the resolution of Dorian Gray

December 29, 2011




the resolution of Dorian Gray

a portrait, with its scars, sins, and cavernous despairs

is created for a token, given endless youth

then hidden

a reflection in a mirror


grand history stretching rainbow

make-up written on the face

and in the cellular structure of all beings

is more than false, more than paste, the true jewel


bending with the flow of change

a willow on a flooding river

a blade of grass underfoot

the rise and fall of bodys’ breath


this year’s new vow, a resolution of flexibility

to see through and attend like the knife

that pierced and freed poor Youth’s heart; releasing

its’ crisp and sweet, from the craquelure of varnish



look in your heart mirror

November 13, 2011


“But what makes these ‘experts’ preach their own opinion and call it truth?” asked the inquirer. “Is it an inheritance of humankind to do this, or is it merely something they gain satisfaction from?” “Apart from consciousness,” answered the Buddha, “no absolute truths exist. False reasoning declares one view to be true and another view wrong. It is delight in their dearly held opinions that makes them assert that anyone who disagrees is bound to come to a bad end. But no true seeker becomes embroiled in all this. Pass by peacefully and go a stainless way, free from theories, lusts, and dogmas.”
– Majjhima Nikaya


Unique personal expression is so precious. There are those people out there that can’t access their own voice – all that they can muster is criticism about other people and gifts they covet. This path simply promotes  envy, self-righteousness, and cruelty towards themselves and others; these people douse themselves in poison.  All of it ignorance, hatred and greed.

How utterly desolate & sad.

When wounded by such beings, please recall that what they say is not the teaching, nor the harm ; the teaching is how one lets go, witness the mirror inside -where there is tenderness and possibly a version of this poison. Thank that little place and let it be heard. Then let It go ; continue on, creating, expanding, the unique personal creative expression.

don’t do evil, do good, do good for others.   thanks for listening.


the park

October 19, 2011

the park

trees and flags

trunks and poles

for catapulting and leaning on

for belongings

like friends

leaves falling, now, my bed

a blanket of stars

and stripes

this park to sleep in

the star

October 6, 2011

waking in the dark

a star through the curtain crack

an Autumn night path

dig deep, sail forth

rubbing the belly of the beast

September 27, 2011


with anarchist wrist

and coughing blood entreaties

a threadbare tread



Glass kiss (for Beau)

September 22, 2011


Glass kiss (for Beau)

Seven dwarves hands with

their bent bones and scars,

a Mother’s and Father’s done best,

dressed Snow White in the Right T-shirt.

The crystal coffin lay bare

flesh so perfect; gazers languished.

Nothing could

remove the polish and stain of their tears.

Once upon a time and all along,

in the enlightened Kingdom of Now,

a receptive prince kisses the glass

and warms the mirror in his changing room.

the rhododendron root

August 3, 2011













the rhododendron root   (for Charlotte Joko Beck, Sensei)

In a thicket of memory,

I set to digging up

a dead rhododendron root.

My hand spade, fearlessly committed, shredded the vestiges;

sailing through the toughest scar tissue, the ponderances,  to the heart of the root system.


I seize the foundation, the masted core, grasp, heave, retrieve the hull!

Drag the entire marriage of dirt and sediment out into the light,

douse it in a baptism of water, dredge and scour the barnacled bottom!


This must be

the oldest tree

in the universe.


Now, wet and clean and drying in the sun,

its plundered parts strewn and showed;

a labyrinth of warm brown hair, a dragon’s baggage of years.

Yielding, though its fire’s dispersed,

the timber to continue ballast and steam.


the misery of Archaea and ocean floor disposal

July 29, 2011












the misery of Archaea and ocean floor disposal


Embedded in a meter deep of sediment, at the bottom of the sea,

the ancient thing wags its’ flagella; swimming

through cycles of carbon, nitrogen, and sulphur,

surviving, where it should not be able.

They say “the ocean floor per se”

has no water table.

No flushing through; a perfect disposal place

for radioactive waste

to diffuse through dense clay at a limited rate.


The mouth with teeth,

hungry, eat

everything around,

the house, the city, the state, the country

the ocean, the world, the galaxy.


swallowing the entire universe,

hungry still it floats, in nothingness,

having no body, no stomach, no heart;

where once it had.


Living in polar seas and making up the plankton,

Extremophile Archaea visit

the cousins in volcanoes and sulphuric acid swamps.

The mighty family gathers to celebrate

3.8 billion years and 20% of the Earth’s biomass!


“You are happily invited” the announcement said,

and greedily accepting,

we work the party and offer

“by the way, we have this new stuff; it might be good to eat,

so with gratitude we’ll send a torpedofull, to snuggle in the seabed.

You can explore, experiment, try it out and take the time to see,

if you folks survive and flourish there as well; besides,

we really have nowhere else to put it and

need to get it out of the house.”


April 1, 2011

This man

works, rowing his boat each morning;

passing the dawn devotions on the Ganges,

the bathers, the laundry workers,

the women gathering water for their homes.

Passing then those waiting to die and

those mourning on the burning ghats;

a traveler, seeking atonement,

tastes the river water with an invisible tongue.

Each evening his rowing ceases;

the sound of water on moored wood

mingles with incense and invocation as he witnesses

the temple priests put Holy Mother Gange to rest.

This man

whose eyes match the color of his boat.

yearning to soothe the Earth

February 28, 2011


This Spring,

after we had spoken secrets,

fear began the fill of Fire Buckets.

Greed reveals the sun;

light particles, stirred by my breath.

While this brigade has cheeks of trampled blooms,

our intent in stillness and action,

continues the possible Beauty.

This Wound, my heart, panning for gold.