Before I Change My Mind

Now, LORD, is where I am.
Send Pilate with with his armies.
I wait for a place you have prepared already,
Buried with Mercutio
In the mouth of Satan.

Here, LORD, is when I am.
May Pharoah chase me across the angry sea.
I will walk to meet you on the other side.
Standing with Polyphemus,
Crying sabachthani.

Time, LORD, has chained me.
Let Hirohito's bomb find my house.
Unlock the moon from its orbit,
For I am tired of spinning in circles
Around these troubled waters.

Is there yet hope, LORD?
For I am still breathing,
And this couch is comfortable and coffee sweet in this warm cup.
This skin more elegant than robes you have stained for me
In rainbows of blood.

Call the executioner, LORD.
For I am on a darkened stage with song rehearsed.
Rouse the director to take his bow.
Turn off the lights.
Tear these curtains in the temple of your holiness.

McLuhan in the Present Perfect, A Work in Progress

Marshall lies east of Casey,
Where the small town southern men live,
Whose greatest contributions are the ones they leave behind.

I spoke to Jack at table,
When I was at a crossroads in my life.
He spent some time near Gary.

It was Thanksgiving,
And between the noodles and pumpkin pie,
I wondered who this man was,
So I asked.

He said that he got a job.
He said he married Cherry.
He said they built a house.

That was about it.

I won't forget that rainy October morning,
Something new was born,
When I left in the dark, just after 6: 00 a.m.
To go from one nursing home
To another.

Nor how you opened your eyes
When the preacher said,
"Amen"
And breathed your last.

I have never been as thankful for Jesus
As today.

You have been going home all along.

It is not death to die.

Leslie Talia

Let me tell you:
This girl I'm with
Has turned me into Jack Nicholson,
The one who asked,
"Is this as good as it gets?"

Here I am,
Alone in my apartment,
Which is a hell of a place to be,
When you're by yourself,
A hell of a place to be.

Then, I remember
That scene from The Green Mile
When the old Tom Hanks sneaks out of the nursing home
To take a piece of toast to that mouse,
Onto whom the breath of life was breathed.

Heaven, baby.
I'm in heaven,
Breathing your breath between the sheets.
Sucking in disease,
Breathing out life.

I've got another story to tell,
About a man and a woman,
About a person and a rat,
About ribs of clay
And temples of holiness.

Melchizedek

Nostalgia for a previous day,
When shamans stepped from smoky huts
To survey the sun chasing Venus
Into the lightening welkin,
Leaving a tangled pile of skin and hair,
Twisted like a ball of serpents,
Lying upon the brown coat of an ox,
As sperm heads whipped themselves madly inside brown-haired priestesses,
Toward fertilization,
Pulled by a force incomprehensible,
To rise up and become human,
Stand on two feet
And build machines that fly past the red ice mountains of Pluto
And send back pictures,
Is merely the pain of memory,
The curse that enables us
To consider what was,
To observe how things are,
And to suffer the courage,
As a child sitting in the passenger seat of a car,
To put out a hand
And touch the wheel of his father's car,
As they drive onward,
Further from Eden.

Predators

We project an image.
We do it using words.
We want others to see us.
We need our voices heard.
We get the wrong attention.
We make you make mistakes.
We cry out, and you listen.
We look for things to take.
We give away our voices.
We help you lose your guard.
We dress ourselves as Jesus.
We sneak into your yard.
We rob you of your treasure.
We take it for our own.
We fill ourselves with pleasure.
We listen to you moan.
We need someone to watch us.
We want it to be you.
We love to see you love us.
We rob your cradles, too.
We know we're on a mission.
We fill the world with good.
We put you in a prison.
We feed upon your food.
We do not need your friendship.
We only want your love.
We thank you for your worship.
We leave you made use of.
We have nothing to give you.
We only want to take.
We steal from you and leave you .
We are your worst mistake.

