Crossroads

He sweeps dust off the past, diligently, purposefully, making a clear way to the cross of life. There is no crucifixion at the crossroad, only a parting of the ways.

Her eyes spoke to me of windswept nights in Galway, standing the widow’s walk, waiting for my return. How could she know, in that final moment; my eyes closing; the only thought was her. A foolish war, as all wars are; a watery grave and Davey Jones leading back to the light. I’ll wait here until I am compelled to leave, finding the crossroad back to her; back to you.

The world is so large as to be small, each vision a painting of the last; always the same; only emotion giving it meaning. I looked past the veil and listened for the meaning it would give, not my own. My own meaning, draped in false perception; could never render the exquisiteness, truth whispers. Her smile enveloped my mind and I closed my eyes once again; so peaceful not to want, not to need; only to give; over and over; eternally, the well filled with perfection.

He finished his task and looked at me. A steady gaze, nothing curious; just another shadow passing through, another reason to sweep the dust; keeping it clear; as all shadows pass this way and back again. A small gesture of a wave, he walked behind the trees; only the cross remained. Its own shadow, fell upon a clear pathway. We find our hearts, when we agree to the journey into the known; merely forgotten until the illusion of time fades. The nights are shorter now, flight leaps from the soul, across boundaries; finding its rightful place, until crossroads lead us once again

Letter to Brostein (Vol.2 Number 99)

06/22/05
Brostein,

I turned on my speakers and noticed the fine blue of the “on” light. This immediately made me think of the time you broke your fine sagacity of sensibility and said, “Let’s do the whole Bag!” I can never tell with you; when that moment will occur and you throw caution to the wind. I love your need for propriety, so different then mine, hell; I don’t have one, born without I’m afraid. But in those rare moments, when you acquiesce to my lunacy; indulge my madness; god love you for it. Of course, it’s only one of many reasons why you are my one and only best friend.

Damn the sap! Enough of the sap! Fuck sap; sap is for sentimental fools who can’t see past their fear to eat the whole bag. This of course, is a fine segway into my thoughts about that night. I felt like our friend Aldous, walking through the “Doors of Perception.” At first, it would make sense that, my ways of womanizing, now to put to rest, would give credence to my Psilocybin induced, conscious desire, not to share fluids. The guilt wrapped around it has been debilitating at times. Over and over, all I could utter that night was “don’t go into buildings and don’t share fluids.” On the surface, it would indeed, seem that my guilt was reaching conscious recognition; on some level, it always does. But I believe there is a deeper meaning to it; the meaning that you and I struggle with daily; the struggle of shifting perception in the dualistic living hell.

The desire to bond with another, in that ultimate way enforces the ego’s demand of special relationships. That which keeps us bound to the illusion is truly a prison of separateness. How can we ever see past the façade and embrace oneness; true oneness, when we are compelled to play penis/vagina? It is the ego’s ultimate weapon for maintaining our allegiance to its insanity. The other half of my madness, “don’t go into buildings” was a metaphor in regards to the meatbags themselves. A beautiful woman is a lovely picture, a frame in a moment of chimera. It calls out and at times is irresistible; a magnitude of force only rivaled by the need to wake up and see it for what it is. I believe it was at that moment, I began to understand my need in this area would keep me from my most desperate desire of peace and freedom; if not vanquished. What a trade off! Eternal peace or eternal desperation; it seems obvious. But that which we cling to, define ourselves by; seen as our reality, our purpose, our familiarity, our truth, is the very thing that keeps us from the real truth; there is only one of us here.

As we both know, there is nothing wrong with playing penis/vagina; only our perception of it keeps us from growth. Still, I believe one must abstain from addictive practice until an understanding can be achieved. The why of it, always the why, without why we have no power, without power; power to shift perception, we stay locked within the karmic wheel of life. When you finally coxed me into the apartment, inch by inch, step by step; sat me down, allowed me to vibrate while you found your own insights, I found the blue light on your desk. Thank god for that blue light; without it I may never have returned. It was a beacon back. Yass, “you own blue” Too funny, but isn’t that the way of it all? What seems frantic; volatile, cataclysmic, becomes a fine joke, the cosmic gag; sitting back, one day laughing until tears, knowing that everything is exactly the way it should be, in fact, not at all.

Peace and endless cups of coffee

Bindo

Silence

My mind shut down, complete; silent; somewhere between mania and nadir. I listened for something that might give an indication to what was happening; nothing. I continued to eavesdrop; intent, anxious, wondering if the silence would continue. The world slowed down, a warped and broken world hovering into calm before the cataclysm. Everyone has their moment, when life ends and transition into the unknown, sweeps them up and carries them to wherever they go. I questioned the moment; is this my time; is this what happens?

