Little Remains of the Unexamined Man

One can not be their own father
if your father is stolen from your life
the pattern of masculine love
the comfort and security in an uncertain time
is lost
you can not fill this void with self help
you can not heal this with bravado,
fighting, cursing, drinking, sports, nor guns
Verbs can not take the place of the father
the steady hand when you are shaking
the enveloping warmth of a hug larger than yourself
when your self is so small and vulnerable
a single leaf trembling in the wind
you can not be your father
you can not replace your father
you will carry with you that absence
and either learn from it or die from it

I am now the man I am because of this void

I chased the stories of manhood
like Hemingway in the Savanna , like Melville out whaling
I sought it in the wilder places
like Vonnegut and Mailer and Heller I sought it in war
I found that these tests and lessons
do not make a man a man
they make a man tired, a braggart, humble and sly
or whatever a man can become
but they do not make him a man
that is innate and these were simply lessons
lessons that inform the conscious person of his natural capacity
a capacity for sin and venal acts
a capacity for charity and sacrifice
or a tendency to sullenly withdraw into a shell
like some ancient turtle of destiny
carrying the burden of all mankind's testes on his back

what a useless pursuit that would be

sex and fighting and career building and home ownership
hunting and fishing and war games
marathons and black belts
college degrees and really deadly fast cars
and impressive Japanese combat knives
will never make me a man
and they have not told one who the hell this man is
they are pretty damned cool things I guess
but ultimately they are nothing
but a shroud to place on the mantle
after the burial only the love and hate
the man has inspired will remain

Emptiness is Passing Away

I ran a brisk mile towards my end
burning a lot of time others left banked
They in their coats of ermine and velvetine gloves
I in pelts with decorus bones
These words are declarative
They are emphatic
They are gongs in an abandoned temple
far up on a windswept mountaintop
That is our life
our history
our fate
Look at us
foot steps deeply embedded in clay
worn by the most persistent of elements
but I am a song bird aloft beautiful and free
I risk the sky and predation
for freedom and the moment of being
The rest is traveling the standard inch an hour

What That We Do Not Know

There is a little country we have never heard of
where people have a history we are not aware of
with kings or czars or PMs we can not name
These unthought of places have unknown GDPs
and unspoken unemployment rates
they may have a level of literacy that would surprise us
there may be many orphaned children in the care of the elderly
We may read of the colors of their flag during the Olypics
and see their representative to the UN in a glancing news article
but the stories of the lives in the country we do not know
are buried in ignorance and remain pearls in dust before swine
we will never know the tradition of the harvest
nor how important a certain port is to pilgrims
the culture heroes extolled in poems are a null value
our lives will be forever unmarked
by the absence of what we did not know

What Dave Taught Me

I have a friend
whom I ride bicycles with
on occasion
At 4 AM
fourteen years ago
his life parter died
of AIDS related complications
My friend nursed this man
at home
himself until his death
My friend told me this
to commemorate the life
he had found in love
I promised to go home and treat my family lovingly
I came home and I was fatigued and hungry
and a bit of a horse's arse
but I recalled my promise
and I chilled out
and I passed out hugs
and I doled out affection
and I spent what time I could afford
and I argued as well
Love is perfect
but people are found wanting
All of this is joy
when faced with the specter of loss
or worse yet, negligence's remorse
I owe you one Dave
for making my evening more perfect

A New First For America

A new first
has been a long time coming
It is foolish to think
that race does not matter
in my great nation
Race is so important
as it defines the struggles, crimes
and eventual glorious triumphs
of this American story
I have said many a time
that we are slowly transforming
into a more perfect union
brothers and sisters
united and divided on honest
egalitarian intellectual grounds
where our differences are not querulous
nor trivial, but instead
our differences can form a tapestry
the picture of a nation of ideals
woven with conflict and striving and blood
woven with fear and dogs and tear gas
woven with pain and hatred and apathy
woven with sacrifice and sweat and love
woven by you and myself
woven from the dreams of men and women
lifting us up every time we falter
our resilience always saving us from disgrace

We are Frail and Afraid

"We sleep safely in our beds at night because of violent deeds done on our behalf."

This sums the struggle
the contradiction
of the human condition.

It is noble to serve
and terrible to kill.
If we must kill to thrive
and some part of us dies when we kill
what is it that is defended by might?
Some say a shell
no longer in the image of God.
I do not believe this.