Good News for a Poor Man

Those stamps of Caesar rubbed between your thumbs
The man in pin-striped suit has tinked inside
That copper cup that you use to drink from
When you've saved twenty quarters to buy wine

Will never be enough to break you free
From prison, where you live within your mind,
Though liquor, Sudafed, and THC
Distract you from the present, you are blind

To bigger pictures of what is and was
And will be, too, if you give pause to think,
For pleasure can't be sold, nor bought because
The goal is freedom from these metal chinks

That hold your writs fast to the wall until,
Your breath leaves from your lungs, and you lie still.

Conversations with Mathematical Precision

The math teacher is a bully
Who gives you only a few symbols
To tell your story,
And he already has the answer ready
Before you even get a chance to answer the question,
With the rules you were given,
And in a language that is not your own.

To the rational mind,
The kind of mind that divides this and that,
Into 1s and 0s,
There is no way to see the answer,
Except,
In systems that allow only for
Answers
With 1s and 0s,
In a language
That nobody understands,
Especially not math teachers.

Listen,
If you don't get that Math
Is no different than Greek,
Or Latin,
Or English,
Just another language built
By some dominant class,
With a lot of self-righteous rules,
Of control,
Of power,
Of enterprise,
Of capital,
Then you don't understand,
That to be a math teacher,
Is NOT to give a man a tool
For liberation,
But a tool
For taking captive his fellows.

Abel was the second murderer,
Let's not forget that.
The first skin was taken by the LORD,

And methods developed for food,
For morality,
Soon turn themselves inward,
And before you know it,
We are all dead,
Bound up with the Law,
With quadratic formulas,
Running our satellites out into the solar system,
Looking for another brother to kill.

Let's not delude ourselves:
We seek war, not peace.
We divide.
It's in our DNA.

I'm this.
You're that.
Punctuate that sentence.
Be over there,
And keep both sides of the equation EQUAL.
OR
You won't ever get the damned thing balanced.

Listen:

I've had enough of this nonsense with the numbers.
I've got a lake to swim in,
26 letters,
A comma, dash, period,
And--every once in a while--a colon.
It keeps the sentences together in a way that periods don't:
Don't ask me how.

So,
Mr. Math Teacher
(Whom I respect, deeply.)
(Really, I do.)
(I mean, my father taught Chemistry, for Christ's sake,)
(And for the sake of his eight children,)
(And our beautiful mother),
Here is what I'm asking of you:

Acknowledge this:
You have limited the conversation
With your arbitrary rules
That have made so much possible,
That have made so much sense out of so many things,
And these limited ways of having the conversation,
Do, in fact,
A lot of good--for example:

I saw those pictures of Pluto, for example,
Just this morning.
I saw ICE MOUNTAINS ON PLUTO!
Thank God for that.
I mean, wow.
And not so long ago,
I saw my first picture of A FREAKING ATOM!
And I thought the pictures of dust mites
Taken by Scanning Electron Microscopes
That I saw when I was six,
I mean,
I thought THAT was cool.
But this business with Pluto,
And whatever Hell that satellite is gonna show us next.

Geesh.

Don't get me wrong:
I'm thankful--

But I'm also impatient for more knowledge,
And I'm tired of the kind built on Good and Evil,
This and That,
1 and 0.

You will never find the answer you are looking for,
Because it won't fit inside the language you've created.
The one with too many rules.

Jesus Christ! Do I have to tell you the answer?
You want me to show you my work on the back of the paper?
Here it is:

Proposal for Integrative Common Core Math Problem

10,000,000 - Anne Frank equals how much injustice, approximately?

Evidence

My heart broke, once.
Call that one.
It broke again,
Call that two.
Two heartbreaks.

I had a child,
Call that one.
I had two more,
Call that three.
Two times three is six.

My heart broke two times,
And it became six.

Afterwards,
Someone did kindness to me,
And made my heart feel better.
Call that negative one.
Now my heart broke less.
That's called a subtrahend.

