Of course there were rifts
from the beginning in
the fabric of things that
never mended the
way culture intended and
there were tides and whirlpools
both figurative and literal

one tide brought my brothers and I
out into the sacred
under a moonlit sea off Myrtle Beach
on Styrofoam “surfboards”
waves and stars and warm water
moonlight rivers on the ocean

a lazy whirlpool once trapped me for several minutes
in my huge inner tube early
in the leg of a 4 hour run on the Tama river in Japan
through rapids and beckoning beach parties
a paddle would have probably helped
expedite an escape

almost lost a friend on the same trip
he disappeared in front of me like a magic act
like some leviathan of the deep snatched him
I waited, paddling by hand in circles
debating diving in to try and find him in
that sinkhole or to wait a tad longer
meanwhile his hat whooshed up without him
a few seconds after and
he sputtered to the surface

I have been washed to sea
through ayahuasca, san  pedro, peyote, mushrooms, float tanks, trance states, out of  body, lucid dreams
I’ve seen sirens
I have addictive tendencies
that runs in my family, lineage and race if you believe the stuff about natives and liquor
but I’m pulled to altered states
more or less  daily… through meditation,vivid or lucid dreams,  path working during the day, edibles, ale or wine in the evening
feeble attempts to keep the riffs from closing
before I decide to enter

vino de la vida

It’s past witching hour
by far
In vino veritas
(y tambien, la vida no es tan seria como la mente hace que parezca)

enjoy life -but live it(!)
don’t settle
which means ~obtain your magic
claim your mojo
you die alone
make some choices
that only you are accountable for

escape a few beliefs
and a little indoctrination
free the mind a bit
and spirit more
you know those feelings
…your memory can reach that far back
to what you’ve lost touch with-in

in all the scurry
come back to the body
it’s not just a temple
it’s a playground of sensation, energies
pathways and forces
a nexus of power

ride these sensations into presence
only the body is always here and now
while the mind can spin endlessly in neither
anchor self in the earth
and reach the stars
or not
a thousand games
a thousand gems

Protect yourself and grow upright to the sky; that is all.
— Shunryu Suzuki


outside, gray skies
gray streets
gray gradient dopplers of swooshing cars
inside same gray
excesses the night before
leaving ashes where motivation should lie
hate to leave on a gray wave
or gray way
how does one melt these pewter talismans down
their leaden enchantments
using a glowing splinter
taken from the paw
of a creature made of fire
which owes me a debt
as best I can remember

… a gray wave and gray day probably spawned from a haunting poem
I learned in elementary school, though I don’t know from where. It went like this:

A green little chemist
On a green little day
Mixed some green little chemicals
In a green little way.
The green little grasses
Now tenderly wave
O’er the green little chemist’s
Green little grave.

the royal us

let go
limiting thoughts
gaslight thoughts
thoughts with measurements
thoughts of righteousness
thoughts of judgment
thoughts too small and too petty
Who. Cares?
Others give us about as much thought as we give them
Not collectively, individually
How much have you thought about person x?
even if person x is family or close friend
daily? how many minutes? a few seconds?
weekly? rarely? add it up
for those you love dearly, maybe hours
No matter
for many of us
perhaps all of us
we mostly think about us
to such relief!
usually nobody thinks that much about us
in particular
yet: we think everyone’s attention is obsessed with our
every move,
facial tic,
Dream on
…but make better dreams
…if you’re in the dreaming business
otherwise, let go of this self-importance
feel free to jump into the stream
of us taking nothing personally
the royal us

short moments

light seas passing breeze
cloud float frigates
slabs, ocean gray
near the arctic circle
migrating birds from distant shores
compass in head
or heart
fish swim beneath watery horizons
tail-flash into caverns deep
dark, turnkey passages slip to realms of otherspace
poke heads out to mimic ufos
tribal cultures witness
in petroglyph diaries
earth turns, spins, ringing far flung corners of a portly shape
to rhythms days and nights
creatures creep
crawl on floors, top of skins
begin day again
climb towards summit
over bones, dust, stories of ancestors
remains of lineaged history
moments fame, glory, pain and gore
memories forgetting
wind kiss scents of pine, heather
brush shyly and fade
night sky
pricked with light
atop a jar,
punched holes
letting air for our souls
to wee little bugs us
that live in the glow here

Velvet Elvis

road hum
car noise
a hotel room banking the freeway
a car parked out front
a dilapidated outpost
never a great destination
only a tiny dutsy stop alongside
a passage to greater things
lizards scramble searching for breakfast
across the lot
A man sips stale coffee, watching a velvet Elvis
through his window yellow portals of gargoyles seep through royal arches
guarding hamburgers of paradise where millions, no
billions, are served
to whom?
who collects these hungry souls, and their chicken nuggets
and family meals
and who doles out plastic toys of smelted dreams
dangling attention moments empty of nutrition
tossing roadside offerings to lizards who nudge it aside to look for living things
scurrying dirt and rock
amidst towering things of tiny consequence and whole worlds spin
and move and cross round invisible to concerns
of larger spheres. So many charts and gravitations!
whirls and crescentations and heliocentric orbitations
circling the most mundane
enveloping the most amazing
hardly even matters a difference
between arcs and jolts of attention
currencies of denomination
paying tithes
to the new church
of latter day mediocrity

Love Songs (I)

Spawn of fantasies
Sitting the appraisable
Pig Cupid            his rosy snout
Rooting erotic garbage
“Once upon a time”
Pulls a weed      white star-topped
Among wild oats sown in mucous membrane
I would            an eye in a Bengal light
Eternity in a sky-rocket
Constellations in an ocean
Whose rivers run no fresher
Than a trickle of saliva

There are suspect places

I must live in my lantern
Trimming subliminal flicker
Virginal             to the bellows
Of experience
                              Colored glass.

by Mina Loy