I don’t mind one crow,
on a rail or curb,
by its lonesome.
Nor am I troubled by
a large number of the birds.
(The group designation “murder,”
notwithstanding.)
But where two or three
are gathered, facing
each other…
That’s when I get the
heebie-jeebies.
A culture is a vehicle
we use to move
through
this world.
And like all vehicles -
be it truck or bus -
it
has blindspots.
Everyone in a given
vehicle has the same
blindspots...
That's why we travel.
I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.
Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall, die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.
I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.
A slender leaf
floats downstream.
Its tip touches
a stouter leaf,
sending the
slender leaf
spinning.
The leaf continues to
twist as it drifts,
Making it seem spastic,
but it neither rushes
nor dawdles.
It matches the flow,
letting gravity &
currents do all the work.
It races only when it
plunges through
a narrow channel,
But it downshifts just as
effortlessly as the
stream widens.
The leaf's action is
unforced, yielding to
energy imparted upon it.
I found bliss.
And cooked it on the
simmer setting
of my soul --
That vacant hole that
I let swell with color
and light.
My only worry was that
it would flash fry all
that I am.
But one worry is enough
to kill the joy,
to kill everything vibrant
& reckless within.
The bliss was quenched,
and it steamed & sizzled,
and all I could hear was its
deafening sound.
Where is the line whose crossing
sends a jolt through your system,
making you jelly-kneed & breathless?
Where is the line?
Do you know you're stepping over
before the shock zips through you?
Is anticipation of the shock
worse than the shock?
Who built this fence?
Who picked the notch to which
the severity of the shock
would be dialed?
Was it you?
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter -- bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
"Because it is bitter,
"And because it is my heart."
Who are you, reader, reading my poems my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring,
one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories
of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning,
sending its glad voice across an hundred years.
A small arc of sun
stands above the trees
Like the tufts of hair
that give away the
hiding boy who can’t
judge hairdo height.
The next time I turn around,
I see Sun -- fully out and
stalking up behind me,
looming larger.
Infinite golden Buddhas
stretch along the path.
Each step occurs
in the presence of one
and the presence of all
and the presence of none --
simultaneously.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 