Fragile, shalehands holdthe womb wilderness isborn The CosmosWalleyed PikesJune nights andthe call of Loons Everything thatwe need to dream To feelTo love So littleseparatesus from whatwe need The nightyou wereborn Wearing the skin of God The worldwas born My new Cosmos And by the timeit was written even Green Heronin the cool spring marshcould tell me
A Moment in the Backyard
The way some fireflies hide within the obsidian grass, faking the blinking signals of cold heat, I waited for you to want my offerings, as badly as I wanted to givethem to you. Perhaps we shall soon understand why.
The Lost Part of the Human Brain
(Inspired by Terence McKenna) Glaciers are new. The home star arrivinglater than we sensed. Summoned. The sunoff the main sequence. An arc out of here.
Lost Monarchs
By the lookof his wool held in placeby a universalgrammar of touch I will be prayingto my higher self just to be with him. You know, that placewhere the jasper seawaves dance, like lostmonarchs, throughand with the ocean mist.
Elegy for Nirvana
Signless and aimless,I have come to accept that I amwho I amlooking for. I am already what I havesearched for. As the master taught: Barn’s burned down- now I can see the moon. What do I see when the moonlooks at me? The memory of my muscles aching for you to see me. […]
In…sigh…t
is how we breathe, a light, delicate, clean breath, bathing the tonguewith a core of earth,the way sliced apples taste on a crisp fall day
The Mouth of a Tiger Lily 2
drawn from the soil forever, forced by the tamed winds to grow prostrate, there is a morbid hiddenness lurking inside
Women in Indian Tantric Buddhism, Part One
There are two Vajrayana paths that lead to the spiritual realization of women – the path of a nun (Skt. bhikshuni, Tib. gelongma) who has renounced worldly existence, and the path of a yogini (Tib. naljorma) who can perform spiritual practice in solitude or combine it with family life. In the Indian Tantric tradition, there […]
The Mouth of a Tiger Lily
Once drenched by ferocious rains, steeping in sealable, blood orange petals with dimples of peppercorn spots on the skin,in a milk pale vase, in a country kitchen in the fall drawn from the soil forever, forced by the tamed winds to grow prostrate, there is a morbid hiddenness lurking inside
Wild Turkey
My father was one who best understood the shy verse of sawdust and steel. When he did speak, after aged bourbon by the charred pepper glow of campfire, his words would bring dryness to the dark, the way engine-oiled machine parts are ordered and arranged under the tongue. I listened. More than he knew. I saw how his words had shapes, how some of […]