I listened deeper; father into the abyss of my mind. The silence hummed, growing louder; distinct. Separations made themselves known; imperceptibly at first; then divergent shapes formed and spoke of spheres, colors; deep blues, greens and gold. Within the sound of silence, spoke the tranquility of existence. There was no time, no need, no desire, I was everywhere within the silence that grew louder. A veil covered my eyes; I tried to reach beyond it, but to no benefit. The silence grew to shattering proportions; overwhelming, omnipresent; I held my hands to my ears; vibration filling every pour, every molecule. My body shook and lifted off the ground I could no longer feel; my hands, my feet, my limbs, my torso, my shoulders my head; unfeeling, unafraid, unwilling to move, accepting my fall into total madness.

I was unruffled, ready to face the inevitable, what everyone had always known; I was insane and no one or thing could bring me back; lost forever until the lights were turned off for good. The world had never existed, humans had never spoken; there was only the roar of silence and then no more. Shear white filled my eyes through the veil, my thoughts, my mind; I didn’t blink, I couldn’t; into a whiteness greater then a thousand suns, I stared without care; guilt, shame or false knowledge. Completely ready, I closed my eyes and embraced my insanity; there was no where else to go. I had been weighed and measured by the world and found wanting. I didn’t care.

I felt the veil slip off my face; felt it floating away into a sea of gold. Compelled to open my eyes, slowly at first, what could have been forever; they fell upon a canvass that had no end, no depth; unfathomable. There was nothing to base it on, nothing to judge it by, totally alien to my prior knowledge. I had no clue what it was, or what it was for, there were no words to describe it. There still aren’t. A thought grew in my mind, it seemed to be folding within itself and then without hesitation, without warning; I knew, more then I had ever known anything else. It was so clear almost to be humorous.

I did not exist.

The warm water cascaded down my body, embracing me like a womb. I lifted my head and stared directly into the caress of pulsating pressure. I turned off the shower and grabbed a towel; walked in the bedroom; crashed down on the floor and fell asleep. The alarm sounded, four am, I turned it off and went back to sleep. I heard the phone ring, knew it was work; I rolled over and continued with my dreams. Somewhere around ten, I got dressed and stuffed the rest of my shit in a bag. No note, no goodbye; I started my truck and lit a smoke; the first drag, a holy moment. I couldn’t decide on tunes so I put on Stevie Ray; always Stevie Ray, my sounding trumpet of decision.  Hitting the onramp; focused chaos; genuine relief; god fuck the weight is gone.

Poof!!

I don’t exist.

All that remains, is the echo of my silence, my silence, my sile……

Shhh

Clear Seattle Day

Old Giuseppe
Smiled to himself
Talked of simple pleasures
But he always talks of that

My coffee
Hot and black
I blew smoke rings
Listening just because

Clear Seattle day
In winter

Mothers
Strolled they’re babies
The Homeless
Strolled they’re carts

Ballard Still Norwegian
Kurt still alive
The Dome Still stood
Starbucks Still a child

Old Giuseppe
Talked on and on
He didn’t care
Who was listening

At’sa fine at’sa good

What is?
I asked In Italian

Tuto Italiano!
Good ‘a game of Bocce Ball
Mama Cappello’s pasta
An’a nice fat ass to squeeze

Young girls
Strutted with ambition
Young men
Strutted right behind

Some guy read Miller
I sipped upon my coffee
Wondered where she was
Lit another smoke

Clear Seattle day

When the sun shines here
Smiles replace umbrellas
For the moment

Abandonment

Sullenly, everyone tied to this world, hangs on to the special ness, we believe to be true. The wish becomes law and to that law, we must obey. It was a blessing and a curse the day in a library, pretending to study; I stumbled on the work of Kerouac; I was fifteen. It was a manifesto for the misplaced generation of the 50’s; the war on fascism over, the cold war not quite up to speed. There seemed no where to go; nothing to stand for. That book was an answer to a burning question; a desire and unexplainable need to go, anywhere, other then here; explore experience and find out why the world was worth saving in the first place; an insurmountable cost of life as payment.

Conceivably my denial was different; special, but the underlying impetus was unerringly identical. I needed to escape from a pain that haunted me with the veracity of a frenzied shark; the cause was secondary. People left me. For some reason only know to them, they decided that my friendship was inadequate, perhaps not quite as glamorous or exciting as they had seen in their own special vision. Perhaps I was just too intense for the average fifteen year old; the reason finally became pointless. The sting of that rejection only rivaled my father’s beatings in unwanted ness. “Go man go” became something else to me, other then wild jazz riffs, or in my case, reckless rock guitar solos. It was a way to never be abandoned, left to suffer the agony of desertion. I embraced it and bestowed upon it, a special ness never to be rivaled. I made a new definition for myself. The Road kept me safe; a place to lose myself; slip between the boundaries, a pain free existence.

