Sundome

It takes two hands to clap.
You clap, we dance.
Under the blue sky
We are stringed to you
Eternally, as you beam yourself
Into our being.

We have you to thank for,
The master that gives and withdraws.
But beneath the mask
Your time is running out.

Yet what you leave behind
Always exists amongst us.

The moment before which we come,
Is the moment which we grow.

Faith

I see Baphomet staring at me.
One hand pointed towards the sky,
The other pointing down,
Beckoning me over.

I see the Goddess of mercy
Sitting in repose
Resting on a throne high in the heavens
One leg swinging amongst the cloud
The other raised on a floating ledge
With an elbow rested for posterity
pouring compassion,
Asking me over for a rest
If I wished.

I see the Tengu
With its long red protruding nose
Sometimes assuming the shape of an old man,
Sometimes a bird,
Teaching a samurai how to wield his sword,
Turning around and giving me a wink.

I see Odin hanging upside down
On a big oak tree
Giving his eye
For the wisdom everyone sought,
Laughing amidst his pain.

I look myself hard in the mirror,
Trying to see who I most took after,
Whom I could follow,
Or stand with to be counted,
But all I saw was rain.

Thank you

Did you see the mayflies at dawn? 

Swarming across the river, 

Brazen display of their nuptial dance. 

In a world that exists only in memory, 

Did they foresee how short their time would be?

I realized God didn't make them.

It was me. 

So, I lighted a match on my arm,

stared into the sunset through my elbow, 

gathered some flowers upon my wrist 

And dropped a tear on my shoulder.

When dusk approaches,

these memories you have

will become the anchors

In our space and time,

Lighting my way back home. 

The Goose in her Bottle

"Why did he do this?"

"Why does she do that?"

"Why is it on me?"

"Why can't I have it?" 

I have heard myself enough, it's getting late and

Saturn's returning,

so I yelled, 

"The goose is out!"

"The goose is out!"

"I'm free at last!"

Salmon Run

Having remained downstream for years,
seeking the obtuse,
the new, the un-foretold, it felt time for a travel of remembrance. 
It was said that one cannot escape the roots of their birthplace. 
I saw you patiently waiting in the same riverbed,
2 summers on, intent on journeying out again. 
You glided past, there was a glance, an undulation, a pulsing rhythm sent through the undercurrent,
where a final story is soon to be written.

Thus Spake

Hark ye
who has ears to listen
to the annals of a human life.

At 22, the elixir was taken,
The path was readily chosen.
Ivy-league bored, one who couldn’t
Make sense going through the motion.

First time I have ever seen,
A man who sauntered to the sounds
Like a fuzzy VHS playing in an idiot box
Liquid movement
Spazzing actions.

Headed back,
Took a breather and dived
5 eternal minutes into oblivion
Waking up in the back of my daddy’s car
Crying out loud as to when we will arrive.

Fast forward a second,
Face down, drooling and uncontrolled laughter,
Back to the present.

The journey will be long and arduous.
The search had just begun.

XXX

I met many along the way,
Some loud, some hostile, some friendly, mostly distant.

All these memories! They phase in
And out
Sometimes threatening to consume and convince me to
Be with one,
Before phasing out again,
Replaced by another.
They are legion, they are many
With no one but my will
To oversee their disease.

East Williamsburg

Cycled right into Greenpoint today. Scenes of life flashing past the corner of my eye. The industrial neighbourhood I live peppered with painted walls on inustrial buildings, warehouses. A spot of bar pops up in the middle of some metallurgical warehouses. Young, tattooed, bearded hipsters. Keychains, tattered jeans, frazzled hair, twenty somethings. Life in warehouses converted to hipsterdom. Life of work and toil with metal sheets replaced by rattling spray cans. Rode by some chinese factories, plastic manufacture. Tattooed in a pink polo tee, yet strangely, his canvas does not fit the set. On the road to Greenpoint rode past an Italian neighbourhood. Popeyes and spinach ladies were around me. Popeyes with families taking pride in their self identity. Walking about, xenophobia rile with them. Everything seemed to be about protecting, protection. But from what? Into the heart of Greenpoint I arrived. Bustling street. Nassau Ave. Trains are broken for a year now. Only way to get here is wheels on tarmac. But it was alive. The spirit of the young The spirit of the new The spirit of the raw Raw but pretend pretend pretend. I rode past all. I smiled at some. They smiled back. I rode on, back through the italian job, the industrial complexes, cycled past a strip club parked with interstate truckers in an untamed area. And now I am back here, on my computer, hashing out the happenings this evening. 6.52 miles. I think it was a good Saturday.