"God(s)"

God(s)

To be with all the gods there are and to see them and hear them and feel them everywhere, in everyone and everything,

To sit with the self until the god inside answers whatever it is you might be asking,

To see the angry god in your enemy, and hear the friendly god in your friend's kind words,

To see the love god in the ones you love, and feel the fuck god in whoever you are fucking,

To be with the death god when you kill an insect, or go to a funeral, or eat a hamburger,

To hear the god in the wind, feel the god in the stones and the sand and the water and the earth and the air,

To see the fire god in the fire, hear the music god in song,

To see god in the art, in the artist, in the art lovers looking at the art; to see we are all creators and consumers and destroyers every day,

To feel the god of pain in your breaking heart, and see the god of sadness and compassion in the one who is breaking your heart, to know the god that you are in your broken heart,

To see that the gods do not exist in some supernatural realm, because there's no such thing as the supernatural--gods can only exist in what there actually is, if gods or anything can be said to exist at all,

To look into the eyes of whoever is in front of you, anywhere, anytime, all the time, all the time, and see the god that is there, and know it, and know it, and be with it,

To know that god is everywhere and nowhere, everything and nothing,

To see god, to feel god, to know god, to love god, with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind.

October 25, 2016

"Loss"

 Loss

The only happy thing
About how sad I've been
Is how much weight I've lost
I'm almost thin.

And that truly is a very happy thing
It makes me so happy, I could almost sing
So happy, that if I could only bring
This happiness to you, I would indeed

But only if I could bring it to you
Without the sadness too.

October 23, 2016

(I wrote this in the shower, after a surprisingly non-traumatic look in the mirror.)

"Bursting"

Bursting

I was on a shitty Citibike
So I
Docked it at the Stuyvesant High school Station
Just as well, as I was bursting:
The fog over the Hudson
The fog gently trailing past One World Trade
The joy of feeling like you're the only one on the bike path, 'cause you don't see anyone else
The feeling that most of the city will still be asleep by the time you get to the office
And that most of the city will still be at work
By the time you start biking back

Enjoying the feeling
Of being alone in the world
But still wishing someone were there
To marvel at it with you

I got on a new bike
And on this one
I could pedal as hard as I wanted to
And I wanted to pedal hard
Pedal out the hurt and the anger and the toxins
Pedal you out
Pedal furiously to Battery Park

I docked this bike in one of the usual places
And watched the Staten Islanders
Scatter out of the ferry for a while
And here I am

October 21, 2016

Right After the Recital

Right after the recital I realized
That I had forgotten to mute my phone
I was so relieved
That I hadn't gotten any calls, texts, or Facebook messages
In the past two hours
And then I was sad
That I hadn't gotten any calls, texts, or Facebook messages
In the past two hours.

September 18, 2016

Takbir

Takbir*

I got to work
so early this morning
that not only
could I see
the rosy fingers
of the
ancient Greek poet

I could hear
the ancient
Middle Eastern call
of someone praying
to the East

October 19, 2016

*composed in its (admittedly short) entirety on the one block walk from the Citibike station to the office building

Three Things Before 9:00 AM. (Already It Feels; Invisible Dog; Imperious Attitude)

I

Already it feels like it isn't working.
Already it feels like a big wide, white, empty abyss.
Already it's a mountain laughing at my broken legs.
Already it's everyone from junior high school taunting me, terrorizing me.
Already it's a wave that knocks me over and somersaults me under water over and over and there is no shore.
Already it's a barker on the street corner, convincing me it's a sure thing.
Already they're coming and telling me it was all a big joke.
Already the dogs are calling the police.
Already I'm running away from myself, because my self has a huge knife and a maniacal laugh and is coming for me, and I know that I can run, but I can't hide, because wherever I go, there I am.
Already it's hopeless, and already in this moment of utter darkness, a sliver of light appears, and already I believe in it because I'm such a hopeless sucker.


II

My dog is invisible, but he follows me around wherever I go. He takes invisible pisses on the lawn next door and my neighbor never knows. He takes a shit in the middle of the sidewalk and nobody sees and nobody cares and nobody notices when they step in it. He barks and only I can hear it. He does incredible tricks that only I can enjoy. He eats invisible food that I buy at the invisible supermarket with my invisible money that I make at my invisible job, where I sit at an invisible desk doing nothing all day. When I come home, my dog wags his invisible tail and showers me with invisible kisses, and I love the odorless smell of his invisible dog breath. My invisible dog is very, very, old, but when he dies, it will be basically the same as it is now, as if he were still here with me.



III


If I were suddenly to adopt an imperious attitude, I would expect that many things would change. Some people are born to follow, and perhaps I would find that many people who used to think of me as something of a joke would suddenly bow their heads and await my instructions. Others might take on the role of toady, and treat my every word as if it were infinitely wise and true. I could decide that the chair I am sitting in is a throne, and I could clap my hands three times and call for my Foole, and he would be dressed in motley and have one of those staffs that jingles, and I would laugh at his jests and perhaps chastise him for his impudence if he steps over a line. He would know that I could have him killed, but he would bravely make fun of my bald spot and my pot belly and my family history. He would tell the story of how my mother worked as a secretary for the CIA and cheated on her husband by fucking her boss, and that that's how I was born. Careful, Foole, I would say. And he would laugh and dance and sing a silly song of Martians made of marshmallows and I would forgive and forget. Then the entire court would sing a song to me, their king, and then we would all have a grand feast where I would eat no meat and drink no wine, and then I would sleep a deep, deep sleep and dream of being the real me once more and then I don't know. I might wake up feeling even more imperious than the day before, or I might find that I have grown weary of imperiousness, and decide instead to adopt an attitude of sniveling, craven, servility. I could wear a hair shirt and walk the streets with a beggars bowl, and when I spied the Foole on his way to the castle, he might remember yesterday's mercy and put a scrap of bread in my bowl, and I would thank him sincerely and then sit down and eat like a king.

August 30, 2016

A Paler Shade

A Paler Shade

As I stand here
Resenting the raucous music
Of the Q train performers
For making it impossible
For me to read
The essay about James Brown
In The New York Review of Books
I realize
I have taken whiteness
To a whole new level.

July 30, 2016