On a Rock on the Bitterroot River

Walking, sitting, lying, running,

happy, sad, scared, content

all are equal.

Hunger comes and is sated

eventually, returns eventually.

In between all that

why raise your voice

but to shout for joy?

Unless you want to 

make someone mad, which is fine

but why risk short-

ening your life?

Snow will fall on your ashes soon enough.

In Paranoia of Joy

They’re gonna make an example of me.

What the hell is the difference

between a vision and a thought?

Existential detective,

just putting together everyone’s stories,

trying to see what they’re saying.

Can you ever really know what life’s like for someone?

I’m here in the basement pushing a pen.

When am I not possessed?

Where do these voices come from?

What are they trying to do?

Am I robot?

Is there a microchip in my brain,

a microchip in my brain,

a microchip in my brain?

Am I a fountain of cells?

Am I a spirit guide?

                                       Guided?

                                                         Guide?

Am I a brain inside

a hundred pieces you can name,

a fleshy vase,

a lava lamp of bone and skin,

an organ holding electric net of jewel-encrusted molecules.

Am I dolphin leaping out

                                               and splashing in

ov                   er                  a

      er         ov      and      er    gain?

          and                   ov

Am I a puppet of the universe?—

wide fur-lipped muppet mouth flapping on about the state of things.

Let the furniture tell the story.

Where you put your clothes,

how you make your bed.

What kind of ice cream you like

and where you bring your dog

or first dates to walk.

Where’s the best place to watch the sunrise?

Your spirit lingers there,

cross-legged on some boulders

in your favorite sweater.

You like to be talked to

by someone who talks about what they know,

or vise-versa.

And then the don’t-know amusements

splash up on the rocks

as the water gets tangerine and pink.

This is how you want to be remembered by me.

This is how I want to be remembered, too,

us here, making each other laugh

in the cold dark morning

waiting for this light.

I just want to know

if you’re actually enjoying this

or if you’re just pretending.

I want to believe this is real and

it passes by just like a dream does.

The memories from either are no more real

but life’s a dream that persists for longer,

and when we are gone

it’ll be the same as dream

us sitting here on the rocks

examples to each other

of how to act in such circumstances,

examples to any passing squirrels,

the splashing lake,

the strangers and stars

of how two humans are

and what matters to us

at this moment.

Why Meditate?

You sit down on the cushion

hoping to find a temple

bell hanging in your chest.

Snow is on the deck

outside your window.

The furnace blows.

In the powder yard there are

so many branches, sticks, twigs

you haven’t raked up.

Deep Breath In.

Release.

In.

Release.

Here come the gunmen

crashing into the concert hall

opening fire.

Here drone the pundits pointing fingers

consulting experts who say

Breathe In.

Release.

In. Release

the madness unleashed,

fifty toothsome rabid dogs with spiked collars

venomous fangs, red stormy eyes

barking at you about your

childhood, all the shitty things you did and didn’t do.

Mom’s getting old now and still thinks

she runs you, you

really blew up at her on the phone yesterday

when she wouldn’t stop questioning your job,

are you making enough money,

when are you going to

Breathe in.

Release.

In. Re-

crease! Those new dress pants

are upstairs on the floor,

they’re gonna get ruined if you let ‘em

sit there like that,

maybe you should get up and fix ‘em.

You can fix ‘em if you do it mindfully, just

okay, Breathe in as you stand up,

Release as you up the stairs.

Very. Slow and gradual

hold out the hanger,

slip the pant legs through

perfect lines folded on the creases,

find the perfect balance

so they won’t fall out.

Downstairs the cushion knows

you’re gone.

Upstairs, you’re all upstairs

as you take slow, mindful steps and your toes

knock over the glass of water

you left two days ago

sitting by the door to bring downstairs

Haha, idiot, but

this is just like all those Zen stories

of the monks who felt their minds opening and then

WHAM! they tripped on a rock

carrying the bucket of water,

and suddenly they got enlightenment

so huuuuuhhh, maybe

this is it.

This is it as you

Breathe in, find a towel

Release, pat the water of the floor.

Feel the cold stain rise to your fingers.

Breathe in.

Yes this is it.

Release.

Ha ha.

This is it.

I’ve done it!

But.

You’ve been taken.

There’s no you.

And the AK-47s are still being bought and sold

and fired through heads.

Some heads saying, “Insha’Allah”

others screaming, “God No!”

others holding thoughts of their loved ones

as they bravely raise their hands answering

“Yes, I am a Christian,”

“Yes, I am a Jew,”

“Kill me,”

and where are you

now?

Somewhere in the hallway,

now through the kitchen,

back to the living room,

back down on the cushion

to finish your half-hour,

and I hope you learned something

to benefit all beings.

I hope you

found some

peace.

Good Morning Every One

From my window I see the sky

through the firs’ sparse boughs,

the birch’s branches bare.

The ninja silhouette of a squirrel

scampers across. The mountains

have snow on them.

In the woods across the river

there’s a man stabbing a corpse.

I do not call the cops.

He’s taking the elk home

to freeze for the winter.

Ducks paddle upstream, in a row.

Always upstream,

always in a row.

No one takes a straight edge to their line.

I’ve never known a nun to smack

the wrist of an eagle

for missing its supper.

God does not need us to scold

one another. Our

fingers can point at many things

but the Indians used to point the way

with their lips.

A nod and a kiss

to the direction they wished

to go.

God was once, only

once perfect,

but that was long before rulers.

Now God learns perfection through us.

I tell you,

we’d do well

to learn it through ducks.

The Break Cafe, October 29th, 2015

There are a handful

of things I know

for certain right now:

I have good friends

with small but not unpowerful jobs.

Sean didn’t charge me for this tea.

I know anxiety

and how it can swipe the whole jigsaw puzzle

to the floor in a second.

