Cut death in half
with your exquisite sword,
one edge of the blade 
a stroke of poetry,
the other an ink gesture 
hardly touching vellum
as the executioner,
it seems, barely brushes
your throat, so deft
and lethal is that
merciful hand...
Cut death in two,
one half the mirage
of this world, the other
a void, mother-like
and playful.

Painting: 'Shrike' by Miyamoto Musashi, 1584 – 1645


Strapped to the electric chair
in your skull
you shout at bare
white walls.
Let me open the trap door
beneath you.
Trust me and fall.
You'll awake
in an alpine meadow
surrounded by Cascade lilies,
blue asters, flames
of Indian paint brush,
white plumed pampas grasses
gamey and pungent
as the buttocks of a bear.
Don’t ask how your ashes
got scattered at tree-line
in a snow-melt pond.
Death is your nature,
commemorated by the tiny
double rainbow
of a hummingbird, that
sylphic crazed devourer
of flowers
who zings out of the valley
all summer to suck from
the mountain in your heart.
Moses tried to tell you
about this place.
His only commandment
was to soar.
He shattered the tablet,
dropped it as he rose,
needed to clutch his violin
with both hands.
Music is more crucial
than law. The sky is love.
Watch what happens
to your discipline
when wind gets in your wings.
You'll let go of the scroll,
slip off the priestly chasuble, 
flash nakedly upward,
a dark flame, your whole
cathedral crashing down
into the dust that breasts,
penises and teeth are made of.
I know you’re confused
about the height and depth,
the crown and root, the map
to get home that was scrawled
on the soles of your feet
in the womb where
the serpent tasted its tail.
You were such a good
swimmer then, assuming
the posture of the frog,
the peacock, the cloud,
the dewdrop, the immortal
corpse, the larva beneath
the tire. But now you've
forgotten how each breath
strokes through an ocean
of wonder.
Those who twirl like
tadpoles made of star-stuff
in the Mother's belly know
neither up nor down,
but circle themselves
like primordial explosions
of roses in the bud.
Don’t imagine that
some weight pulled you here.
You began as space,
your wisdom path jagged,
a reversal of directions
with each inhalation.

Just keep pouring
the nectar of attention
in the bowl of your chest.
First you are the scent
of wine on parted lips,
then a night
of melted amethyst.
Then you are an atom
in a stone, desiring

Photo: My favorite place in the world, the meadow above Indian Henry's Cabin
, Mt. Rainier. I wanted to write a poem like falling down a well, but falling upward at the same time. As Jesus said, "The one who descended is also the one who ascended far above the heavens, in order to fill all things." ~Ephesians 4

A reading of this poem on SoundCloud: LINK


Earth tastes of marrow in your bones.
Wind is in love with your breath.
Ocean longs to drown in one
of your teardrops.
Sky seeks a hiding place
in the hollow of an atom
in your finger bone.
Gazing in your eye,
the Sun remembers home,
Moon drinks your luminous
nectar from pituitary grail...
The one who designed this garment
made no copy, weaving
from memory these star paths
and comet trails into your
sacred body.
Why not wear it
in royal leisure?
Why not let clusters
of galaxies slip into your loose
and shimmering veils,
then dance?

Art by Mahmoud Farschian