Tanka 170620163

often we met
over a cup of tea
conversing moods —
now the pathway to your door
through two rows of bushes


Tanka 170620162

what redemption
comes from standing tall
to the sun
how palm trees spend
looking at each other

The light has shone

to the man no one wants to know — spoke against the grain,
he could either weep or appear odd to perfection of flowers
but the stars didn’t abandon the night sky without her authority,
every inch the man became known mother wondered
it’s gotta be His blood at blame —
he’s not the man — she spent all her money,
the house of black straw of black heart for her rotting body
his silence gone too — befitting all the more,
pin him to the floor
you can’t handle guilt, go ahead shove it my way
have your little victory
for I am the dreary light of judgment draining you of all brilliance,
and I’m the shaman bruised by endless supply of criticism,
what an embarrassment, but I accept it like the snake of the forest — with grace

Religion Is Consumerism Too

if this world’s of metal and plastic, and madness
sneers at another’s flag, mocking tongue
religion and whatever it is you’re looking at
with lopsided dances and trickster type joy,
remain peaceful, remember gandhi’s undying words
in moments of bone-grinding agony,
remember what gandhi said, don’t lash out just yet
“be the change you want to see”,
smoke butts out of ashtrays
and hope for peep holes in women’s clothes, Oh! Indian man,
before you pick the knife and assert your place,
remember, it’s better being a pacifist,
lay down opinions burn them in wastepaper baskets,
chant hare rama hare krishna,
now look to the sky — the gray film of petroleum wax
disembodied from beating heart desire of man turned inside out guts out by eyeball kicks of monastic pacifists — completely null and void
up the ranks of reincarnation — bodhisattva — Daisy Buddhism
and the people who bed long drawls of flowering mouth’s calcified ignorance end up throwing everyone else into a fire,
but peace must remain nonetheless, no marijuana, no alcohol, only religious beads and obsequious mantric bullshit,
religion tipped arrows shot at intelligence — decades and ongoing,
propaganda — the dalai lama urges the west not to convert, tibetans give me half assed half hearted broken looks, skewed eyes (I could care less), muslims wanna bomb bomb bomb, hindus deny fucking each others brains out at the banks of the ganges, punjab is breezy-wheezy, content beneath the shade of Benzedrine hallucinations, but fathers, mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers — the real sinners — who for fear of their own childhood wild cooking debauchery slap thunderbolts down their children’s spine,
and wonder what plastic is wrong in skull
when the roar of belts and chainsaws and relentless phantasm of sun and moon and power in the palm of their fists turns to dust — a sad sad dream —
religious cocks and cunts in massive orgy like maneuvers, bring down temple domes in a single aum — stomachs exposed to god — backs bent, broken old age, mental faculties gone to abyss,
but plastic floats on the tops of hills dipping and rising in waves gently through white fog,
along the imperfection of mountain-brow and screeching metal boxes and ashcan rantings of rivers of wind,
and reach whole mandalas on plastic (milky way and beyond) in one stretch of the imagination — consumerism benefits all

Wondering Where To Go

what snake coiled around an erect phallus
brings deliverance to a spinster
who dreams of wild black pigs
living on land and water
what symbol of transition is Hermes then
of no good to one unwilling to spill blood
move we must in one direction of choosing
or get left behind
the age of the now will not retract
spring is dead no promise of bloom
rocks must wither
and seas unyielding
mold psyche, open antique stores, sit there crying
not everyone’s gotta break their back
generations decay in due time, let them
it’s out of your hands, don’t drink yourself to death
or dwell in pig-ignorant tunnels
you prayed to the god who built heaven
but the grass will turn black
and robes will insult the craftsman’s loom
while you sit on your ass
and pray and chant and rant and exalt in ritual ecstasies
or walk up the pilgrimage mountains of doom