Tanka 19062016

now you’re old
wondering who said what
so easily
a new day has risen
from ashes of what was

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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

To The Gods We Shall

in one man’s faith is another’s lack thereof
say what you will about outwardly goodness
true words leave not from the fanatic’s lips
it is a sham that there exists a god for all
the deaf and the blind, and the mute most of all
such impotent respectability among others however abled
matters not when their fingers and thumbs in safety
of their mouths have no protest left in them
like ripened breasts flop limply after a child has weaned
and the world’s ornament – myth has stood in increase
for however piteous a cry from the bounds of one’s breath
none hold station a moment longer
when the evening of our lives begins to descend
and in its guise a wound that’s born to bleed
much inherent to divine dexterity is the oncoming
rush an unknown evermore and all that’s admitted
is that time reduces bony hands to an ancestral garment
a kind of gladness within which lies a mirthless laughter
and with the same damnation the gods demand lives
be ended like a rudderless boat adrift the holy ganges

…and he wept for whom

if the man of torn reputation
is a ghost you don’t see
until the maiden’s blackened name
spells out golden letters

if the man in a crown of thorns
provokes no thought
until the woman he bedded
critics his stretch marks

if the man who couldn’t cry
then cries for years and years
after his wife left him
in his rusted car

if the man who sought solitude
is now alone and brooding
he wonders where everyone is
in vain awakened Buddha

if the man who read the holy book
leaves no flower in it
does he create the sky above
the view of his grave

The Man I Thought I Knew

mother told me que sera, sera
was the song grandfather was known
to sing in his youth, often
she and her sister were there
in times I must now imagine
but imagining him like that
brings tears
I never got when I should have
que sera, sera, I can’t stop listening
to you
and the more that I do
the more water I see has flown
under the bridge I always thought
was not mine to walk
but the times that are such
and the tales they weave
are no man’s friend
until one weeps
for what should’ve been
que sera, sera, I have abolished
all the grudges I had
and to you alone, I owe this justice
yes, no man should have to serve
in the court of law of another man’s logics
so here I am now, towards the bridge
will all good memories
but whether they happened
is not mine to say
que sera, sera, I’d like to go on and on
further into the youth of the man
I’ve had much privilege knowing
through the flaws I could never
deny him or do without
and now these words I try to write
knowing too well he may not understand
and what could be more inadequate than that
I who am still young haven’t yet woken up
from thinking these words are somehow enough