a journey in my head,

To work my mind, when body's work's expired:

For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keeping my drooping eyelids open wide,

Looking on darkness which the blind do see:

Save that my soul's imaginary sight

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,

Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.

Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,

For thee and for myself no quiet find.

smoke and leather

The first boyfriend smelled

like smoke and leather,

just like each one since.

Sixteen years passed,

still the same reaction,

this scent trails like a

musky orchid

and my lips tingle,

my stomach floats.

Smoke and leather guys

end up smelling like

bile and rubbing alcohol

and take too many drugs

and think they're turning into skeletons

and cut their arms with broken glass.

A man should smell

like pollen and cut grass,

like car parts,

and jobs,

and a good sweat.

reduction in force

the cookies rest sedately

on a work counter

under fluorescent light,

a simple reminder

of how it crumbles underfoot,

slides with the tide of apathy,

slippery,

slipping.

a living wake for my job,

that I still get up and go to.

a living wake for my family,

very much alive and breathing.

a living wake for my spirit,

fading fast with each passing of the day.

the sweetness of the cookie

tastes like a bitter pill

or a heavy load of syrup.

so I take the whole box

and give the mess away.

mountain

nothing wrong with

being sweet all the time

letting the sweetness lift and lift

my heart, radiating

up, up

filling the atmosphere

with warm pink light,

orange gleaming shine,

prismatic dust motes,

golden cream seashells,

fierce tiger lilies and red rose petals

raining,

misting down,

radiant.

enclosed in a dark diamond sky

white snow glittering underfoot

a sense of a dome

vast, dizzying, upward

up, up,

merging, growing, magical, unearthly.

floating in this little room

this temple, our spaceship

adults tucked like sleepy children

by a roaring fire on Christmas Eve

bowls appearing from the ether

singing their deep circular sound

ringing around the tiny room

merging, merged.

bursting forth with love

a crack of sunlight

in winter's gloomy gray fortress