that sea floats through
the window of the opposite house below
it waves in leaves of shadows
and i can surf into the deep
cigarette i smoke
fills my lung like the mountains
of hunza in the past
and the radio sings a song i cannot place
only that it is the east
and i know this tune from long ago
i remember john was an arab
in a previous life
and know he understands
except that he is gone
running errands out there
where i have disappeared into another country
another world
and feel i have come home
i hate to love that smoke in me
the buzz past wine
but i am what i am
and i have come home today
on the journey of my path
taking with me what i find
and loving
every moment as it becomes my past

the hissing sissing
constant sound like gas escaping
buzzes my ears
when i cease hitting the keys.
the tick tick tocking clock
in the kitchen counts a metronome's beat,
a siren whails whoooo-oo-oo.
and the hush hush flushing flush
sissing in the toilet bowl
from where i just was.

it was all silence to me.
didn't hear the empty calls
of gulls.
the deaf girl's music
deaf to my ears
as it wails next door.

a fruitfly dives
in my kombucha fizzling drink.
as i pick it to my lips
in the quietness i hear
its shouts of s.o.s.es,
and my fat finger plays plank to safety.
there,
off with you,
go play in an empty wine bottle.

and i hear tv messages
from to my back behind
shouting to go higher
hiiiigher!
the man's voice sings high.
so i look in the empty ashtray
the dead butts
finished tokes
nothing higher for me.

and i think she is trying
to make a statement
by turning up her programes

wondering what the sound is like in
the forest cottage of my summer silence.

song for my sister on a rainy day rag

what am i doing?
i don't know.
i have locked my outside in
and inside am all locked up
in the agony of monthly
routine.
no money no more
paid on wednesday
broke on friday.
would like to have some extra cash
with that.
but there isn't enough.
just always the same.
and the weather is autumn
in august
as it rains buckets
on and off
but mainly on.
good thing your bike is stuck inside
since black riding the trams
are an option on days like these.
walking when there's dryness
riding in the rain.
what am i doing?
i don't know,
i don't know.
the story of my worn out shoes
as told on friday
over the early afternoon
phone.
laud, just come over
it's all a gift.
and a wonderful day
anyway.

educational mornings with kay

kay practices the i-ching of his body.
he uses the lateral of his eye balls -
to work the elasticity of his retina -
striving for the perfect eye.
imagine reading a book just like that
you can do it with the power of your will.
stretch left,
high,
like an eagle -
don juan and charles bukowski -
the eagle sinks into the sea.
and then take the high stretch and bring it
d
o
w
n
hand over eyes.
the washing machine murmurs,
the toilet paper is finished -
oh shit -
and we need milk for breakfast
and scrambled eggs.
smile
point
the good eye exercises,
follow both fingers.
you have to find blind spots.
you know where that is?
it's where the assemblage point is.
it is a good concept the eye ching of the body -
a big mystery.
we can see ourselves as bodies perceiving,
or as a big mystery which is being perceived.
when kay does a push up
he becomes a mandala of perception
and boredom never strikes
a flow of fluid perception
balanced on one toe -
ay ay ay.

i don't want to look too long,
just give me that last minute toke
before i contemplate some whiskey.

crazy ink.

saw some parties this evening
and left a loser.
and sometimes my patience wavers
when i feel i'm losing touch.
and i should be quieter.
shhhh.
quieter.
but i speak loudly and continuously
higher.
make more noise.
knowing the fault with no one
but myself.

and the ink might fade
but i fade brighter
nothing left to see.

did they want to hear my presence?
their empty hugs?
or was that me
finding them empty in conversation?
and what of friends?
and older talks that lasted longer?
my ignorant blah
blah.
i sigh a loser.
there's nothing left.
i sigh a loser.

the ink fails
to make another mark.
so i fail to see the purpose
and walk out,
taking that lonely ride home.

would like to go on
but fear to hurt
someone else's noise
when they long to listen to quietness.

would like to stop
but lose control
of lips and tongues
and know my hand will need to keep on screaming.

would like to understand
to know things
when i want
to remember what i need and care to know.

would like to write
but feel the words
are just collections
of idle hopes too vain to really touch the world.

would like to would
i really would
am just afraid
of being real in realities foreign to me.

would like to
would like to
would really really like to
and so i go on and on...

we have to make a mellow change
the last one being too intense.

i take a break,
you too.

the further you go in the yellow dunes
the harder it gets
and you have to kneel down
because the pressure is crushing.

i take a break,
you smoke.

but if you manage to face
the wall of fog
which leads to the world of mystics...
long inhale,
sweat running down my imaginary back.
the word is hard.
you wipe your brow
drink some tea
and stare out the window.

i take a break,
you walk away.
hunger, no a need for air
you return.

you smell the red cloth
close to your nose,
why does it stink?
i said i could wash it.
i don't know...
you are in the light again.
you return with pants in your hands
and change
and i wonder if you will leave the day alone
with me here.

i take a break
you will answer soon.

deep in the brown eyes i see the soul.
behind me the moon reflects
in the window of the bare light
a naked bulb dancing
in the movement of my head.
i remember double vision satellites
of such primary orbits
of people around people
of the eyes of the soul.
i am only who i see in others.
i see you
and hear the many places
we have been.
they say a man gets wiser when he's older.
and there's a ringing truth in there.
where there is truth in the light bulb moon
as it swings solely in my vision's eyes.
through the years
i see the moon differently -
more beautifully.
and the harsh naked light
reminds me of indiscernible differences
where i should rest my words
and attempt at quietness.

number four at the gallery red hot hotel

the world inside the red hot hotel
is foreign to the outside.
the door stands open
but the curtains seem drawn
in inexplicable opposites.
want to come in?
the sleeper seems to keep
the invitation open
to the truly brave,
or the bums,
or the next door neighbors whore's
red light streets.

later, the time stands still.
only the words pass time
and a chair dies in the struggle
of a seat.
conversations of work
new found creativity sculpture
a ready made.
made to fall apart.
activity
people
i exclaim.
as the first customers walk through the doors
seeking explanations.
tell me,
have you been here every day?
hot hot hotel
seeking understanding
from customers.
and the hum conversations
become a slowwww
cacophony within which to find some dreaming sleep..

the daffodil heads hang low

the daffodil heads hang low.
they swoop the sill
their yellow fading into brown,
their green stems are becoming
sallow daffodil yellow.
and still they smile.
for they knew love
and this is plenty to smile about.

love and knowledge.
and they knew love.
and will smile a many days longer
than any of us fledgling buddhas
can guess.

my love is gone.
and still i smile.
his red shirt fading
as he travels down home.
my love is leaving,
is almost gone.
this fledgling love,
this younger buddha,
this older buddha,
these fading daffodils,
they smile.
they all smile.
for there is plenty left to smile about.

and the internal sun eternal
tans my insides,
where my legs remain a lily white
reflecting the light
blazing.
as i walk down the street...

as i walk down the street
a blazing light of love.