Sometime around 1958, Saint Paul, Minnesota
My birth mom Charlane carried the blood of The King. Pretty lofty words, you might think I was descended from royalty, but it’s not exactly like that. Actually this was The King of Rock and Roll, Elvis Presley. Now what is this boy talking about?
You know the scene, screaming girls and Elvis shaking his hips. Charlane was there, in some Civic Auditorium in 1958. I can’t say I was in her womb, but perhaps my connection to The King is a bit more subtle, a bit more elusive than being a teenybopper’s soon to be adopted son drifting in fluid while Elvis and Scotty Moore work it out on Mystery Train. I can’t make that claim, like being conceived at Woodstock or something.
In the midst of all the screaming and crappy sound system, girls were throwing things up on stage. Not like notes or roses, but pictures in frames and big heavy notebooks to sign. One of these objects hit him square in the forehead, drawing blood. There was a hush in the crowd as the music stopped for a second and Elvis dabbed at his wound, looking vindictively into the crowd for help or to find out who threw it. Suddenly a flurry of handkerchiefs floated onto stage from the front rows, girls were pouring up to the front and laying out there handkerchiefs for Elvis.
He was so thankful and polite. He leaned down to choose one and a girl gasped, cupping her hands over her mouth. Elvis dabbed the blood for a moment and smiled at the crowd again, backing away toward the band. He counted off a One Two Three and went into Teddy Bear just like that, putting pressure on his wound the whole time.
As the song was finishing, The King walked toward the front of the stage and, according to Charlane, looked straight at her and then didn’t really throw, but let go of the handkerchief, and like a leaf it flew down into her outstretched hands. The red stain was still wet and warm.
She kept the memento for some years, and I’d like to think it was still there in her room, folded neatly under glass, red stain peeking through, the day I was born. But the story goes that her Mother, who was quite a serious non emotional person, threw it away one day in a cleaning frenzy. It’s not clear if she knew what it was and thought her daughter didn’t need it or if it were just an oversight, another non descript item lying around. It could go either way.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Color of blood
-One-
Traffic grinding along
Dirty shack streets of
San Salvador.
My hand speaks
the motion of lips
Locked in silence and security.
One slip to fall
in the abyss of lookout valleys
where buzzards keep meat
content with pickin off dead martyrs.
The color of blood is universal
Smiles and memory
Green-fatigued clowns
Swaying hearts and minds
Marked by the white hand of death
Silent weapons called music and dancing
Spring spirits from unmarked graves.
-Two-
Dogs are barking out
The spell of night
Imprisoned songs penetrate
Barrier veils
Steel bars shaped like flowers
Hold voices back
Echoing cages over windows.
The sweet breath of song
Rings in unison
With the underground passages.
Conciousness inhibiting dreams
Dreams ride up in black Jeep Cherokees
Fortune giving light
Shedding skin
Bodies waving through their
Field of vision.
-Three-
I am serenaded by sentries
The seed of greed passes on the wind
Landing in a furrow and sprouting
Far above the dark earth
Seed becomes leaf
Leaf enquires to the wind
Around the tracks of the evening
Clothed in fog
We wrap ourselves in a shroud of memories.
The seed becomes real in the speech of poetic days.
The day watches like a crow for
Dogs of intelligence.
Life rings
Tolling
Hammers return to dust and sand.
New growth like corn
Mingles with jungle bravado angels
Stark faces serious in the wind
As much as the spirit can endure.
This zone commands a red rose
Blooms incarnate blossom bending
Like the young stalk of a child
Wrapped in liberation.
Traffic grinding along
Dirty shack streets of
San Salvador.
My hand speaks
the motion of lips
Locked in silence and security.
One slip to fall
in the abyss of lookout valleys
where buzzards keep meat
content with pickin off dead martyrs.
The color of blood is universal
Smiles and memory
Green-fatigued clowns
Swaying hearts and minds
Marked by the white hand of death
Silent weapons called music and dancing
Spring spirits from unmarked graves.
-Two-
Dogs are barking out
The spell of night
Imprisoned songs penetrate
Barrier veils
Steel bars shaped like flowers
Hold voices back
Echoing cages over windows.
The sweet breath of song
Rings in unison
With the underground passages.
Conciousness inhibiting dreams
Dreams ride up in black Jeep Cherokees
Fortune giving light
Shedding skin
Bodies waving through their
Field of vision.
-Three-
I am serenaded by sentries
The seed of greed passes on the wind
Landing in a furrow and sprouting
Far above the dark earth
Seed becomes leaf
Leaf enquires to the wind
Around the tracks of the evening
Clothed in fog
We wrap ourselves in a shroud of memories.
The seed becomes real in the speech of poetic days.
The day watches like a crow for
Dogs of intelligence.
Life rings
Tolling
Hammers return to dust and sand.
New growth like corn
Mingles with jungle bravado angels
Stark faces serious in the wind
As much as the spirit can endure.
This zone commands a red rose
Blooms incarnate blossom bending
Like the young stalk of a child
Wrapped in liberation.