I do not believe that war
even a just war
is for a whole soul
it fragments the spirit
and distances us for a moment from God

I do not believe that killing alienates us from God
He who knows more of death and finality than any of us
God is on both ends of the bullet
God is in the humble prayers of the pacifist
But there is no virtue
in the killing or the death of innocence
There are tears and a humility
There is a rending of the self
at witnessing the fragile thing
that we destroy
That such finality
can reside
in these tired human hands
it is shock that such power has been put
in our the control of our finite conscience

To what end is this war we fight among our brethren
To whose vain glory shall we attribute our victory
Whom will we curse for each little defeat
Will it be God, us, a caricature of the devil

How will violence cease without equal force
and to what purpose will this force be wielded
and on whose behalf?

Assorted Concepts

My hands formed a net
They captured her breast
Like a fowler

by submitting formally
to all desires
you will fail
divorce is an expense
you can not recover

a Winchester a Colt a derringer
a gallows for the evil
a glare for the transgressive
a hug for the child of love

there was the moon so large and low on the horizon
swinging down to eye level through the trees

there was a huddle of men
and a lovely thriving coyote in the gully
hiding from me behind the sparse brush
I illuminated them all as I passed by
I paused momentarily for each in turn

there was a family
holding each other joyous
at the notion of hope
there was a shadow that passed
and may not return
the threat now dormant
or extinct

What Used to Be Is

What used to be is today
technology and astrophysics not withstanding
the human heart and the symbols of the spirit
have been and are
consistent
across the ages

we think of the persons in religious texts
in ancient dramatic tragedies
as living in a flattened and diametric world
decisions made on a razors edge
with simply and obvious emotions and choices
Kill Isaac or disobey the Living God
Look back at Persephone while fleeing Hades and lose her for ever
kill Oedipus or face the abominations of prophecy
build an arc in the arid land

The gnostics and Manicheans
described the creator as the Demiurge
this was the force that formed
out of chaos all that exists
including evil

Judeo-Christians believe in a personified creative force
set apart absolutely
from evil and corruption
yet intimately involved in the temptations of man
not as the source of temptation
but as a countervailing entity
blancing out the adversarial invitations of the devil
as seen in Job
and through out the histo-theological texts

And the anger of the Lord burned against Israel
...
God could bear the misery of Israel no longer

China

This country you have been sold on
this red state is not of the people
this is not communism
this is fascism
you have been lied to
and you will be compressed
and your flat red blood
will oil the economic machinery
of a future generation
and 500,000,000 people you
will never ever see

Self Managed Cattle - Revision 2

Each person, each unit of discipline
is managed as thought it were interchangeable
A sock is not a glove but both go in the same dryer
The unit of discipline is observed in both
a general and individual manner
When watering the whole of the field the farmers sees the dead stalks
The method of this paradox was developed
over centuries
not by the selfish plans of a cabal of vampires
but through glacial shifts of intentions of the ruling elite
The units are kept static in a spacial plane
addressed alphanumerically
for ready indexical recall of a specific unit
ordered uniformly for ease of observation
hierarchically ranked within the field
to allow visual afformeramtion of quality and ongoing utility
House after house
Cube after cube
Car after car
tier after tier of desk after desk
An equiform procession of human units
graded, ranked, titled, numbered
contained by order for general observation
this tablized discipline maintains
a subtle cultural feed back stimuli
a deviation from order will cause an accident
a deterioration of quality in the unit of disciple
a car with a dent
a desk by the restroom
a table by the kitchen
a house losing appraised value
a grade signifying lackluster performance
This appraisal of value is intentionally
made relative to other units
it is set by a mechanism of market
set by the insecurities of the monied overseeing monad
I hear their breathing each time I am out of step
each time I stop for a rest their shadow covers my napping face
a chill over takes me in my sleep
I am not working hard enough to stay alive
they will stop the flow of capital and I will die

Self Managed Cattle revision 1

Each person, each unit of discipline
is managed as thought it were interchangeable.
A sock is not a glove but both go in the same dryer
The unit of discipline is observed in both
a general and individual manner
When watering the whole of the field the farmers sees the dead stalks
The method of this paradox was developed over three centuries
The units are kept static in a spacial plane
addressed alphanumerically
for ready indexical recall of a specific unit
ordered uniformly for ease of observation
hierarchically ranked within the field
to allow visual afformeramtion of quality and ongoing utility
House after house
Cube after cube
Car after car
tier after tier of desk after desk
An equiform procession of human units
graded, ranked, titled, numbered
contained by order for general observation
this tablized discipline maintains
a subtle cultural feed back stimuli
a deviation from order will cause an accident
a deterioration of quality in the unit of disciple
a car with a dent
a desk by the restroom
a table by the kitchen
a house losing appraised value
a grade signifying lackluster performance
This appraisal of value is intentionally
made relative to other units
it is set by a mechanism of market
set by the insecurities of the monied overseeing monad
I hear their breathing each time I am out of step
each time I stop for a rest their shadow covers my napping face
a chill over takes me in my sleep
I am not working hard enough to stay alive
they will stop the flow of capital and I will die

