That which is Sacred (9-25-2022)

That which is sacred continuously dances

On a broadcast of effortless wisdom,

Awaiting listeners to tune in 

Through the static,

Meanwhile singing love songs,

Cherishing every movement of 

Life's moments. 

"Give them Peace," the divine sigh

That accepts the limits of freedom,

Not to control, nor exercise power,

But remain in its good graces, 

Singing till we come home.

Frustrating Eggs (Written between 2007-2010)

 Written sometime between 2007-2010

In an annoying voice the person at the counter said, “We’re only hiring for cashiers.”

“Whatever,” I replied. It’s not hard to get a crappy job. It has it’s good and bad moments, but

mostly they’re bad; especially if you can’t compose yourself within the mess.

The way I see it, you’ve got to be able to see outside of the box, then you begin to understand

the context of it all, noticing how everyone has their own complex they’re working through.

Then finally, you’re so far out there that you know exactly what to do all the time because you

see how it all really is, you can see what everyone and everything need in order to survive and

be happy. Why couldn’t I just be a guru? I’ve got the insight.

So, I head into work and I’m pissed. Trivial fact about me is that in the morning I need about an

hour before I leave for anything, just to get ready. I have this problem of zoning out when I

wake up and my tea hasn’t settled into my bloodstream. I have a tendency to stare in any given

direction, daydreaming for about 5 minutes, eventually coming to realize that I’m standing in

my underwear in the kitchen with a pair of socks in my hand and a bowl of cold oatmeal sitting

on the counter. For whatever reason my mother had decided to wake up at 5:30. To me there is

no rational reason for it. She began to do minor chores around me as I scrambled to get my

lunch together. She moved my tea about 2 inches from it’s original position to place down

some plates and bowls. This may not seem like it’s a big deal, but when you spend 5 minutes

trying to figure out where the hell you put your tea, you probably would’ve been mad that

she’d gotten in the way. I tried not to cause too much of a scene and entered my room to settle

with some relaxing ocean music. Suddenly, coming through the walls was the sound of her

playing her own CD’s.

“What’s the fucking point,” I yelled in response. She seemed confused by my aggravation while

I was pissed, mumbling about what I thought was ironic, “of course she has to listen to her

music at 5:30am. THAT makes sense.”

Late in the evening I knew I should apologize for my behavior. Each time I tried that week she

was unavailable. The week continued to incubate frustration. One morning while I was showering, I heard mom leave her room and start putting dishes away from the dishwasher. This was unusual for her that early. “Uggg,” I grumbled. To myself I said, “Okay, I’m not going to get mad this time. I’m going to stay in control…Okay, deep breath.” Inhaling I stepped into the hallway only to see her scramble into her room and quickly shut the door as fast as a cricket scattering after the lights have turned on. ‘She’s afraid of getting in the way,’ I thought. “Oh, what a mess I’ve made.” After making my lunch I placed it in the refrigerator. I had completed everything so quickly this time that I had time to check my email. I sat in front of my laptop and filtered through spam and advertisements for Viagra. Eventually I came across an email from Leonard. A few months ago, Leonard and I had been flirting with each other, texting back and forth, and chatting online. We planned a date together for dinner and a movie. I showed up. He didn’t. I still went to see the movie, but the entire time I was so pissed. I couldn’t tell you what

happened. Leaving the theatre, I texted him first asking if he was alright. When he said he was I

then asked what had happened. He said he’d tell me another time. It took him 2 months to

confess that he had met someone else but was too afraid to tell me, fearing of hurting my

feelings. When I replied to this excuse, I explained how his lies were what had hurt me. I said I

could handle that he wasn’t interested, but the real issue was hiding the truth behind excuses

that eased his guilt and left me in the dark trying to figure out what happened, without a

courtesy of a cancelation. His response might be best described as a bobble-head doll, wobbling up and down, making noises that hold not resemblance of empathy. There was the chance to redeem himself, but instead he wasted our time composing his response that lacked what I would’ve considered a mature apology. “Whatever, it isn’t my job to make this boy a man,…or is it?”

I imagined what some Eastern guru might advise me in the form of a formal speech, exploring

some sentiment, telling me to help the blind, or some shit like that. I found myself considering

this pathetic soul who probably didn’t realize how offensive their silence was, and considered if

it’s my obligation not to get offended. 

Why the hell does this always happen to me? Whatever the reason, if there is one, I continue to

go on because it seems better letting this moron go so I’m not missing an opportunity to be

asked out by someone willing to take me to an expensive restaurant. Unfortunately for me I’ve been waiting for the dinner reservation for quite some time. All the time attractive men come down my line at the grocery store, but many are accompanied by a female or a golden band. For moments when I think they’re available I wait for the words, “Hey, would you like to go to dinner sometime?” Instead, it often sounds like, “Hey, isn’t that on sale?”