Life Drama
Ivory hands conduct the business of pearls
Dreams transluscent
Transcending dreams.
Your life a scattered prism
Of worried days and regretful years.
Still
Your hands are beautiful
Carvings
Sensitive remnants.
If the mouth in your palm could speak
It would reveal an ageless memory of toil.
Dreams transluscent
Transcending dreams.
Your life a scattered prism
Of worried days and regretful years.
Still
Your hands are beautiful
Carvings
Sensitive remnants.
If the mouth in your palm could speak
It would reveal an ageless memory of toil.
After seeing an old picture of Mt. Rushmore
My cousin
Has a picture
Of her dead mother
My dead Aunt
In front of Mt. Rushmore.
Only Washington is there
Sediment lines run through his wig
He stares into the sky alone
Lord of the land but a soldier and no mystic.
His stony gaze subjugating
How these Black Hills must have stirred and quaked
Under this shuddering chiselled edge
Cutting her veins and hammering
Rock dust away from eon's erosion and decay.
Has a picture
Of her dead mother
My dead Aunt
In front of Mt. Rushmore.
Only Washington is there
Sediment lines run through his wig
He stares into the sky alone
Lord of the land but a soldier and no mystic.
His stony gaze subjugating
How these Black Hills must have stirred and quaked
Under this shuddering chiselled edge
Cutting her veins and hammering
Rock dust away from eon's erosion and decay.
Craft
Creeley Cold Mountain intellectual,
Koestler's three-brained ghost,
Daddy beat at the switch,
Flipping,
Between blithe reptiles,
Slithering
In the halls of justice.
Lorca! Neruda! Snyder!
Hail to the poets !
Thoreau and Emerson wail alone.
A shack for every student
Inner peace to achieve flow.
Koestler's three-brained ghost,
Daddy beat at the switch,
Flipping,
Between blithe reptiles,
Slithering
In the halls of justice.
Lorca! Neruda! Snyder!
Hail to the poets !
Thoreau and Emerson wail alone.
A shack for every student
Inner peace to achieve flow.
Doubt
The faded barn leans to the west
A picture of time and stillness
I glance over my father's shoulder
to glimpse the light in the doorway.
He reads me.
Yep it could use a little work.
He rakes on.
I stand behind him smoking
Hunched over from the cold,
Arms drawn in I agree
With a bouncing at the knees.
A picture of time and stillness
I glance over my father's shoulder
to glimpse the light in the doorway.
He reads me.
Yep it could use a little work.
He rakes on.
I stand behind him smoking
Hunched over from the cold,
Arms drawn in I agree
With a bouncing at the knees.
Hieros Gamos
The moon lights the earth
With a dim uncertainty.
Look!!
There is a huge crab in the mud,
Two dogs guard the orbit of the sun.
They bark at the moon and we sit here still.
Artemis!
You have married the sun?
You who only attracts rain?
Which is your castle,
There with the forest
Lurking behind or here,
On the steppes?
With a dim uncertainty.
Look!!
There is a huge crab in the mud,
Two dogs guard the orbit of the sun.
They bark at the moon and we sit here still.
Artemis!
You have married the sun?
You who only attracts rain?
Which is your castle,
There with the forest
Lurking behind or here,
On the steppes?
Murder the Murderer
Though death be a day
The sun merely raises its glow
To suffuse the night while
In a room of silent smoke
Low candles hunger for
The blood of burns and
The death of flames.
Your eyes
The hours most love
Penetrate the evening with
Bright clairvoyance.
Watch him
Strapped to his cynicism and
Brooding with early flowers
That pluck at his flesh With
Chained petals.
Shadows form
Thrust in darkness
The shape of his killing hands
Cries
Splattering on walls in
Point blank flashes of light.
The sun merely raises its glow
To suffuse the night while
In a room of silent smoke
Low candles hunger for
The blood of burns and
The death of flames.
Your eyes
The hours most love
Penetrate the evening with
Bright clairvoyance.
Watch him
Strapped to his cynicism and
Brooding with early flowers
That pluck at his flesh With
Chained petals.
Shadows form
Thrust in darkness
The shape of his killing hands
Cries
Splattering on walls in
Point blank flashes of light.
Apparition
Wind shakes the trees
A saw being bent and bowed
Rattling in your hand
While you hold sutras
Under your arm.
Maya says Abra Kedabra
Barefoot
Silent
Holding a snake flute
A soft-skinned gourd.
Perpetual Africa-cum-Dravidia
Drumbeats
Sunday-go-to-meeting melodies
Burst forth from
Fiery diamond hands.
The shooting star of mercy
Must have a bleak face
Carrying the weight of seers and
The baggage of saints.
A saw being bent and bowed
Rattling in your hand
While you hold sutras
Under your arm.
Maya says Abra Kedabra
Barefoot
Silent
Holding a snake flute
A soft-skinned gourd.
Perpetual Africa-cum-Dravidia
Drumbeats
Sunday-go-to-meeting melodies
Burst forth from
Fiery diamond hands.