Self Managed Cattle

Each person, each unit of discipline
is managed as thought it were interchangeable.
A sock is not a glove but both go in the same dryer
The unit of discipline is observed in both
a general and individual manner
The method of this paradox was developed over three centuries
The units are kept static in a spacial plane
addressed alphanumerically for ready indexical recall of a specific unit
ordered uniformly for ease of observation
House after house
Cube after cube
Car after car
An equiform procession of human units
contained by order for general observation
this discipline is maintained by subtle cultural feed back stimuli
a deviation from order will cause an accident
a deterioration of equity for the container of the unit of disciple
a car with a dent
a desk by the restroom
a table by the kitchen
a house losing appraised value
The appraisal of value is relative to other units
it is set by a mechanism of market
set by the insecurities of the monied overseeing monad
I hear their breathing each time I am out of step
each time I stop for a rest their shadow covers my napping face
a chill over takes me in my sleep
I am not working hard enough to stay alive
they will stop the flow of capital and I will die

life is the death
of a thousand little set backs
dripping down the leg
is a bruise put there
by God only knows who
It will slide to my foot
before passing from my body as a dream

Each day I am ground into asphalt
peppered by doubt
salty as rage
basic and visceral
I shake my hateful days
like calendric manacles holding me
to the vestiges of a savage primitivistic pursuit
making stones out of rocks to turn to gravel
day after day after day after
and you get the tone
of the poem.

whistling through me

I hear your voice reverberate
in my hollow skull
as I follow the fall line trail
sweat and blood and adrenaline
grunting and aching
I am expressing my yearning
with my body alone
and I am only alive in the small moment
the rest is a disingenuous composite
a tar paper and plywood existence
with the winds coming
and
I can feel the rain bleeding through
I am an erratic sterophonic mess
and
the wind blows right through me

I am not really trying

It has been famously said
that the Lord speaks to us through the poor
I think it is intuitive that the message of the devil
is conveyed by the damned
so many stories intertwined
predating science and modern media
stories expressing the essentials of our being
to those who would listen

The condition of the poor is a litmus test
measuring the success of the Church
or its glaring public failure

I own so much that could have been food or a house or a business
for someone poorer and closer to death and God than I
I ate so much food today
more than I needed
I bought more things today
I could have fed three people for a week
I spent so much money frivolously
that could have bought medicine
or shoes
or soap
for someone that has no shoes or soap or medicine
someone just like me
or my daughter
but with no opportunity
someone just like you
but with no money
and a hungry family

If the poor are fed and housed and happy
the Church has been busy
If the poor are hungry and restless and murdered
Christ's words have been vainly proclaimed
and wontly ignored

March's Lovely Death Throws

I emerge from the canopy of cherry blossoms
into the flurry of massive conjoined snowflakes

I am wet and desire nothing more
The cold defines me intimately
with no malice nor rancor
I am completely aware of March
as the chrysalis of Spring

I work my way along the byways
hoping for sun later
but not now
Now the snow and cherry petals
and cold faced clouds
are bracing and affirming
affirming that my struggles are not in vain
that my effort defines a life
a life of growth and vitality

I am tired
but alive
living and burning down
to the radiant end

not marching like a resigned soldiery
not kicking like the shaven headed inmate
not shuffling like the plebeian cannon fodder
condemned to a neutered and gentrified tranquility

I feel today the Spring emotions
running like a bear or an ocelot
through me
a solitary predator
on the line
stretched thin between
the point of fervent survival
and indulgent self possession

A Strange Bird

riding my bicycle
today
at dusk
I saw a heron inches
from the juncture
of shore and water
I wanted so very badly
to arrest me my travels
and walk down to this dusky bird
and
enthusiastically
and
adoringly
squeeze it
in my arms
as a precious childhood memento
I abstained
and sallied forth
along the trail
towards the Sellwood bridge
The river was reflecting
the low lying clouds
The river was
purple as a bruised eye
as though I had injured it by rejecting
that spontaneous affinity for the heron
of just moments ago.