“Of course, it is, why wouldn’t it be?”

As for the non-lifetime companions, commonly known as customers, rarely do I receive any sort

of feedback that acknowledges my talents of insight. You probably wouldn’t understand unless

you were a cashier. When I look at the groceries I’m about to pack, I consider the size, shape,

delicacy, potency, toxicity, and carefully organize the items in the minimal number of bags that

is convenient for the customer to carry out while not bruising their bananas or squishing their buns. Where things become complicated is despite all my efforts the customers rarely notice.

For instance, eggs. Have you ever taken notice of them when they’re stacked in the cooler?

Usually, they’re 4-5 high on top of one another. If you think about it, that’s actually a lot of weight on top of a single dozen sitting at the bottom. There’s no need to worry though. The design of the carton was constructed in such a way that the weight is distributed, never touching the eggs at all. Instead the Styrofoam or cardboard carton does all the work. You’d never know if you’ve never looked.

Most people though never look. The moment I put a loaf of bread atop of a dozen eggs the

customer frequently freaks out, yelling about how it’ll crack the eggs. I’ve thought about taking

the 20 minutes to explain the geometry, design, and architecture that has gone into creating

such a simple, yet highly functional carton; but with the way most customers complain, I just

repeat a mental mantra. Most people don’t think about geometry or physics. Instead they

assume I’m as big of an idiot as they are, only they’re not taking responsibility for it, suggesting

they’re superior and I’m a bad packer. They roll their eyes at my inability to read to read their

mind, while simultaneously huffing and puffing. This is the least of their crimes. Many times,

customers throw their groceries onto the belt without concern of where their toss lands. I kid

you not, many times I was inches away of getting smacked in the face by a box of Cheerios.

They laugh, “Ahahaha!” Oh, hilarious! Things usually go smoothly until their bread reaches the

scanner, squeezed between 2 boxes of Cheese-its. Annoyed at the condition of their carbs they

begin to aggressively grab their grocery bags, tossing them into the cart. It doesn’t matter if I’m

finished packing, they’ll grab anything in sight. They're concerned for what’s convenient for them.

Frustrated with advice from an imagined guru, frustrated with myself for mistreating my

mother, pissed at Lennord for being immature, hell! – pissed at men in general, frustrated with

having to work in a hostile environment; this does terrible things to man. Despite the

frustration, I still have to wake in the morning. Customers don’t avoid you just because you’re

cranky. If anything, it seems to attract them.

There will be a day. 2/15/2020

There will be a day where castles and mowed lawns will become fossils. 

We need another mansion like another plastic bottle in the ocean. 

Plants will sit on our couches and chew on the polyester, maybe not. 

Possibly dry rot will take the couch and hardwood floors, 

and plants will flourish over compost bins and the park where I walk today. 

I would love to smell the air when it's clean again. 

I'd love my spirit to float in a river purified by the wild. 

It'd be nice if a jungle still existed. 

Maybe we'll get her back, maybe she'll eat us; 

and I question if my poem will be known to generations to come. 

Will my writing survive?

Painting and record keeping seem futile. 

Still, I celebrate what life has brought me, whatever the outcome of my remains. 

Catch the Early Train (1-20-2018)

A completion of a week
A desire for Thanksgiving to God.
No time for prayer with a statue
Forget to stop by your shrine
Work must be done
Catch the early train that isn't so early
Catch up with your profile
Glimmer of followers
Within media feeds comes an image of spirit
Should I pray while I wait?
Look another landscape!
Forget about God
tie your shoe, and try not to touch the ground while doing it
Industry stands before you,
bridges you ride over
A geometric criss-cross that appears aesthetic yet has deep functions
You consider the age of the city
You consider the age of the river
Look at the two existing side by side
Man will continue to create, even if his trash stretches beyond the atmosphere into space
Where is God in this?
Why, he is right beside you
Your hand reaches your chest
Somehow prayer exists in this abstraction
And while a desire is there to pencil every piece in graphite, or illustrate in words
You are merely a witness for beauty. 

(2-3-2017)

Do you remember when we were trees and we drank from the ground? Our bodies were still and we allowed life to grow upon us? We responded to light and conserved in the dark. You may ask where we're our thoughts, but it seems we didn't need them. Our destiny was to grow, bear fruit and seeds, and our breath made a home around us.