I know right now

I’m breathing deep and serenely as

Billie Holiday lyrics pour

gently from the teapot stereo

over the leaves of a saxophone.

I don’t know where I’ll be

next lifetime, though I have

a feeling some nothing of me

outlasts this body, the same

nothing of me that outlasts this mug

of tea once it’s empty.

The same me that limps down the street

wearing all of my clothes

and a few garbage bags

waving sharpied cardboard at cars

for the hope of chicken bones in my beard

in the coming days.

The same me that is the body

of a taxi cab honking hurry hooray

for today get the hell out of my way.

There was a tremendous mural

under the bridge over the Yellowstone

in Livingston. It was dated

September 11th, 2001

and prophesied the end of all war.

There were childish drawings of buildings

and soldiers burning, angels

flying down from heaven

to catch the falling, to lift up

the wounded and the screaming and
the dead with X's on their eyes

There was a huge redwhiteandblue tag for

PEACE

next to it.

I am letting the cool waters of the Yellowstone

bring peace to us all.

In that place, in that month

it wasn’t a mighty river.

It was low and slow and gentle.

Some places it was just

a wide trickle over rocks

and I crossed the river

back and forth in these places,

my feet hardly getting wet.

I’m sorry to say

this is how peace comes.

It doesn’t come blaring from the intersection

green light go, wait your turn,

halt, halt, stop everything

everyone stop.

I mean

it does, but not everyone recognizes

it all the time.

And even when it does

crashing descend upon you

it’s unsettling,

quiet unsettling

how you never noticed

it’s always been there for you.

It’s always been there in you.

You’ve always not been there

in it

and now

the river smashes your dixie cup,

crumples your tea pot

you are rolling over and

down against the rocks bashed

banged brow, face mashed

legs and arms twirling like a mangled

piece of farm equipment

I’d be more specific but I can’t

you’re so old and rusty misshapen

I can’t even identify you.

Not to worry.

When the Spring floods subside

that old metal is just

a former shell of something.

It’s being buried solowly in the bank

by moss and lichen and mud.

That’s not you anymore.

Come.

Gather you legs.

Meet me by the side

of the Yellowstone in September,

the side closer to the peaks

and let’s weep before that picture

of our brothers and sisters dying for nothing.

Let’s scream our madnesses silently

into the gentle flow of water, for this

is how peace comes to us truly—

in slow sips of breath,

one Sinatra song at a time,

the warm tears on our face,

the mug lifted,

the ring of tea

left on the table

slowly evaporating.

Damn You Charlie Wong!

I know what makes me happy,

it’s just hard to get there.

My nose starts itching 

from the grease. I reach

into the backseat for my

sweater.

                   Which one

should it be? The nine

to five suburban driveway

dream, or some wandering

mendicant never setting down

roots. Long ago he said,

“Here’s what you have to de-

cide: do you want to warm

your feet by your own fireplace

or someone else’s?”

                                         I have

so many sweaters. The green

cotton hoodie, two black wool—

one with buttons, one with a zipper—

a thick, lined flannel that passes

as a jacket and as a shirt, and then

all the gray pullover hoodies

I’ve accumulated from running

track, different organizations over

the years.

                       The years add up,

yep they do, and if I knew

I was going to live to be 200

I’d have a totally different

plan, but I’ve got to plan

on 80, so this’ll have to do.

I’m 27 soon, “Marrying age”

I said to her

                            the other day.

We wanted soup at Saigon Garden

but we were in that awkward window

between lunch and dinner. They were

closed till five, so Frugal’s

was my choice. I wanted

a burger and some fries. Her

stomach hurt. Then she downed

a breaded chicken sandwich and

moaned, “I have no self

                                                control.”

I remember playing Yahtzee in the

evenings with my parents. I remember

a Saturday morning in the English off-

ice, November, he had fingerless gloves

and Wish You Were Here on, he was

typing up poems and I thought,

“Damn that sweater looks comfy.”

Then he tore into my poems with a

red pen and I

                              was so thrilled

every time I met a girl who

played catch with my heart.

All the late nights holding hands

on our backs in the grass at

Lorel Park, staring up through

the orange Chicago night sky

until we saw stars, until

                                               shit

it’s getting late, I’ve got to

sneak back home, but let’s do this

again and again and again

                                                  the Autumn

turns to Winter and I happily pull

my sweaters on and we happily keep

each other warm by fires

                                                and then

Spring comes and Summer and we end it for 10,000 reasons.

The years add up. Despite what I

believe, I am getting older and I

am wondering if it isn’t time to

grow up a little, forgive myself

for my childish past, ask for

a second chance,

                                     and a third

of my life is gone now

                                           if I live

to be 80.

                      If I live

to be 80.

                        Well.

                                    That’d be

enough.

Brass Skin

The woman next to me at the bar

just hollered, “WALKER!”

in my direction.

Shrill and piercing

like a golf ball flying into a mailbox

clangclangclangclangclang.

I don’t blame her—

she’s drunk on a Friday afternoon

and eating peanuts.

Here are the feelings today:

gratitude,

doubt,

excitement,

ambivalence, and

fear.

That last one’s always there.

Well, almost always.

There are times

after a run,

in the morning looking at the mountains,

I think about everything that might happen,

everything that’s inevitable, and

it’s all okay.

Old age, homelessness, shitty jobs, fuck-ups,

horrible diseases I say thanks every day I don’t have

yet, death, yes

all okay.

That feeling never lasts more than an hour though

'cause next comes giddiness that maybe

I’ve left all my troubles and worries behind

once and for all, and that’s

always pursued by a feeling

of manic anxiety.

Then suddenly

I’m back in my own skin,

my mind the hammer

of a church bell

at noon.

clang…

clang…

clang…

clang…

clang…