Dry Times

I hate these times
with no grand eloquence
to express these joys
nor the withering despair
we Americans encapsulate
The scorned and hated
the populace bereft of health care
social security, job security, national security
the giant corporate back hand
throws us across the room
slamming against the wall
We, teeth bared in impotent resistant
unable to believe that
biting the hand the feeds
has any merit to bring positive change
Ever modern individual
wants the same chance
a chance to own their destiny
a chance at security
a chance to be heard
and for that voice to be reciprocated
with meaningful political action
clean water would be a nice touch
as well

Land is Identity 2

hands on stone, gripping to survive
fear exuding out like a final gust
moving upward
surrounded by gear
rope anchors harnesses
ballerina shoes coated in subtle compounds
mind strains to focus
body strives for succinct
graceful fluidity
wind blows through the ropes
chalk outlines on the rock
of each hand that has passed
like a pilgrims penance for chthonic sins
climbing a column or crack or slab
mantling or laying back
seeking to express freedom to oneself
and one's peers
physically expressing a lust for life
and a hatred of meager existance

Land is Identity 1

Many of the writers worth reading
loved their land, whatever land
there was to love
Thoreau loved the Northeast
Ed Abby the Southwest
Muir the Sierras which define California
for so many artists and hikers
The Northwest has Gary Snyder, to some extent
but he went all Nipponese and Zen
I love the parts of California that have died
scenic ghosts of happy pasts
buried beneath a lahar of stucco and chain stores
feeding off the tribute of dessicated
Eastern Sierra lakes
Built at the edge of the forests of yore
now standing murdered by the
residentially oriented fire suppression
that contributed to preventable
bark beetle infestations
droughts and dried sap
views lost beneath the lead and sulfur
there are six ubiquitous
criteria air pollutants
California now reeks of them all
from the ground ozone
to the nitrogen oxides
my memories are smothered
and as such I am in the Northwest
Portland, the 1950's California I never knew
that I had adolescent dreams of
healthy forests and local agriculture
water and rain
community and conservation
but I have to wonder
where are the bear and lynx
now so prevalently absent from
the Southern Cascades

Vanities and Flames

the fascism of pop culture
fashion mall make up counter
dancing boy toys
1 centimeter deep conversation
this magazine is a catalog of veneer
for your pitted ill used spirit
you are dead to your chthonic heritage
dead to choral arrangements
to the swelling of ridges
dead on a pulpit
thrust up from plate tectonics
dead to the sermons
with the rage of volcanism
without such, you amount to nothing
the enemy will destroy us
and you liberal tendency will agonize
the loss of the gun and the doctrines of power
your feeble hands will clutch
at the lost straws of your placid vanity

stiff sacks of dead animal
grimaces plastered tragically
loves and fears forgotten
paths of distinct lives
disrupted by super highways
to a pretensious nonce
our urban lives
a horde of murderous lemmings
fleeing our created nature
hiding from death
in large vehicles and terrible food
Americans falling apart
as they are rent in two
by red and blue
an idea as bad as that rhyme
we lack nothing save everything
we hate everyone irrationally
sadly isolated by small ideas

Poem for Ken

An inclinometer measures the angle of a slope
you use it in gauging the avalanche risk
when mountaineering or bragging
to buddies
back on the flat
to wow them with your superior stupidity
and endurance
my buddy Ken and I
both have inclinometers
his measures bigger angles than mine
but I am man enough to handle that
not that I would handle his inclinometer
that would just be awkward

A Subtle Loss of Human Dignity

many are those who would strike a viper
with a stick
many many more are those that would snatch a child
from the crushing path of a steam roller

many are those who would build an army
to prevent the subjugation
of the weak
by the tyrannous
few are those who would volunteer a stranger
to die
for the financial gain of a third stranger

some are those who would fight a war
not for ideals but for short term
economic stability
a few more are those who would strive to defeat
a cabal
of impoverished hapless citizen rebels
with one trillion dollars of munitions
many more are those who would deeply regret
their bombs painted with the blood of housewives


few are those who would not strike a tyrant
with a sword
many are those who would not strike a child
with a rifle butt
even if it meant the loss of national status
as a dominant political power

the dew collects on the brown velvet
of the elks rack
he looks up as we pass his world by swiftly
too swiftly for his survival
too swiftly for our own survival
the lights of our cars pollute the quite country road
our engine chases a raccoon off of a fallen hotdog in the gutter
raccoons are survivors like us