It worked for years. Every once in a while I would give someone another chance, stand before them stripped and vulnerable, ultimately watching them walk out the door once again. The hypocrisy that lives between the lines of leaving and being left blurs; mile after mile stack up into a convoluted quagmire of lies and deceit. Ultimately, the why of it must be looked at, if insanity no longer has the same appeal it once held. To turn over the stone of torment and look at it; open up to it, understand it and then discard it, is the greatest fear there is. The answer holds up the truth; our self definition doesn’t work; is erroneous; feeble.

Time doesn’t work; it’s failing lies in its inconsistency. A man finally showed me that only the moment exists. To this day; this moment, he lives The Budo, training for trainings sake; his Martial mastery. I didn’t really understand it then but I do now. All that has happened is happening and will happen, is doing so in one single moment. Within this moment, there is an opportunity to see it for what it is. The test of anything in the world is to understand, “What it is for.” The answer gives us all the meaning it has for us. It has no meaning of itself. You can give it reality according to the purpous you serve; both become a means but not an end. The illusion of life works within that framework; everyone has their frame; their movie. When the illusion of special need melts away, we are left with the only thing that does exist, that which is eternal, changeless; that which we truly are; free from the pain of life, love and abandonment.

Letter to Brostein Vol.1 Number 83

01/31/00
Brostein,

The madness of the world continues. The Y2K thing was a joke but everyone was still worried; a few years from now, who knows; a bombing, a depression? People were hording food; always hording food first; then shoot your neighbor cause he didn’t prepare; breaking into your house to get some rice or maybe rice cakes. The millennium for me was a mellow evening. I walked the dog on the strand and watched everyone go nuts. I’ve never seen so many cops on Pier Avenue. Blue got spooked by the fire works so we went home.

I watched a plane dive into the ocean tonight. I was out on the boat; a rather clear night. The winds were light out of the south and it was a perfect 65 degrees outside. It shot down in a flash and at first; I thought it was a meteor. My radio confirmed the sighting, and it seems to have gone down near Ventura. I’m sure all are dead, or most. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Of course, this brings me to my story, always a story. I haven’t had a drink in four years now and found myself becoming angrier and angrier with god. Fred was right when he wrote, “god is dead.” Without a doubt, the most misunderstood quote, quite possibly, ever. But what of my idea of god; Is my idea dead? what is it that I really believe? If god is indeed perfection, how can perfection conceive of imperfection? Everything dies, nothing is eternal. Ah yass, the spirit, but what of the rest; is it even real? Perhaps the Buddhist illusion and doctrine of compassion is missing an ingredient. Could it be that Yeshua’s dogma of forgiveness is that missing piece? Could it be that the illusion itself is what must be forgiven? I become lost with the possibilities.

Whatever it is, I found myself slowly filling with an unspeakable rage. I took the boat out and Blue found her spot down below. I threw out my anchor a mile out and began fuming at the world and all the misperceptions I have about it. I blamed god for everything from a prolapsed rectum to starvation of the masses. I began screaming out loud to a god who I seriously doubted, had anything to do with this dualistic hell. I screamed; guttural, primal, anguished screams; demanding an answer, pleading for a sign of divine intervention; none came. I turned into a blazing ball of angst and fury, pulsating and gyrating toward an invisible source that I couldn’t reach or understand; but still wanting a symbol of the fool god anyway. I heaved and shouted for hours, a madman on the verge of complete breakdown. I’m not sure when I passed out, but the next morning found a warm morning sun and Blue licking my face. I opened my eyes to her snout two inchs away,  a strange sight to wake up to. I sat up on the bow, scratched her behind the ears and looked around. The coast of South Bay looked peaceful and I suddenly felt hungry. I made some coffee, lit a smoke, pulled up anchor and headed back in.

I can’t tell you exactly what happened, but I’ve felt quite at peace for several days. I wander around the beach with Blue, paddle out, catch waves, eat at The Spot and sit around with a stupid peaceful look. It’s that same stupid peaceful look that I make fun of when I pass someone with that constant back lit look; devotes of Deep Packed What His Face. In truth, I hope it doesn’t last too long, I haven’t written a thing. I’m just too fucking happy and peaceful. If it keeps up, I’ll be writing about “The Lord” or even worse, rhymed couplets.

