Poor Michael

He lived inside a Coca Cola can
Only coming out every little once in a while
Or maybe just peering out of the opening
To see the white world outside
Then scurry back into the darkness,
His Coke can was his mansion
Where he kept his collection of antique toys
Little spinning tops constantly spinning
Metal cars with wind up keys
Puppets that dance backwards
Mickey Mouse gloves with the fingers worn out,
Finally they came and took everything away
Leaving nothing but a trail of aluminum cans
For Poor Michael to run into and hide
From the white world outside
Unable to find his red and white mansion
In a black and white world.

Almost Cut My Hair

He Cuts His Hair Twice A Year

Mira que si te quise fué por el pelo,
Ahora que estás pelona,
Ya no te quiero. -- Frida Kahlo

Maybe you could attribute this idiosyncrasy
To his leaving Vietnam
When he was ready to DEROS from USARV
Standing in line in Saigon
Only to be told he needed yet another haircut
His third of the day
That required going back to the end of the line,
So now he cuts his hair twice a year
On the Solstice
To watch it grow with the changing of days
The yin and yang of his hair growing longer
As the days lengthen, or lessen,

Or maybe you could say it was the Plaza barber
Who refused to cut his shoulder length pilosity
So he cut it himself
On June 21st, 1975
Never to set foot in a barber shop again
Having his wife cut it when needed
Until they divorced,
Not knowing what to do
Until he sought refuge from an acquaintance
Who cut hair out in her garage
For people like him
Always making his appointment
On the shortest and longest days of the year,

But he himself would tell you right now
That it is all the fault of Frida Kahlo,
Not really a fault, but a blessing
After seeing her self portrait:
Sitting in a straight backed chair
Dressed in a man’s suit
Her waist length tresses
Cut off and strewn about
Like pieces of a dismembered body
Blaming it on her lover
Whom she has cut off
Just like her hair.

He weeps as his hair is cut, and recites:

“If I wanted to look like you
It’s because of your hair,
Now that I am bald
I do not want you.”

Digital Fadeout

When Digital comes
The TV screen screams
At old Analog
That interferes with Digital
Trying to do its new business,

“Where’s Jack Paar
When you need him?”
Cries Analog
“But you have Conan,”
Rebuts Digital,

Jackie Gleason’s face
Presses against the glass,
Trapped inside the old
Television set
Repeating “Digital” over and over,
It’s the ultimate secret word
On the Groucho Marx show,
It’s a new pair
Of Buster Brown shoes,
It’s the Big Chief Test Pattern
Or a screen full of snow
Rolling with the Vertical Hold.

Nine Minute Dream

May I awaken within the dream
That lasts between
The punching of the time clock
Sequential dreams
Sandwiched around
Jazz, news, and weather

Grasping the fact that I am dreaming
The finger hitting the snooze bar
Pushing me into experiencing
The Hungry Ghosts
With cobwebbed eyes and rotting flesh
Imploring me to help

So that others who may also awaken
Can tune into the news report
To hear the latest reality show of suffering
In a world of dreams
That lasts only nine minutes
Before I sleep again so they

Can escape from illusory suffering and confusion*
To be born again
In their next life
While the radio plays
A Gospel tune
Of illusion.


*Dream Yoga Mantra
Lama Surya Das

The Language Of Birds

As I sat in the Garden
In no particulate disorientation
I took interest
In the notation
Of birds
How it is that I understand them
Not so much as a human
Nor as a syntactical illusion
Only as a confusion
Of the normal sound of voices
Normally heard
Yet not normally observed?

For had I not tasted the Dragon’s Blood
This faculty would surely have escapéd me
To understand the Raven
To divine the mystical hieroglyphs of Egypt
Or to see my own imminent death,
Yet I sit on the hewn rock
A blackbird on each shoulder
Whispering the vögelsong of secrets
With one eye closed
Whispering back to the Ancient Ones
The Language of Adam
The Namegiver
Who spoke the language of birds.