If basic human goodness were the natural order
beauty in art would occur effortlessly, like rain
crime would be the realm of dedicated artisans
no one would pay for movies or music or literature
because we would barter in ideas and statuary
meaning would flood the streets

instead the debasement of life
is the best selling product
victims hang like low hanging fruit
pinatas for the crowds' amusement

what if we started here, in a cathedral
large epic architecture surrounding us
would it communicate the ordered intensity of the universe
or the hateful burden of dogma

what if this was not a cathedral, but maybe a beach
would you enumerate the grains of sand
and correlate that to the number angels that fell from heaven
or would we make love on the maroon Navajo blanket
or fight about the wearing of sunscreen

what if this was, let's say, a forest
lush as only the Pacific Northwest can be
green and brown and the clarity of rain
would we hike amid ancient sylvan giants
or, tripping on roots, would we tear our pants and bleed freely

perhaps we should start in a small wooden church by the sea
it incorporates all of the best elements
we would stroll awkwardly hand in hand between the pews
our cloths catching on hymnals and the communion cup holders
to the window facing the sea
we would kneel there praying for so long
our knees would splinter and our backs would ache
God would be seen in the sea
God would be seen the humble wood of this Baptist church
it can be a Presbyterian church
if you are afraid we have not
gotten rid of enough of the dogma yet
God would be seen in how gently we treat each other
and in the sincerity of our entreaties
for peace
and healing
and humble personal absolution
the blood on the cross is a sunset
as we raise up we both think this thought
and smile as this is the best we can do with our lives

Nezmith Point

I walked deep into the snow
wading up to my waist in fresh powder
I met others bent to the same purpose
struggling against the terrain
gaining feet at the cost of minutes
the sky turned cerulean, if but for a glorious moment
I paused in that desolate winter trek at the sound of a wood pecker
grey and black feathers working hard into the bark
to pull, by force, some life from the otherwise silent tree
as we turned away, we came to a rock formation
which I shall always know now as a friend
snow spinning wildly off the trees and the frozen water fall
sprays of it landing percussively beside me
reminding me that the woods could have swept me over
the sharp rock escarpment and down into the river below
that would have been a different ending,
to an otherwise spectacular day

snow falling while I sleep

clouds bunched up along the coast range
bursting over the ridge with a flurry
gentle touch on trees and rocks and roots
leaving them playfully marred
by the brush of a trickster

Death in the American Desert

Death in the American desert
seems romantic when colored only in words
moulting red tailed hawks
Queen of the Night Cactus
in full bloody bloom
mesas and arroyos
Sonora
seems like the evocative background
of a hundred bright burning and romantic murders
the collage of stark plain colors
and deeds of desperation and bold failure
that could crawl through us
bleeding pleasure
pouring as a flash flood from Spring's rains
as a cascade from the amygdala, center of aggression
to leave us as a cracked blood stain in the dust

Death in the American desert
is suffering for days in delirium
you idiots
you soft white inner thighs
you blistered heels
you cracked and bleeding lips

Death in the American desert
is not a heritage and a badge of honor
it is the dearest fear of the prideful pilgrims of the West
the Leviathan that ate the crops of Oklahoma
and the laggard that trailed behind the ice age
as nothing more than a barren glacial moraine

And the Light Was a Rare Commodity

Upon your face
and your arms
and hair
smiling down
from warmly frosted fixtures
smiling up
from the diminished form of the oil lamp
touching you the way I wish
I could in that moment
the way we touch
in the dark
sigh of privacy
mingled a lone
creature
on a sepia tone horizon
many look on
in desperate jealousy
as we kiss scandal
into being

Love Poem 8

Not much to say to you
as you noisily eat your winter squash
in the kitchen I am in the living room
writing about love and hating
the noise of your roasted yellow squash
even you my dear, can't make that
audibly mushy squash alluring
but other than a few pet peeves like that
you are all right baby
I will just turn up the radio and keep typing away

Love Poem 9

There are ways a good woman
is like a good poblano chili
I explained to my daughter
concerning her mother
at first she scoffed at the analogy
but as I elucidate the gastronomic qualities
of a good chili
she came to agree that it was an apt comparison
good peppers add heat and a robust weight to a flavor
they should bring tears of joy to your eyes
on rare but appropriate occassions
they are lovely to behold
no matter the shape or size
and the smell of a good chili
infuses the whole house with a startling hunger
I left that last one out of the conversation
to avoid any awkwardness

The Difficulties of Loving Amphibians

the skin needs moisture so much moisture
this is hard to accommodate
at times
I am frequently tired
from the doting labors
of bringing her
chalice after chalice of amphibian broth
cleansing her toe webs
with lanolin and aloe swabs
being the gentle hand with the cool moist towelette
I am disheveled as a result
I smell like swamp bottom
and I think I have small algal blooms
in various moist and hidden spaces
she is worth these petty sufferings
and she will extract much more toil over time