Body Intelligence

Please send me notes
from the lecture I was unable to attend.
My body's wisdom
won the battle
over a busy day
full of nothing.

Send me the notes
that will fill in the blanks
in the collective memory of the world
we will never regret missing.

Send me the sacrilegious lyrics
chanting disharmony
into the investments
in meaningless activity.

These words I will burn
in the fire that will warm me
at the break of another day.

My hands will no longer ache
resting over the heart of my love
while sleep consumes unnecessary fatigue.

My legs and knotted back
will lift the heavy burden of nonsense
into the compost pile of forgetfulness.

And my teeth, cracked by gnashing
and clenching into a Mona Lisa smile,
will be restored and made bright

knowing
that all this flesh
and vanity
is impermanent.

No Need

Confound me again
with your bareknuckled love
like the gardener
taking to the damp earth in May.

I am already mesmerized by the threads of longing
that pull me through the darkness of another deep December.
Your kindling of kindness is constantly flickering in a circle of light
that polishes the blackness, soothing and liquid,
brushing such honest warmth on my cheek.

There is no need to joust or thresh my mind for meaning here.
All my doubts wither with each day of standing tall,
bravely facing the steely eyes
of all that is burnished at sunset
and unmistakably marked
by one who knows

the true names of God.

Too Much

What can anyone do to conquer the illusion we make each day
out of the smoke rising from incense
like signals we send to God?

Even the most stable among us are anonymous
as we yoke ourselves to a practice,
arch our backs in saline flexibility,
riveted by our taste for the sacred.

Here, with our hearts touching the earth,
let us turn up the volume of our love
and feast on the vision of too much.

Dark Ceiling at 2:17 a.m.

After a night of wrestling flannel
I remember what it was like to explore a dark ceiling,
lines like a jigsaw falling apart,
praying for a guardian to gentle my mind.

Fear was that lonely button at 2:17 a.m.
swinging crazily from a trapeze over my heart.
I was disturbed into being awake and aware of each heated thought.

The eternal was quietly there
to encourage faith in something.

KPI

One more day in the workaday world,
embattled with egos that ooze and command attention,
thunder rumbles on the horizon of each morning coffee.

What I would give for peaceful citrus,
admiring the sun that can only be subdued
by the anticipation of an employment community
lacking lacerations and finding bandages unnecessary.

Here is what vocational environments would rather do:

Command collaboration. Speak softly with respectful tones.
Sense of humor, necessary. Intelligence is expected, not overindulged.
Kindness is a virtue. Kindness is always possible. Have I mentioned kindness?

Hard work is rewarded by gratitude. Innovation
will never draw suspicion by others. Admiration is our (KPI) Key Performance Indicator.

In this place, we are all in it (happily) together.

Angelina's Menu

The waiter probably has it memorized
with just the right pauses
at just the right turns of sauces
and wines that won't disappoint.

We consider the table linens
and the sweating water glasses
and turn on our heels
for the Tea Garden's dim charm.

The fried rice and bean curd are greasy
and the tea bitter. The fortunes are under impressive
but the waitress shares the birthday with my son.

She suddenly becomes one of the family
in a way that Angelina's fine Italian lines
can only be adopted
and not born of endless love.

Threads

Some of these threads that bind us are blue
and measure all the ways we hold tight,
brandishing love and cutting loose the abrupt departures
we are forced to share.

Some of these threads that bind us are silver
like dawn, quavering with the force of the ocean tides,
dancing and full of laughter from the belly
when we forget who we are.

Some of these threads that bind us are violet
and justify our rage in words and healing touch,
sheltering us from the ways the world boils over
when love is forgotten.

Some of these threads that bind us are green
and our favorite color of leaves of grass
onto which we stretch out our bodies to celebrate
before we sleep forever.

Some of these threads are blessings of red and yellow
like the sky just before it falls into blackness,
drifting off like stars and meteors,
when we become worn and dusty
with the musty fibers of God.