and to think

in certainty,
I look towards not myself
not my well versed mind
not my flexed muscles
not my trained fingers.

but simply the ocean,
the rolling energy of large masses
the crashing water brought forth
from leagues away, certain universes
not to be seen by our eye
only felt by our pulse.

and thus I must say,
thank you mother.

and then there stands with reason,
the question of confidence
the very straight manner of pure
and honest and straight belief
in the reason to live-
the actual effort of attainment.

and yes, for me,
there is openness
for I can recall shades
notes, words, phrases, pens, and
over stuffed notepads-
doodles by letters and actions
body movements in light on wind…

a woman’s body now on mind,
her voice of feline purity
caressing the meals of the day
the low fructose bearing of all-
and to think,
I forgot to thank
the mother this day.

the years are ahead and
in this day as well,
all points circumnavigating through
well defined paths of
listlessness, stopping and crying
at meditation minutes
where I will break out of
my typewriter
and dance.

sting like a bee

happy birthday to the greatest

i still dream

the wind was silent but for us

the long poems run through
and through
supplementing conversation
and awareness with some
different life

when the dawn is too slow
or too dark
the poems’ author, me
lies awake passionately
asking for more

in certain spans
an orange love is at my side
and in others
an opaque garden
where loneliness rests

my silence is in
my health and shape
I weep in silence too,
the purpose is
larger than my silence

on my bike there is
a writer’s table
another rests in my workplace
and between my cock
and asshole

in others’ poetry I do not see
in others’ poetry I barely hear
but
in others’ lost rants I find
them, and a lost religion

the artifacts of science
are most lost without
the artifacts of poetry,
my favorite songs died
well before poetry

zippy zippy I go
along the shoreline
bare arms singing to pavement
and jeans rolled
to the wind

is it lost
if it is not to be found?
or rather can we live
if it ever was found
and loved?

the wind is not
certain
the poems I feel
and the orange I know
simply say

the wind was silent,
but for us

we grow frustrated and fat

we grow frustrated and fat as we let the corporate hosts of the world write false melodramas on the sainthood of our food,

our own personal problems complexed in personal hooligans, consuming, consuming, consuming, all that is and ever will be,

that which is both in a store and from a sea not here is of not only purpose, place, and positioning, but alas pride and dignity,

our own worth held up to what we take and what we eat, vaguely priced ferocities of the records of this day,

over and over again we cry out in pain, unfulfilled promises of death in the name of notice, confrontation, a reached out palm,

we put together our own closets of what we see in our heads’ streets, and also, what we see at the theaters of our penises and vaginas,

we speak so highly of all that has been done wrong, all that has been notified as sin, all that which has caused this effect,

and on we trudge, dragging our backpacks through the sandy beaches of our hope’s coastline, scraping against the wrongdoings of our government,

stopping only for the quick fixes, not of drugs but of medicine, the lab born seeds and meals in our one stop diners,

that which we speak, we juxtapose with great notice and only a somewhat blind eye, aided by pink ribbons and happy slogans,

 

today, it is possible that we can lose the jazz, lose the sweet nights of stars above, eyes set, ears on fire, lips locked in talk,

and, today, we can find back the poems of our mothers and the dirty hands of our fathers, and we can earn back the trust of our mother,

in small pieces of architecture with purposefully scant means we can recreate what is already in the air with vegetables and fruits only,

our hands can find dirt with words, stirring together salad prose of influence and reach, flair and simplicity,

nothing that is hip will carry on with its non-hidden meaning, its baseless pretense, its conjectured trial will not stand the test of time,

yes, yes, yes, yes we will find that we can live without occupation or mesmerization, and yes, yes, yes, yes we will find that we can listen to the music without plugs,

the beauty of the raw can be found in the balance of the old laughs and queer hugs, it is hidden under a tea kettle in the garden,

and our birth parents will speak to us not in rhyme but unabashed prose, comma-less appeals to the souls of the native tongue,

ah, what a day it may be, when we no longer grow frustrated and fat, but rather energetic and calm.

must I too light a match? (a letter to my friend and poetic hero, Mohamed Bouazizi)

