Light your sage, smoke me out,
salt your windows and thresholds—
pray there’s a light for me
and one for you as well.
Physics be damned, and logic…logic?
There’s a world—ultra-, infra- to your
spectrum, your matter cage and confines of reason.
I number among a nation of spectres
cavorting in the static and phone wire
ing you sleep, and not sleep, listening
to you wonder about me. I could brag of
how it looks from here: the mystery, she’s naked now.
But gloating is what the lesser do. So
I’ll blow in your ear, brush by you, place
what was once a hand on your shoulder,
insert a remembered face into your dreams.
Your grief is a cold rain, to pass.
I am the filament beyond it.

Video Poem Links Here


Ecology of Atman

Were Heaven just a garden,
and life its soil, and we the seeds,
and death the sun, and dying spring,
where pneuma blooms perfume the air
lit upon by bodisattvas of the meadow,
then all we’ve really never known
is how we are so tended to.

Video links here

Under the Bodhi Tree

The plague wasn’t a static point in time,
but a predictor of other plagues, and
an echo of earlier ones.

Holocausts and genocides still happen,
a form and its shadow, and its shadow’s shadow.
Forward isn’t a direction that can be sustained.

Even the Sun – a formidable animal
in its gleaming meanness is a slave
to gravity’s momentum, an incessant

drone, a constant poem.
A tree’s ascent–seed drilling the sky
a dervish obeying the drum.

Life spirals, so we’ve been going
in circles this whole time.
There is no way out of these woods.

Frangipani Grove

When all of this has gone
away, and the sun is a silver
memory, the moon: a stone
in a sky of stones, and bones
are sand, and land is flame—
when all potential in the void
gleans some notion that it could
explode, expand, become a world
again and then collapse and
fail as ages do, even then
the heart endures
in dark throb
a flint fire
a god song.


It’s a machine, life.
Oily, cold, impersonal.
There’s no paternal affection,
no angelic rescuer, no divine plan.

Just a black engine, a tireless generator
of carbon, hydrogen and other gaseous babies.
Age after age, we appear on its assembly line
not knowing how we got here,
never seeing the strange animal
that bore us into existence.

Somewhere in the onyx plenum
the primal motor growls over enslaved
wheels that have churned perpetual spirals
since who knows when.
The grand axle revolves forever,
unimpressed by its prolific issue.
Surely, if the old turbine could imagine eternity
and consider its tiresome chore, it would go mad.
But it imagines nothing.

So on it goes, steaming, yoked
to the momentum of the ages, siring galaxies,
understanding none of it.
The poor beast cannot even pray for its own death.

Published at The Poet’s Billow, November 2014