Tag Archives: body

going downtown

an enormous cloud hangs over the city
as i walk up 2nd Ave smoking
the remnant of a good night, breathing
the rain-washed air of a good day.

i snap a picture of the cloud
with my phone, with my phone
pay the bus fare, sit in the last
square of four seats occupied by three
silent, independent women, each wearing
a distinct set of dark shades. mine barely
cover my eyes as i look south to see
the cloud retreating and the bright sun
emerging, blanketing everything.

suddenly, the three stages of consciousness
blind me:

first, squinting, measuring the luminosity,
cursing myself for forgetting a hat,
wondering about skin cancer, meditating on the family.
second, reasoning, realizing that by
slightly lifting my limb i can slow the effect
of aging. finally, believing,
breathing in, being,
eyelids down aware that death is
and will always be, so may as well
repose on the sunny side. Continue reading

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selections from Sadhana: The Classic of Indian Spirituality by Rabindranath Tagore

Mind can never know Brahma, words can never describe him; he can only be known by our soul, by her joy in him, by her love. Continue reading

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selections from Plato’s Lysis, Symposium, and Gorgias, translated by W.R.M. Lamb (1925)

PREFACE recension (n.) a revised edition of a text; an act of making a revised edition of a text. The Greek text in this volume is based on the recension of Schanz. (v) ————— ————— GENERAL INTRODUCTION Though [Socrates] seems, … Continue reading

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selections from The Pearl by John Steinbeck

“Because the story has been told so often, it has taken root in every man’s mind. And, as with all retold tales that are in people’s hearts, there are only good and bad things and black and white things and good and evil things and no in-between anywhere.” (0) Continue reading

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Emily Dickinson favorites (701-1100)

To Whom the Mornings stand for Nights,
What must the Midnights – be! Continue reading

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the lady’s trident

as naked as the cautious doe in spring—
a natural living beauty to behold—
your eyes, lips, olive skin in prelude sing—
annihilation—thighs of yours unfold.

still deadlier a force a man may find—
in hiding—beating quietly your breasts—
heart—bloody with unnumbered names unsigned—
a thousand sonnets whipped away like pests.

and deeper yet remains a thing of fear—
when wakened wills all kraken back to sleep—
your spirit—lancing thru the world’s veneer,
parading truth thru streets, obedient sheep.

sole equal to your power to destroy—
your essence manifest of peace and joy. Continue reading

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sitting & walking

at rest, my body
slouches on the couch fat and dehydrated
gazing out perfect square glass windows at
sun and storm, paintings hanging in the gallery.

in motion, i balance between
emerald corn and golden wheat
while my spirit chews coca leaves
with poor peasant women,
women of color
whipped to the ground. i am the whipped
and i am doing the whipping, the white
man, white pawn, wealthy and well-known and running for president
on whatever platform will win, a bum rummaging thru the dumpster.
tap tippity tap tap, my tortoise mind
types the endless small talk of the eons, then explodes
watermelon juicy under eighteen wheels
guided by eyes glued to the screen, perfect rectangular glass window.

a nail in the coffin,
at rest; in motion,
a thread of the world’s weaving. Continue reading

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insomnia, therefore

there is an altar of sound in the Mojave Desert. it purrs painless, perfect—a midnight beacon beckoning.

attracted to its deep hum and bright lights, interplanetary pilgrims grapple their slow, shadowy way, seeking rhythm, love, divinity, nothing.

once they arrive, a juicy orange slice of moon rises to say hello, goodbye. antsy tongues wag in bags of mint, lapping up refreshingly ancient secrets. hips shake excitedly at their discovery, souls swing in arcing exultation.

in the morning, a half-naked hell of a hot mess stumbles thru center camp in a gazeless daze, meandering through people and sound and sand. half-shaved head to dusty little holes to rocky, glassy, torn-up toes, every cell in her body exuding madness. (love her.)

in the afternoon, a wavy pink pinstripe pussycat slinks from shade to shade hydrating himself with poetry. (praise him.)

at night, a brush with the grim reaper. (love her, praise him.)

day by day, the burning circle in the sky climbs higher, higher, higher, then dips down, down, down. hour by hour, a hundred billion white specks of plankton blindly drift the same mesmerizing path. minute to minute, morphing white specters glide, collide, unravel beneath the big blue canvas, unminded. moment to moment, men and women collectively recite their little disco mantra: 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4…

amid gunshots, fireworks, and constellations, confectionary gusts of earthy apes do their thing. Continue reading

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a new addition to the u-shaped universe

thoughtfulness to the point of thoughtlessness. Continue reading

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selections from the second volume of Parerga and Paralipomena by Arthur Schopenhauer

SCHOPENHAUER. Essays and Aphorisms. Penguin Classics. Translated with an introduction by R. J. HOLLINGDALE. Continue reading

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