Morning Walk to Work (1-13-17)

Walking to work. Passing the hospital. My feet on the sidewalk pavement moving towards my school. Two doctors walking side by side towards me, a wall of 2 men taking up the path. I yield to the dirt, my new sneakers gathering wet dust. Was it a choice or was I a victim to discourteous behavior. Which one of them forgot to share? I can't make up my mind if my act was choice or habit. Just the day before, a capable student asked me politely to tie his shoes. I leaned over approaching his laces. He pulled back laughing, "You was actually going to do it!" I told him, "It isn't beneath me."

Days when God is unattainable...(9/15/15)

There are days when God is unattainable; where we have met a boundary that we cannot penitrate, go over, go through, or ask for it to be removed. We become responsible to go around, honor its limits, and accept the work it demands. Sometimes we approach mountains without a shovel to dig through. Take my hand, and lets walk around together.

For My Birthday...

I finally know what I want for my birthday; another chance to give.
Another chance to give to you something of myself. A post card, a poem,
a piece of creative put-together-junk that resembles a smiling face,
a flower from the lawn with some sentimental memory attached of how
and when I grew it and what it meant to me symbolically,
a chance to share a childhood dream, or to treat you to an ice cream,
a chance to bring you peace of mind with my calm heart, not the panicky-version,
a chance to make you smile with my laughter as you tickle and tease my silly ways,
a chance to hug you with tears in my eyes cause I'm having such a good day.
Another chance to write to you a letter with my sentiments and stories.
I know what I want for my birthday.

A Summer Coctail and friends...

I came to see Angela and Conner today in Allentown. I gardened with Angela for a few hours in the humid sun. The shade felt good. My skin became irritated from the dust, dirt, and various pollens that I am not exposed to in Brooklyn. I hosed off my arms and legs, then rested while Angela still worked. I left her there to shower at the house. I strolled over to the grocery store for pizza toppings, fancy cheese, and uncooked pizza doe. I also picked up some sushi and frozen breaded shrimp. Conner made me a fancy cocktail with tequila and the fruit I bought. After our meal we put on wet suits and headed to his cousin's pool. We competed in the water who could touch the other side and back without surfacing. The water, so refreshing in the dark at 9 o'clock. We then skinny dipped. It was my first time doing this with friends. I felt like my day was an old photograph.

Pain

Pain,
We're connected.
You know us each by name.
The issues you enter in us differ,
still you're familiar to every heart.
Belief is your companion,
Belief that we're divided,
Belief that no one understands,
Belief that we are different,
that we bleed different,
cry different,
eat different,
sleep different,
love different,
dream different.
Maybe issues differ,
yet pain remains the same.
We forget we're connected.
We believe in a divide.

Then Today (1/5/15)

This morning, the moon and lady liberty.
There was blue in the sky, radiating with vibrancy no one, nor I, could understand.
A glow.
This afternoon, the sun, beaming in a similar space.
Windmills in the distance I haven't notice before.
There was I, sitting across from a girl, passing the time.
Then today, there was snow over the city that I love.

Then love returned. (12-30-2012)

I saw beauty in a cloud and soon after I witnessed grace a desire to contain it manifested in my heart. That was the moment I ruined love. Upon the realization of what I had done I chose to let it go. It was then that love returned and we became closer than ever before.

Control

When he stood his head touched the ceiling of the small cedar box. It was his first experience of a sauna. It was dry, yet the temperature was more comfortable than what he had expected.

The sound of the timer seemed annoying at first, but it was quickly drowned out by memories. Attention was brought to his legs, their hairs, and small pinches each follicle made when rubbed by his hands.

The light from the late sun reflected off the siding of the house. It created a hypnotizing grey haze that the eyes struggled adjusting to. He grounded himself through looking out the door window. The blue of the afternoon contrasted the peachy clouds.

His thoughts visited a time when he was on his own. He could do as he pleased without the judgement of others. If he flirted with a man no one could object. He was free to love, smoke, and drink. So little would interrupt foolish actions.

When he was touched by another the speed was significantly slower then. It was within quiet rooms unbothered by common sounds or schedules. Could his lovers appreciate it to the magnitude that he did? Could they feel the intensity or the reason for its meaning?

What did it matter if they could? He was happy whether they shared it or not. He realized how insignificant it was to be understood. He knew life's beauty and the pleasures in romance. He was content in knowing himself. His ambitions in love were to have all that it offered him while contributing to the experience of his partner.

It fascinated him to find how each lover wanted to be touched; discovering their sensitivity and reaction to his hands. He wanted to know their thoughts. He memorized their interests and their expressions made whenever they appeared unguarded. He asked himself what price he must pay to keep this moment or to have them desire him. How could he become wanted? These things were beyond his control, just like the colors the sun had made in the vapors of water in clouds. He wanted the sky in the way he desired to be possessed.