The shooting star of mercy
Must have a bleak face
Carrying the weight of seers and
The baggage of saints.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Art
The old woodsman who left no trace
All he left us was a book
But we cling to it while we slip away
When you can’t tell the dancer from the dance
She gets into a groove
But it’s the music
She’s moving
Swallowed by a flame so soft and without a name
The fire that consumes the deed
It’s just the art
It’s not about the living
These two ideas sometimes together never seen
But go a little deeper
You might find the space where they finally meet.
All he left us was a book
But we cling to it while we slip away
When you can’t tell the dancer from the dance
She gets into a groove
But it’s the music
She’s moving
Swallowed by a flame so soft and without a name
The fire that consumes the deed
It’s just the art
It’s not about the living
These two ideas sometimes together never seen
But go a little deeper
You might find the space where they finally meet.
Pittsburgh
O climb ye to the highlands
For there you shall see
A baby llama with snow white fur
Gateway to the sun
Creator of all fragile and vulnerable elements
Do you not see the dried snot on their faces ?
The white crust at the corners of their mouths ?
How they thirst !!
This is our plea
For high are we
Jumbling carrots he pretended to know intuitively
A past was forming
Away from the courgettes and the aubergine clouds
Wavering above the hamburger stand
A wickety wackety giant-sized bun
Atop the clattering van
Rooftop people waiting
Fire burning with no condiments in sight
A masked broiler snickers between the crimson flames
Pittsburgh
A man yells emblazoned with fires of the past
Youth shadows spread along the awning
A young pigioen landing and shitting in your
Coke with lemon
Period.
For there you shall see
A baby llama with snow white fur
Gateway to the sun
Creator of all fragile and vulnerable elements
Do you not see the dried snot on their faces ?
The white crust at the corners of their mouths ?
How they thirst !!
This is our plea
For high are we
Jumbling carrots he pretended to know intuitively
A past was forming
Away from the courgettes and the aubergine clouds
Wavering above the hamburger stand
A wickety wackety giant-sized bun
Atop the clattering van
Rooftop people waiting
Fire burning with no condiments in sight
A masked broiler snickers between the crimson flames
Pittsburgh
A man yells emblazoned with fires of the past
Youth shadows spread along the awning
A young pigioen landing and shitting in your
Coke with lemon
Period.
Devilish Gurus With Their Brain Dead Flocks
7 hermetic principles
mentalism, correspondence, vibration, polarity, rhythm, cause and effect, gender
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law
to create with one hand while the other destroys
fame is like a little dog you have to take out with you everyday
smokin like the tires of some dragster getting ready to shoot off
a parachute across the finish line
tappin the fire inside
stokin my flames with a red hot iron
another buning coal smolders and sparks into the air
poppin my fingers to the cracklin rhythm there
I wont die of exposure
Fame is not my curse
No blessing found in my home
Other than a little verse
mentalism, correspondence, vibration, polarity, rhythm, cause and effect, gender
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law
to create with one hand while the other destroys
fame is like a little dog you have to take out with you everyday
smokin like the tires of some dragster getting ready to shoot off
a parachute across the finish line
tappin the fire inside
stokin my flames with a red hot iron
another buning coal smolders and sparks into the air
poppin my fingers to the cracklin rhythm there
I wont die of exposure
Fame is not my curse
No blessing found in my home
Other than a little verse
Gypsy
Through fate and love our paths crossed
I remember under the moolit sky
Our eyes spoke over the river no words
Branded my heart to this day
The water between us your mother carried you away
I ran back to the caravan and headed East they say
And now back westward today
If she’s gone off to rest
May peace shine it’s light all her days
We stopped a while to breathe the air
Play a tune
Wash our clothes
Your home sat still like a rock by the river
Animals at your command
I left my gloves of leather
For you to find in the night
I remember under the moolit sky
Our eyes spoke over the river no words
Branded my heart to this day
The water between us your mother carried you away
I ran back to the caravan and headed East they say
And now back westward today
If she’s gone off to rest
May peace shine it’s light all her days
We stopped a while to breathe the air
Play a tune
Wash our clothes
Your home sat still like a rock by the river
Animals at your command
I left my gloves of leather
For you to find in the night
Koan # 1
Avalokiteshvara
I always find my bodhis in the street
The first sip is joy
The second gladness
And the third serenity
Number four is madness and the last ecstasy
The sparrow hops along the veranda again
Feet wet laughter solemn
Rocks are space
I’m mostly human making kindling
An gobbling down food
Paramita of Dana you can’t fall offf a mountiain
When you get to the top keep climbing
Zen lunatics rucksack wanderers in the zendo
Making up haikus reciting koans
Walkin in Tamalpais
I always find my bodhis in the street
The first sip is joy
The second gladness
And the third serenity
Number four is madness and the last ecstasy
The sparrow hops along the veranda again
Feet wet laughter solemn
Rocks are space
I’m mostly human making kindling
An gobbling down food
Paramita of Dana you can’t fall offf a mountiain
When you get to the top keep climbing
Zen lunatics rucksack wanderers in the zendo
Making up haikus reciting koans
Walkin in Tamalpais
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