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Can you see me?
What are your branches, where is your face?
If you truly have apples in your cheeks and leaves
woven into you then where am I
in your eyes? Though you are
you are also across a sea, a rift of molecules
and whispered sighs
that we write off as simply
nothing. If you put down your roots
do we grow together?
As your boughs climb
to exultant heights I sit in the deepest depths of scholarliness, I am
as a child
come before a maelstrom, and I
fall from myself and into
Your eyes reradiate all encompassing warmth,
Can you see me?
Do I want you to?
I am chanting mindlessly
to the music, and I
do not find anything
worth spelling, because what is
language to a priest, what is
time to a cleric, a bishop
who can only bless his own reflections,
a rabbi in a world where
is circumcised, but
only he knows
I once met a man with no name. He had no family name, no middle name, no first name, not even a nickname. No one knew where he came from, or where he was born. He had no religion to speak of, and he seemed to belong to any ethnic group you care to think of. So nameless was he. What does one call a man with no name? Mostly, people called him You there or Hey, You and Asshole, this being Chicago. As to how I met this man with no name, the story begins thusly.
I was standing in line at a hot dog cart downtown. The guy in front was ordering, and it was taking him forever. Id like it with ketchup and mustard, and relish no! Not relish, onions. Make that relish and onions. On second thought, no mustard. Actually, with mustard, but only a little
Well, you can imagine my frustration. Here I am, on my lunch-break, hoping to get a nice warm hot dog, dragged through the garden, and a large Coke. I hadnt eaten anything s
Dunino DenDunino Den
There is a place
behind a church
far away from here.
A place where ghosts from
a misty past mingle
with the sleeping spirits
of trees. Where a stagnant well,
with all religious implications lost,
plays a duet with a clear brook. Charms
decorate the honeycomb cliffs,
and tokens hang from branches like
wasps nests. Grass does not
grow, behind that graveyard,
because the ground has already been occupied
by a force of dead leaves and needles.
In that hollow, assaulted on all sides by
dwarf mountains, there are stairs, impossibly
antique. They lead to the
druid well, which I
mentioned earlier. The sun patterns
the soft ground and mossed rock
with spots, making the place
a giant sleeping leopard. So
when somebody says
Theres no such thing as magic
I can smile
and simply say,
You have obviously never looked behind a church.
Smells Like EnlightenmentSmells Like Enlightenment
Do you smell that?
Thats the sickly sweet stench of serenity.
Put your nose to the shadow
and take a whiff. It burns the
nostrils, and to be honest,
its a load of crap
wrapped in popular culture and fads,
put in a box decorated with
plastic lotuses. Middle class and age
mothers and fathers slowly becoming
mystics and lame saints. Jolly
fat men holding burning sticks,
ash falling on his most revered
bald pate, laughing at himself and
everyone around him, saying,
Who are you? What do you hope to gain?
Stainless steel and brass loops selling for
twenty dollars on a higher broadcast,
koi fish wrapped about arms, this years
grim reaper in ink.
Chi, ki, in a starbucks cup for a buck ninety-three.
Sit back, breath through your nose
and smell the incense.
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