Along with his ambition to serve equally existed the understanding that he was 't obligated to give. He could experience pleasure without any effort to learn about his lovers. These thoughts frightened him for his own desires were dependent on selflessness. He could ask for nothing, as no one was obligated. He could only act and hope for something to be returned.

Droplets formed on his shoulder and he observed the spaces between them. They seemed equally balanced as neither one touched the other. They contained in their reflections hints of the blue sky. He became conscious of his body and the position he was sitting. Touching himself created flashes of subtle romantic thoughts; some real; some imagined.

He was convinced that the only companion for him would have practiced a similar caress. The way he held his own body contained gentleness an appreciation for peace. Did he know of any others who strived for this? He thought he was alone in his desire for independence; to hold himself in peace. If he found a lover who silenced their thoughts for the beauty he saw in lust, he suspected that in time they'd share their concerns an he'd be expected to council things beyond his control. He wanted to love; not to council; not to change. The world seemed interested in change while his interests remained fixed on simple pleasure.

As he held himself that day he continued to observe the sweat pour off him in spite of the absence of a twin mind. In the silence he embodied such grace that he visited these memories without regret. He was glad for their existence. He was happy he had loved. He was glad to know pleasure, its pain, and it's impressions.

A thousand implications. (12-13-2011)

Sometimes I do the dance of misunderstanding, chanting to myself, 'no body gets it.' You tell me I'm confusing and I assure you the feeling is mutual. I am the fool, but for a thousand times have asked you to read implications of experiences that you do not have. No one criticizes themselves like this, where they can foresee the selfish man that others have tried to consume with condiments. No one has the tongue for the raw elements. It is the preparations of the knife, discarding the fat, and catering to your tastes that we unite in a meal. Dancing alone keeps me away, until I get tired of all that, and return to gardening.

The Sin of Thoughts (3-8-2011)

Concerns of status, of position, and loss thereof, travel in thoughts, taught to be afraid. I, a performer, and observer of such things, at times will negate my desire to play, and ponder any meaning of why. I wonder if I am suffering, if my dreams are escapes, or visions of a world man will one day come to know.

In my drive home from work is the religious pattern of turns and thoughts. The sky, the clouds, the trees can only be noticed when I am empty of all those things. I turn on the air to imitate the cool breeze from a former verse, as though it could replicate rotting sentiments. I will play with words to discover a description of the opening in the clouds near the horizon. I want to tell you how the ends of the clouds are like tails, in a line, in some parade, moving at one speed; not one of the parts moving faster or slower. I want to replicate something private, expose it for viewing, and believe that an imitation won’t scar the fact of its genuine mother.

I wonder why I am angry, but as it occurs, I rarely consider its source. Is it because of my friend, the time I spent with her, the way she has influenced me, and now that we’re away, that anyone else is not her? Can’t they see me as she does, learn to treat me the same, or is it that I’ve held her so close, afraid to release her, and do the same amount of work with a stranger?

What will my confessions produce in the minds of the striving? Can my subtle doubts wake man to the emptiness in his heart so he isn’t afraid of the hollowness he has carved? Can I make friends with the privacy of God, keeping our door open for those willing to sit towards the face of the sky? I’ll keep the air blowing, and my heart in practice, hoping that my promise never has to deal with conflict. Better yet, I’ll release my promise, and forgive this deity for the sin of thoughts.

As I am Dead

Was it the cold nip on my legs that lead me to those nights, waiting in line for the club, and how difficult it was to wait with such a desire to be noticed.

What did it mean to be young and so full with thoughts of men? What would you say of a man who wanted to be wanted?

It’s totally useless, how amazed I was at the bird, swooping back and forth in a reoccurring U-shaped flight, in between the branches of the tall pine, over and over again. My amazement has no bearing to the night or to men. My amazement has no meaning. It is completely empty, as I am alive, watching a bird, as I am dead watching men.

Breathlessness...

I recently discovered in an old scrap book a poem I wrote when I was probably around the ages of 10-12. I can still remember, very specifically, that I was at my grandparent’s house, in the back room, sitting in a large reclining chair. It was either late spring or summertime, during the night. The windows were open, and I was experiencing the breeze, and the sound of a few lonely cars driving by on the main road in the isolated country of Pennsylvania. I don’t remember what was happening in my life at the time, but I recall, in that moment, I was experiencing a profound awareness of myself, where I felt like I couldn’t breathe enough air, that my lungs were bottomless, almost like the feeling one experiences when they contemplate the infinite. I felt the large, vast, open space of the dark night. I felt incredibly alive. I then recorded in that moment this poem, questioning what it meant:

What am I doing?
Why am I waiting here?
Why can’t I say something?
What is this feeling I have inside me?
Why do I feel this way?
All I did was read a book, and think a little, and now I have a weird feeling in my stomach.
Is it god?
Who are you?
What do you want?
Why do I feel Déjà vu?
Is my death near?
Explain!
What it is about music that gets me going?
Why?
Help me cry! God! I love you.
Am I in Love?
Marry me.
Children?
My heart cries!
Love is the answer!
Help.
God loves forever.
Me.

