Grand Central Station

When I remember my mindfulness,
I breathe up the energy of the earth
Like a farmer drawing water from a well,
Its texture is dark and warm and calm.

And I also breathe in the energy of
Grand Central Station as I walk
East along 43rd Street from Fifth Avenue,
Its texture is bold and strong and calm.

Earth, how seamlessly you sprawl upward,
Expanding your crossbeams of support
Into our human structures, how fluidly
You claim our bodies as your own.

In this way the rubble of Grand Central
Mirrors my own death, the massive fallen
Columns slowly soften, eventually decay,
Like the musculature around my spine.

The Poet

Even the poet says too much when pointing
To the sky, as if the blue formlessness outside
My window, the expanse of readiness across which
Specks of white cloud may or may not pass,
Is to be necessarily emphasized in this moment.

The poet in his pants wanders the countryside
Collecting his epiphanies of swelling feeling
And gathering them together in a basket of
Skillfully ordered words upon parchment,
Returning at last to the city’s central market.

Standing idly and alone by the stone statue of
The warrior who in the past proudly marched
On his horse in battle and slashed the Indian
Enemy with bloodred sword under the same
Empty blue sky beneath which the poet writes.

Dreaming of his love of peace, his hatred of
War, and every sky between black and blue,
And wondering when truth will become
The savior it seems to be, in those flickering
Moments when the words line up and march on.

Altered

Use simple words, first words,
The ones bathed in milk,
Use words as history has used them.

Let them sing of tenderness and longing
Like a cowboy’s slide guitar.

“I am altered,” you said,
As I rose above you,
As we pulled each other
Into the darkness of earth.

You rise up in me like a cry
From the depths of the river,
I hold you in my mind the way
Earth holds you, firm and true.

After Midnight

Mindfulness is turning the light on
At three AM to hunt for mosquitos.

Your naked frame towering over me
Like a bloodthirsty Amazon woman.

The culprit smeared against the wall by
The deft strike of your hardened hand.

An adventure ideally set in a rainforest
Unfolds in the dark of our Brooklyn bed.

The landscapes of our mindfulness
Disclosing to us the essence of reality.

Outside the window space extends in
A vast expanse of countless mosquitos.

We turn the light out and endeavor
Again to find our much needed sleep.

There was no separation between your
Mind and my own as we drifted off.