Two and six and negative one
Is,
Quite clearly,
Seven,
And I am using these commas with intention.

Here's another equation that works really well:

10,0000,000 - Anne Frank = 9,999,999

Or this one:

Tigris + Euphrates = Baghdad

Here's one more:

Displacement of a 302.594 degrees-kelvin solution of dihydrogen monoxide with a volume of 14.56869 cubic hectare-meters by an object of 168 pounds and volume of 66.4 liters with a constant temperature of 98.572 degrees Fahrenheit, measured locally, in an environment of 47.777... degrees centigrade feels damn good.

This is what we call data.
This, and only this,
Should be considered.

Suffer the Naga Sadhu

Amen.

In Photos: India's Holy Men Wash Away Their Sins

I saw two sadhus naked
While walking down a street,
Their balls beneath them swinging,
Hung high above their feet.

And as these naga sadhus,
Both confidently strode,
The crowd who saw them shouted,
"Those two men are unclothed!"

The sadhus still kept pacing,
With eyes fixed straight ahead,
As if, although still waking,
They were already dead.

It's suicide by walking
With skin bared to the world,
The men are hung by stalking
The streets with junk unfurled.

Their skin is pierced by daggers
Of glares from passers by,
For every step they take is
An insult to the eye.

The sadhu has no reason
To walk through world unclothed
Except to show that he is
No more than we suppose:

A man with rod and testes,
Two nipples and two beards.
Though everyone is equal
The sight of them is weird.

It's rude, yes, they do protest
To us that we are wrong
To raise our voice in insult
And on them put upon

Our vices and our virtues,
Our judgment and our stones,
Our sense of what is decent
As others walk alone

Through streets, not wearing clothing,
In gutters without food,
In basements, chained with shackles.
Who, then, now is rude?

These men who walk streets naked,
Who hide no ugly truth,
Are these two who will summon
A righteous mob to move?

Still, too, I think these these sadhus
Are no more good than me,
They, too, they have their reasons
For baring more than feet.

Perhaps they feel too guilty,
Perhaps they need my love,
Perhaps they, too, are broken
By broken hands that shoved

Them to a life of penance
In which they have no choice
But walk through streets abandoned
By mother's loving voice.

Let's kill them and not worry,
For they have robbed our time,
It took me half an hour
To get so far in rhyme.

It may be thirty minutes
Is more time than they're worth,
For I have more to do, now,
Concerning my own birth

Than think of two nude sadhus
Who, naked, walk through streets,
Eliciting these judgments
From all those who they meet.

Let's kill them, like that woman,
Who slept with many men,
Surrounded by an angry mob,
Till Jesus did step in,

And said, yes, you're a sinner,
Yet these are sinners, too,
Who hold these stones in judgment,
And soon will throw at you.

Sadhu, who's the sinner?
Yes, I think you know.
It's wrong, I think, to judge you,
But wrong to naked go

Through streets to stir reaction
From people who must view,
The truth that you are showing
That must be seen in you.

There is a problem, Ego.
It's there, too, yes, in me.
I know: I wrote this poem.
This isn't hard to see.

I see you walk by naked,
And if you've read this far,
You see, that I'm, too, suffering
From sins that have left scars

Upon my naked body
And on my naked soul,
And though the naked truth is kind,
It hurts others, too.

Be who you are, yes naked,
But guard the things you say
To people who are naked, too,
Though clothed in fine array

Of vestments and status,
Of virtue and of vice,
For humans all are covered,
With dead skin, and with lice

That crawl across our bodies
And feed on flesh and blood
And give to us each other's
Diseases, clothed or nude.

What is the point, these sadhus?
What is the point, this rhyme?
Is it that we are naked,
All of us, all the time?

