LITTLE LUSTRES

Out of consciousness,

they arise, flicker

like fireflies from summer grasses.

Emerson called them lustres:

the moments when we catch a sudden glimpse

of our own brilliance.

These flashes—of the bards and sages

we carrying within—

are more deserving of our attention

than any firmament outside ourselves.

Grab your net, let’s head for the grasses after dusk.

Let’s go hunting and awaken to the infinite inside.

HOLLOW BONE

collagen and calcium

form around a hollow

through which

a breath is blown

may we each be

the sounding

Spirit hears

as the clarion call for change

 SOUL FOOD

Mayonnaise,

sliced banana and white bread.

A simple sandwich.

A depression-era delicacy.

A meal I make today

in homage to an ill-begotten angel.

With a heavy heart

I remove my mask,

lifting it like a curfew

that hides a riot 

and a virus inside--

a pale fragility

that plagues the soul.

On this mere morsel

I mean to feed, satisfy

an insatiable hunger

that lives within us all:

an epic appetite

for dignity and equality,

humility and humanity.

May the first bite I take 

be my prayer: that one day

what was once only “a family thing”

becomes a banquet, a moveable feast 

we all share together 

around the same healing table.

THE BURIAL

The red in the Sangre de Cristo mountains,

the green of the piñon pine,

the blue of the epic azure skies,

look on

as their colors

enter the desert earth
as a tension laid to rest.

A ceremony's complete.

I exhale

a time zone away.

A breeze off the Pacific

breathes with me.

My new, untethered life begins

as the one sun sets twice,

an hour apart, 

signaling in twin futures

like hellos shared between brothers

from different mother's.

CAVE

There ain’t no cave here.

You got the wrong address.

This here’s a mountain, mister.

I wouldn’t even know where to tell ya

to go lookin’ to find that hell hole of yours

‘cause I don’t know

the next thing about caves, see.

Even the word cave

don’t mean nothin’ to me.

It’s an empty word.

It echoes when you say it.

Cave. Cave. Cave.

See what I mean?

The sound only reminds me

of the faces, like your face,

that come sniffing ‘round

these parts every so often

asking me where the goddamn cave is.

You know, you all look a like.

Like inbreds.

I told all of them, like I’m telling you now,

I don’t know nothin’ about no caves.

Who sent ya, anyway?

Probably that troll down aways,

under the bridge,

who wants to rent a room.

Well you can tell that ugly little rat-trap,

there ain’t no vacancies

in this here mountain.

I am full up and rock solid, see.

Even the wind don’t blow through me.

Got it?

Now get!

 THE ALCHEMY OF TREES

Trees make oxygen

from carbon dioxide.

They turn bad into good.

They help to make

the air we breathe

fit to breathe.

I want to do this:

to take what I find

distasteful in the world

and convert it

into something

that sustains us all.

The alchemy of trees…

If I could master their secret

then maybe I’d transmute

my own breath into prayer,

and then pray

unceasingly, as I believe

the trees do

for us–

that we might be

more like them.

WHEN IS A THING HOLY?

When you take scissors to it

and sage the severance

When you paint it blue

and think Mother

When you hang it out to dry

under a full moon

When you smoke it in the light of day

with incense from the pipe of a great Uncle

  

When you bind it to two others

of different colors to make white

When story untethers it

into soul

When you bury it
in the desert

When you pay close attention,

care enough to care, and call it all medicine