Bizarre and perilous seems my routine
today, and I don’t understand the cause
of this foreboding mood. It cannot mean
catastrophe my dog has tender paws,
abraded brow and irritated skin –
the signs are omenless as my garage.
I harbor no significance within;
my apprehension radiates mirage.

I read today of God’s revenge on Saul.
The text requested I believe that seven
sons must hang for him. I find it all
preposterous, to think so ill of heaven:
Another wisdom bound to disappoint.
I think I’ll miss my train and smoke a joint.


rainbow brain

The fog against my face is slick and chill,
inspiring me to specify inside
my panoramic plans: my acts of will
and attitude; a deviance; a tide
as tubular and strong as lunacy
creates. An hour blares the fog to haze
while I involved revolve philosophy,
and burn in words to annotate my days.

Then sunlight brazens silver mist to piss.
It thins the air and yellows atmosphere.
The shadows of a sudden form and this
distracts – it interrupts. I pause and hear
inside myself: Attend and make good work
of time. It’s either that or dwell in murk.


Sacramento St

The view down Sacramento St. aligns
today. The garbage bins like fences edge
the boundary of yard and street. Designs
of linearity are formed with hedge
and pepper tree, while arrowing ahead
of me recede the blocks of old concrete:
a stream of squares from white to almost-red
appear a tiled path beside the street.

I run an elementary exercise,
and try to witness everything I see.
Attending to perception from my eyes,
I plant the vista into memory.
So full existence is, my portion’s small
but too immense for me to see it all.



The seconds mount to minutes, grow to hours,
becoming days and weeks and months and years.
No creatures of this planet have the powers
to alter time’s progression. Petty fears
and grand ambitions neither speed our clocks
nor slow the reeling of our clues of thread.
We dwell within the bars of tempo. Locks
of time adorn our doors until we’re dead.

We never know how long a life we’ll get,
but each of us is given in a day
four score six thousand seconds plus a bit,
to dream awake, or toss asleep, or play.
We cannot cook our books of time, but I
intend to milk the moments till I die.



The vacant lot with shards of bottle glass
appears below my train a brilliant field
of sunlit gems, although I’ll bet an ass-
hole did it, drunk and thirsty, muck-congealed.
A mushroom cloud, a tidal wave, a storm
of any strength appears magnificent.
The lamb-and-lion that’s supposed to warm
our hearts? It bores the most intelligent.

Too bland the good authority displays
as aim and end: those uncompelling scenes
of pasture peace. Our mischief nature strays
from sunny fields and antiseptic dreams.
Hermetically and Lokily designed,
we twist a grin and deviate in mind.



Like fans of green-on-yellow filigree,
the fronds unfurl among the shady vines.
They ply their color light as silk and free
as air upon the denser ivy lines.
Like grapes, except the clusters rest on top
of deeper sturdy green, the new leaves glow
with golden origin and ground a crop
of flowering, for now the oak trees grow.

As lilting green unfurling like a fern,
that blooming is the center of my mind.
As shining as the oak leaf, so I learn
to wrest more light and leave dark tones behind.
And I am new awake, alert and bold:
past middle life and shot with infant gold.



I think some rabid fundamentalist
attempted to transmogrify my trunk
by prying off the ambulating fish
that named the Beagle’s passenger. To junk
my gentle symbol was a vandal’s aim,
but unsuccess was his ambition’s lot.
He cracked the back and modified the name,
and creeping “arwin” was the word he got.

This creature newly made appears to haul
itself beyond the fingers of the sea.
What walked before is now compelled to crawl,
and intimates with its tenacity
adaptive evolution striving more
intensely than it ever did before.