Or is it that, though naked,
We have compassion, too,
For angry, violent Muslim,
For stingy, greedy Jew,

For selfish, righteous 'Murcan,
For stuffy, gin-soaked Brit,
For cold, abrasive Russian,
Dumb sadhus, without wit?

These words are worse than bullets
That fly through flesh and bone.
They pierce through thicker clothing,
Than robe by sadhu sown.

These sadhus I saw naked,
Though troubled, they may be,
Have taught me how to listen,
And be a better me.

I worry that these sadhus
Will never find their peace,
But I'll give them my blessing
As they walk through my streets.

El Sabaoth

Assemble the Gods of Canaan,
Assemble the Kings of Thebes,
Assemble the Lords of Eden,
In whom all men believe.

May all the Hosts of Heaven,
Turn to the rising sun,
May Cronus, Ra, and Brahman,
Be unified by one,

Who holds all time and knowledge,
Who makes both life and death,
Who raises life from stardust,
Who breathes and gives clay breath.

Behold, the time is coming,
Behold, the time has come,
Behold, the time is passing,
Behold, the time is gone.

There is no new tomorrow,
Nor is there hope to come
That life o'er death will conquer
More than's already done.

The resurrection happened,
I saw it come today,
As Vishnu danced through Utah,
And Quetzalcoatl played

With soldiers from Olympus,
Who drank both rum and bark,
Boiled in the fires of Prometheus,
Sent from a cave man's spark.

Surrender to the passing,
As you were meant to do,
With all the Hosts of Heaven,
Who all surrender, too,

To one which hath no meaning,
To one that has no name,
Who sent a sign to Abram,
And to you sends the same.

Your sons will raise your daughters,
Your daughters raise your sons,
And all the Hosts of Heaven,
Will praise the only one,

Who set this wheel in motion,
That you won't see to stop,
For he who climbs a mountain,
Will never reach the top.

A something rises higher,
A something smaller goes,
A something becomes bigger,
And never can be clothed,

In lowly robes of language
Though dress it as we may,
In words of law and justice,
In which our spirits play.

So all you Hosts of Heaven,
Wherever you may be,
Assemble now to reckon,
Upon your bended knee,

Or show your mighty power,
If there be one who can,
To summon to attention
Yourself in mind of man.

God Grows a Seed With No Water

King Tut,
You died on a cross,
Reviving a body,
That we thought was lost.

King Tut,
You slept in a tomb
Thirteen hundred years,
Then appeared in a womb.

King Tut,
The doorway was closed,
No phallus of man
Could inject your repose,

King Tut,
With the spirit of life,
But billions have tried,
As a man knows his wife.

King Tut,
When did your kingdom come?
On a hill we sit waiting
For the rise of the sun.

King Tut,
When will you come again?
Which rule is fiercer:
Mind or body of man?

King Tut,
Did the Messiah see
That when stuffed in your tomb,
You were waiting for me,

King Tut,
To proclaim that your life
Resurrected in morning
When Osiris' wife,

King Tut,
Brought her womb to be filled
By a destructive man,
Who with metal blade tilled,

King Tut,
Into your flesh and soil,
Spilling out the fine seed,
Meant for life or for oil,

King Tut,
Is it crushed or implanted,
What't the difference to man
Who by death is supplanted,

King Tut,
By a child who grows
From his father's fine phallus,
Dressed up in clothes,

King Tut,
By a mother who feeds him,
From the milk of her breast
That gives wisdom,

King Tut,
That the earth where you reign
Is the biggest illusion
That has carried your name,

King Tut,
Down from Moses to David,
Down from David to Me
And this idea we play with,

King Tut,
Is that King Tut is me,
And is Jesus,
And forever will be.

1010011010

When you make love
With a computer,
There comes,
After a generation,
A child.

I said to my child:
"This is that."

Later on, the child grew,
Meeting me at a crossroads,
And replied,
"I never knew you."

There's one more thing:
OR
Two.

