No matter the travails of daily life,
Life seems defined by the simplest act:
Breathing—from first breath to last.
The beating of your heart.

The moments when you are caught breathless
at the sight of beauty.
The soft sighs as you snuggle your lover.

The shock of your heart skipping a beat,
the pain in your chest when your love is harmed.
The tingle of electric shocks through the nervous system—
A transitory sensoria; vibrating in waves of energy

All is naught but waves of energy—
buzzing little particles, bouncing off each other.

Two Angel Terns
spin and wheel, looping spirals—
two kites with invisible strings,
connected.

Their light and delicate flight—
white slash through blue radiance, the sky
is overpowered by monumental and diffused;
directionless? or too reflected to locate thunder of
Military jet planes’ afterburners’ billow of combustion.

I have a blue china lion
a random tchotchke
as a memory in a knickknack
of a long lost uncle passed away
whom i did not know,
or could i possibly remember.

It sits on a glass shelf suspended
with a commanding view of the apartment
surrounded by Homies
and photographs—
glass vases and toys,
as a remake of whiter shade of pale moans and whispers on.

Pewter sea, pewter sky
an immense but close
gray pewter glow
flows across glassy water.
Shines and shimmers surround the shell.

To the north, the sound
of breakers on the breakwater,
the cry of a hungry grebe
waiting the hunt: It’s hard
to spot the chum
through bright, blinding mist. Soon

sun will wrench
effulgent fog from water,
Insinuating
a horizon line into wholeness.

I rub my hands, get a grip,
then scull hard and arrow straight
toward the heart of the numinous cloud
up current toward the source
of Ballona Creek.

Myself is not myself

this embodiment feels like a distant crude robotic corpse yet so intensely personal.

Winds rise and bellow bullying fronds of palms and insects roll and weave.

Poking the bear again
with just the right pointed stick.
To go to hyperspace—
and to see into the next few dimensions.

Poke, Poke, Poke!

I feel tingling in every atom of my being
which, while fully outlining and highlighting
every neuron and fiber of sense in the physical body
then— extending beyond the tiny physical manifestation I live in
then— my conscious moves beyond this little piece:
Into occupancy— into the mind of the cosmos, the body of the universe.
My face is every face, your face, my face—
My body is every body, your body, my body—
This I is the instrument of goddess
That you is the instrument of god

Everything is everything, do you understand?
Allow to be, of course! — do not judge or define, of course not!
No forget.

Expectation brings sorrow, do not be sad my love.
See the beauty, and you will worry not. The complete
complement will be there, whether it is
seen or unseen.

I see all shapes become smooth and flexible, and running off into 8 dimensions
I see every single color as a shimmering spectrum of all component colors in each color.

Please universe, tell me what to manifest. I am your instrument.
Really? Just be?
Everything is everything, that is all that needs to be said.
Being is the only necessary action.

End transmission.

Suddenly
My shadow and me break up
Through the surface of sleep
As children of sense,
A bright beating sense repeats
in our brain
in our brain
As children we ride the backs
Of large luminous pearlwhite birds
similar
singular
Flying up flying up up
We reach round necks, hold bills
Keep quiet and keep the birds
Quiet. Great
Beating flap of wings, clap
Of laundry on the laundry line, grate
Vibration in the heart of sheets,
One of us wakes completely
In the night.

Silver moon, Sirius
below. And there, Betelgeuse
winks the far black red.

Jesse breathes easy beside hot water.

Moonlight slides down the dark sky,
covers him and he lets it. Pale
Krishna blue irradiates his skin.

“I’m getting a pale, Wyatt.”
Growing older, bluer by the minute.
Faint smell of chlorine.

Moonlight smells of earth,
hot at the root.
We let it.

Steam from the hot tub exhales in clouds
toward stars. How sparkly the stars,
the midnight blue dark, the slight
blue glow shimmering off his body.

And how clear his thought,
it makes the night clear.
“Wyatt, the Racing Car Constellation!
See:
The Man in the moon is the driver,
that bright star underneath,
the rear wheel, and that blue star, way
over there, that’s
the front wheel.”

Dog star patches out,
drags a quick quarter
through Orion to the left toe
of where blue Rigel
used to be.

I hunt, I hunt
a response,
all my adult knowledge
constellated, wheeling
uselessly
around my head.

Rainbow rings shiver street lamps. Breath,
My breath, makes unfigured shapes, blown
Plaits in mistful air. Jesse scamps
Choo-choo, choo-choo down tumbledown
Damp streets trailing choo-choo smoke.
“I’m a train, choo!” a poke at quiet night.
More pokes: dogs’ harsh barks herald our way.
Behind curtained bays, quiet folk in
Incandescent light grip guns against enemies.
(One false step, we’ll put out your lights).

By and by, farther on, the lamps end.
We chug lightly, lightheartedly,
Into the future, into the dark.