Bindo

The Land of the Free

The free
Shout their freedom
From the rooftops

Death toll not withstanding

The free
Tout their abilities
From sea to dying sea

Destruction downplayed

The free
Ramp out the plan
Silvery buildings in the sky

Slavery is a byproduct

The free
Demand your obedience
Megaphone of deceit

Blasting from your TV

The free
Claim God knows their cause
Their way or the highway to hell

They’re bringing back route 666 south

The free
Know your mind
Have a new credit debt on them

For the asking

The free
Are unwavering
They are absolute

There is no choice in this freedom

Elegant Officer

Where are the snows of last year
A poem by Francois

Lost
Behind a rare smile
Grace of an aristocrat

Long legs are folded
Warmed by a raging fire

The sadness
The holiday
Alone with only a thought

A single glass of red wine

Her castle calls forth
But still I am here

Harsh winter
Of a lonely heart
Waiting for spring

Rebirth of a beauty

A Gypsy caravan
Baring gifts
Dancers of fortune

Looking from the turret
She sighed and waved
A perfect hand

Hello

Closeness

He died

Blew his brains out
In a Wendys parking lot
Medford Oregon

Go figure

I barely knew him

I rarely get close enough
To feel the pain of loss
The joy of laughter

A Teflon man
Sliding off the edge of reason

Deep searching
Through my own mind
Leaves me drained

Too tired to search someone else
Too self absorbed to care
Too bitter to question it
Too jaded to ponder it
Too saddened by the world

How is it possible
Not to feel the depth of others

How is it possible
To be untouched

Devoid of closeness

Another painless death
Riveted to paper
Stuffed in a notebook
Until it’s shared with another

Filled with the pain

Of closeness

ripped off

So some guy named Kevin has stolen my work and called it his own…The piece was “The Weight of Life” Oh well, losers abound and I guess I should be flattered..Of course, it came back to me because it’s published with wordpress…..

But I’m not flattered, nor am I pissed, just another reason to see the world with jaded eyes. Influence is one thing; you can see Kerouac and Miller in my work. I use semi colons quite often because Henry used them brilliantly; he’s responsible for my love affair with them. Jack spoke to me about the road and it’s where I’ve lived my whole life since. They are influences. If you want to use a line from someone because it’s perfect, fine; just give the author credit, don’t steal the whole damn thing and call it yours! There’s lots of places to find inspiration. Hell, a good romp with a hooker can do it for me; driving down a two laner in the middle of no where, fills me with ideas.

Hey, Kevin….Get a life or go to school, do something to inspire your mind; your creative process. My style is my own and anyone who knows me, knows my style….Find your own voice; the authentic voice.

But don’t steal my words.
They’re all I have.

The Look on Your face

I dropped you on the sidewalk

Splat

Just watching you crumble
Disengage

I thought of saying something
Maybe good bye

The look on your face changed that

I wanted to tell you

As your heart exploded
Raining chunks of blood and cardio tissue

I’m sorry

The look on your face changed that
I’d never been hated before

How does someone stand before such force

The acrid stench of West L.A.
Wicked weary devastating

I could only walk away
You knew you couldn’t follow
Sacred souls fly true

Shooting stars of loves myth

Pinned down in Malibu

For years, she has lived in the world, a butterfly with dragon’s wings, refusing to be pinned down on an album or frame. Her tragedy relieves itself with pharmaceutical cocktails, she calls, “her medicine.”

The picker is busted; man after contemptible man, swoops in, takes advantage, manipulates and finally corners her until she screams out loud; holding her head in her hands, weeping uncontrollably, lying fetal for days on end; she calls me and I nurse her back to health. I sit in the corner, watching her sleep, wondering how many women I have placed in this position. My guilt soars and I stand up to stroke her hair and whisper it will be all right; my very own karmic E.R.

One man in particular knew all the right buttons to push, over and over, ruthless, relentless, wishing to be superior, knowing he was less, his fear, goading him into the next hurtful word, despicable deed. She claims he is brilliant, I see him a fool, a lecher, chilling in the monstrosity he claims as his life. His false bravado and steep vocabulary only makes me laugh. His mirror shows me my own despicable ways; you cannot persuade me to see your paltry point of view; we are the same.

But ways are parted when it comes to her. She, who knows all my truth, all my lies and moments of debauchery, only raises an eyebrow at the most ridicules of stories. I wonder why she accepts me with totality; her complete love reminding me that I am not a monster, but only broken, like her. We sit in the corner of the room; the toys no one wants, puzzles with several pieces missing. We refuse to be thrown away; desperately hanging on to one another, trying to remember why it’s so important not to give up.

She was finally pinned down; a pseudo, psycho country club in Malibu. There she is watched, moods monitored, dragged to therapy and allowed to wander on the beach. I would be there waiting as I always am, but this time, I’m in my own personal hell, otherwise known as Boise. I seem to recall a reoccurring need to torture myself on occasion, and so it is again. She won’t even visit this place.  Maybe in October I will take her to Peru; if not, maybe she can rest on my boat, until my return. She can do whatever she likes in my world; a fragile flower I have vowed to never trample. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know. I only know I love her.