Here it is:
Put down the damned book!
Stop with the reading and writing!
Machines upon machines upon machines,
And there is absolutely no going back
To Thebes.

For Lethe is fat,
And the Jordan is full of mandrakes.

Like begets like,
And all comes
From nothing at all
More than one.

Moonrise before Sunrise

Evy, there are moons to see, if you pay attention.
Crickets chirp at break of dawn--to hear them, you must listen.
Jupiter, Venus, Moon and Mars are rising in the sky.
Lightning bugs light up the ground and blink before they die.
The waters of a quiet lake rest on a quiet plain.
The fish that swim beneath the wake, there all their lives remain.
The blade that bends from bulbous bug, who on its leaf doth crawl
Is one small plant upon this rock, this Earth, a spinning ball
That rolls and rolls throughout this world we call the universe,
And blessed be you to see these things, but understand the curse
That while you live the LORD has given a chance for you to see
These things that go and live and grow and spin and live and be,
But if you close your eyes and ears and nose and fingers, too,
You'll miss the chance to see this dance the LORD has shown to you.
You, too, are one of these fine things that on this rock doth move,
And those who stop to notice will be blessed to notice you,
Who goes about the world and sees the moonrise in the sky
And makes a light for men to see that twinkles in your eye.
Now thirteen years have come and gone since you were made to be,
And blessed be I that Adonai gave me a chance to see
That as you grow, through sun and snow, the beauty of this world,
Reflects through you and all you do, as what you are unfurls.
So be, live free, and stop to see the moons and fish and grass,
For while you do, life passes through, for your time, too, will pass.
For life and breath are friends of death, who give you time to own
That this fine stone that God has grown from stardust is alone
Among the planets of this world that man has chanced to see
That's filled with all the wonder of this marvelous mystery.
So, see a moon that rises up, and hear a cricket chirp.
The LORD in these things speaks to you, and in a baby's burp.
Like you, when two, did to me do, when resting on my chest,
And baby will, on you too spill, a curdle from your breast.
Raise it to see the moon and be blessed by the LORD who gives
A chance for all who live to see that He in all things lives.

Blood and Bread

Take off your boots and scrape dust in a pot
And plant inside a tiny grain of wheat.
Up from the dirt a blade of green will rise
To bear upon its stalk twelve times itself.

Cut off the head and grind it into dust
And buried under water set aside,
Enclosed in darkened rooms where molds do grow.
There will the seed with new breath rise again.

But life not of itself, but of the yeast,
That dwells within the vapors of the wind,
Attaching to the crushed seed of this blade,
Which from your boots the seed of life upsprung.

Then furnaced by a flame this living dough
Is hardened, as in death, when it expires,
Releasing from itself the living breath
That gives shape to the spaces in itself.

Upon the shelf this loaf of wheat will sit
Until the hand of holy man it breaks
In two, and places it upon brass plate,
To feed five thousand faces who march forth,

Proclaiming that the bread of death they took
Has filled them with new life, from seed upsprung
From dust of feet who son of man has washed
Into a cleansing pot where death collects.

The armies of these bodies who do fall
Into the ground, where space and time do grind
Them into dust, which from new seeds do spring,
Attest that as they eat, they also live,

As dough that wet with water from above
Does fall upon them as they play their part,
And never live, nor die, not as themselves,
But as the spirit, that in all things does.

Broca

Bonobo, where you go?
Hide and show.
Bonobo, who you see?
You and me.
Bonobo, why you lie?
Laugh and cry.
Bonobo what you say?
Kill and play.
Bonobo, how you know?
Man say so.
Bonobo, who your God?
Live in sod.
Bonobo, when you die?
Time no 'ply.
Bonobo, what you fear?
Man come near.
Bonobo, what you need?
Fuck and feed.
Bonobo, who you love?
Sun above.
Bonobo, why you kill?
Cause I will.
Bonobo, what is truth?
Meat and fruit.
Bonobo, what you say?
Go away.