A Song of New York

New York makes the angels sings
and steals the faces of the poor
and tells of the glories of the rats
of the mysteries of the sidewalks unfolded
and how the pigeons
swindle old ladies out of bread.
how dreams congregate
in the heads
of the hurried.

Ah, the words come tumbling
like an endless stream of clowns
from a little car.
Dreams are not enough;
Only the visions are true.

And they speak to me
Of Melanie who promises everlasting happiness
If she can manage and invest my funds
Of the Tom Kat Bakery
Which still refuses to say
How many cats are used in each loaf
But I have heard the mutant purring come to a sudden stop
Too often. Too soon.

And they tell how the stone lions march down Fifth Avenue
Crushing the air beneath their feet.
We have so little earth this year
They complain quietly.
And how Attila rides through Wall Street
Wielding his sword against all comers.
It is the best of slaughter this time.
The best of the hardened ones.
only a Hallelujah,
could be better.

But it is at night
that the buildings come alive
they can be heard murmuring in the dark.
“WE are the city,” they say. “We are its glory
and here always,
not these creatures, who flow in and out
with the sun.”
And they take some now and again.

Yet I know what they think
and that there are only two promises to earth
and we must keep them
no matter the windows, no matter the pulsing erect
I-beams, hearts rising to the sky.
no matter the quiet mouse in Times Square.

It is only for the books, we say
only for the colossal thought
that makes us great
that we come again.

And it is I who have a destiny with them.
I have more than can possibly be said or heard
so that I can remain faithful.
I carry these gifts upon my lungs, my brain
my tongue, my head, my all-or-nothingness, from everything on the ground
to everything in the sky.

And it is all so that
somewhere
twenty-four dollars in beads and trinkets
stays buried.

Voyage of Discovery

Some years, a youth and a breath ago
There was a girl
Arms legs, breasts and
All the things that matter
Calling to me with blue eyes.

Did I not see that every cell
Had awakened
That such misunderstanding came to pass
Cannot be understood
Blood vessels were exploding
And the time of the world
vanished.

How eternal these moments are
That happen again and never do
Each filled with its own newness
That we recall the faintest breath
Like a rushing storm

Ah, so it was that Columbus
Came again and again unto a new world
to a vast, uncharted land.
And knew not what he had found.
Seeing only savages

Rumi's Dandelions

The only question is
How to be of life
All others are trivial
Like dandelion seeds
That drift across the lawn
Looking for fertile ground.

Ah, you could learn to love them
The poet said
And it is considered that green
Is not the only color
Nor proliferate, the only word.

But they do.
And we attend to them in unending service
That says we too are only looking for fertile ground.

Daffodils Revisited

After Wordsworth realized
he had spent too much time smoking daffodils,
there came a moment between coughs
when he thought,
it had not happened in a long time;
Thinking, that is, had not happened
The smoke had swirled through his brain
And he had been a victim of that vacant mood.

Nor had he considered
how to be productively pensive
how thoughts should rise to the sky
and then filter down again
for his enjoyment,
but not just for enjoyment,
but for consideration.

No, lying on the couch
he evaluated the possibility
that the only thing wrong
was his choice of brands.

Redwood City

These are the buildings
that run our lives
that tell us what to be
that tell us how to be
that see for us
and breathe for us within their sealed windows.

And I call to them from the other side of the water
from the other side of my dictionary
from the other side of the company policy manual
from the other side of the wind.

And they do not care
cannot care
should not care
and are not an answer
and they cannot answer
and there is nothing
but the white roses
by the water.

In Praise of Young Women

What is it a young woman
To be in her
a young woman
to be part of her sighs?

Some have eyes of diamonds
And some songs of earth
That to be in her
Is to see jewels in rivers
Is to be in her
when the wind passes
through the trees
in rush time
to sing songs of glory
with no words
to leave behind
to a young woman
to be in
without words
Arms clutched in tight thoughts
To be in her always
Again
To be singing
To be again
And it is always in her
I am in touch with life.

Stranded in Eternity … Again

Slow, slow our lives are
Fast, fast time is.
This is what we see.
It is not what is;
It is what we see.
Yet we torment words into meaning
But they lag
And the tongue stumbles.

So find your voice.
It lies under the lobsters
in the deepest seas
where blackness rises
from the troubled sea floor
and swirl past things,
known only as omnipotence intones
“Let there be sulfur”