When it comes to these things...(11-23-2010)

Dear Mystery, the essence that provokes, the feeling of desire that hungers for more.

Dear reflection of myself in the mirror’s image, that tells a backward tale of a young man’s morning hair, yet to be bathed.

Dear myself when I was five, discovering my body, its height, its color, its volume within a reclining chair.

Dear summertime days that I didn’t make art, that I didn’t sentiment trees or discuss romance.

In the afternoon you will leave me, and I will cook a meal. I will ponder my schedule, my words, my thoughts, my plans. I will take a bite and eat it, and maybe my mind will become empty.

Flowers don’t bloom in the winter, they come in the later spring. This makes sense to a gardener. Men in misery will drink their beer, ignoring the distance between us and them. Scared men will kiss their mates, making wild love, begging existence to stay where it is. You’ve left me no choice but to consider these things, dissecting the skin to discover organs. Within the process of looking, so many minds wonder, will they continue to feel?

I go first when it comes to these things, diving in a pool, maybe never to return. In the context of all things, the landscape remains the same. The sun still sets on the overcast day, and my gut wants to pull over to see it. My hand will reach for yours, greeting the cold surface of the car seat.

Is there some way to transmit this to you, void of intention, a pure gift to see?

In the context of all things I am awake to some problem, to which I face the reality of misery and protect myself in romance, but I am a slave to it all until I see it as it is. And then, without pride, something beautiful occurs. Neither you nor I can describe it. I am passionate to respond, and that joy translates into muffled sounds, a language no misery can bare. And in the context of it all, I am learning to be alone, and why it seems to make true love come to life.

Four men crossing a bridge. (8-25-10)

Caught in the passion of my emotion, over petty arguments with my mother, I passed over the bridge. It was the same bridge that I stopped near, pulling the car aside from the road, to speak to my friend about my concerns of when my lovers have mistreated me. There I asked her if she thought that he might continue to think of me. She told me that he probably hasn’t allowed himself the thought. While she spoke of facts, indicating he was afraid, I watched, observing the outline of the trees in the moon’s light, wondering if a police officer might question my business there, but no patrol car ever came.

That day, I saw four men walking on the bridge in a small parade of humanity. Where were they going? Four Indian men, walking in the sun, dressed in polo’s and Khakis, and then there was I, young, observing four adults, maybe three generations, crossing a bridge, possessing grace.

I’ve been thinking of that bridge. I’ve been thinking of the past, how it smelled, how he smelled, what it felt like to have him close enough to remember the warmth coming off him, or how the moon’s light can’t outline a man’s body through the haze of a city sky. I think I was happy then in the drama of those days and nights. There was no direction, there was no wind. There was only snow, and cold, and his impulse to kiss me because it was what he wanted, and how then, and only then, he deserved me, and I him.

Was it just a ruse to the ego or heart? Was it only then that I’ll know lust and letting go, or is there, within this order, a more complex way to fall, so I might once again feel entranced with life itself? Does it require other halves, twenty marbles to fill a jar with some spaces, empty creases in between?

Get me out of the memory that says to feel the ghost’s hand, and to be alive on the floor in my room. Get me out of the mind and into a practice, preserving my name until I die. Get me down from the spirit, and into the land so I can face loneliness and love her.

News of your arrival (8-15-10)

If tomorrow doesn’t bring news of your arrival, then what have I left to do but wait? Waiting is the game I play, faking that I’m patient, when really, there liviving, burning in my gut, for union and the surprise that you’ll join me in this thought. Neither I nor you can conceive the great day, where we will say hello to the death of boundary. Neither one of us can conceive this union till we’re willing. If tomorrow doesn’t bring news of your arrival, maybe I’ll leave, fighting with all things, pretending only gentle things possess wisdom. Maybe, I’ll be the one to run from commitment. I’ll be a hypocrite if I complain any further. What’s the point of living if it’s fear that I allow to cradle me in solitude, rather than jumping into your arms, feeding us both with wild passion. What if I chose to stay and forget the words of friends, only to have the moment I said I was too afraid to have. If tomorrow doesn’t bring news of your arrival, it is then that I’ll decide.