I do not mean to sound selfish Mohamed
but I do not want to set myself
ablaze
akin to how you did, o so
heroically and poetically,
I can only imagine the pain of knowing your
final beauty
was indeed your last
and not easy on
your mother

yes, I understand
or at
least I think I understand
see, there is a
man named Mr. Canton
and thanks to him
someday I may too be
in flames,
and then my name might be spread
like brushfire
across America through encampments
it would flow
like the verses of Phil Ochs
and revive tired squatters

but I hope not
but I am sad because of that
Mohamed you were beautiful
Mohamed you still are beautiful
what you have done
the poem you have written
and still write from your new perch
at the seat f
the greatest
body writers,
next to a man
from Tiennamen

I don’t want to be ablaze
and that sounds selfish
when I talk to you Mohamed
most especially when
I cite you
as Allen once sighted Orca,
through my days, these days
I feel I owe you an ode
at the very least,
a letter and poem

but for now
can we settle in a common ground

where I am American and you are
too,
in the form of my hero
and your lack of a Visa

i hoped they would not be forgot

i wrote a million and some
little poems in my head,
on my bike,
on my route to work

the poems played out under the sun
of the day, in the spokes stirring my wheels,
they pranced as life lessons
sarcastic epiphanies
and the preludes
to first name bases with
the masters of my mind

they were in there tapping away
and i hoped to whatever dear god
they would not be forgot

so i repeated
and i rehearsed,
i swarmed my lobes
let my ears full of
the modern memories

i let my panting legs
slam the keyboard pavement
and replace a pad,
my handlebars wept

“this is a reason to bike,
to cycle”
i titled one piece
another more profound pronouncement
and more simple too, was
“uphill breaks”
these i forgot in a sort of
not just typed
but rhythmed and anecdotes
way
and thus sank into
myself for some time

these poems were so
me so like mine because probably they were,
though, at times
when the first name basses began
the bible of literatures
let a vinyl spin shortly
and spread some on mine
i also saw naked women
but couldn’t depict the wolves

of these past days’ rides all have
run this course
pranced along these lanes and
revered similar soulful devils
lamenting on my left bicep
in my head
on my bike
living

the beat hotel

a poem written on the eve of christmas (and the cusp of San Francisco)

I am writing a poem
on the eve of christmas
and on
the cusp of San Francisco

I started writing some twenty or
some thirty minutes past,
we were in a family car
fleeing one scene
in favor of another
the car kept pace to thought
and the only lights
I have ever thought to be true
flew by
then faded back

the presents I give
are pieces of art
poems of old
and donations in name,
I also asked for none
but that present won’t be received
my parents love me too much
and also
the rest

my skin is well wrapped
in coincidence with the air
much akin to the fodder
of professionalism

and on my night went
and on my night now types
it is after all
the eve of christmas
on the cusp of San Francisco
and my heart’s one desire
my heart’s one longing
yearning,

I do not know
and thus I cannot ask
nor can I wait and toil
instead it is a matter
of silence
of tipping
of meditating
of reading
the answers
aren’t out there

yet

my little brother lays asleep on the
couch as the clock
turns the day over
and Santa calls the first lady
with his coordinates

my parents snuggle
with the dog nearby
me too,
but they do not know
and it is for the better
after all, we are all one

if none of this were to
matter I would go about
just the same
it is in essence
just as much about
the jump
as it is about the
tender touch upon landing

my old bed is not
in this room where
I write,
though it used to be my room
and that is fine
at some point all things must change

at least
that is how I see it
while writing a poem
on christmas eve
on the cusp of San Francisco
set well in the south

written on a beach, holding a button

I am holding
a button purchased
from the public
in the pocket of my
jacket,
and around me
are people of
similar sun tans
changing through the doorless grey sky
with towels

it is not San Diego
this day
at least not the
greeting card way

my fingers run once
more over the
tiny button
finding the streusel string
that lost its
purpose in favor
of an independent effort

this I thought
as the voice and
face akin to
a legend glanced by
my left
and I didn’t stop
to intake notice
for the thought
of the tiny button
was now on tongue
having scampered
quite convincingly
through tips nerves
then brain waves
back through nerves
to tongue

the soft touch
of the ocean’s sweat
filled the holes
as I took paces
and looked about

the rolling beauty
of ocean’s energy
repeated
these lines
and this happened