believe every streetsign

we are at
noon again

again my chai

goes cold

again it will

begin to rain

soon if

not now

believe every

streetsign, i have

told myself

and it's true

all the moths

and raindrops

and light shafts

lead me where

i need to go

even the fear or anger

that rises like a storm

in my bodyvessel

is meaningful, spilling

full with meaning if

i learn to listen

right now all the clouds

and all the people

and all the roadside peacocks

have been telling me it is time

to let go, to cast off

every weight i do not

need to carry. and the thing is

there is no weight

i need to carry

no anxiety that will save me

no anger righteous enough

july gathering

i keep trying to  wipe and wipe my glasses
to see better and better and better

some blurriness remains

some darkness remains

sometimes i get afraid that all this gathering

amounts to nothing, falls away so fast

my remembering always limited

but this time around i am trying

to wander this world with faith

fears gets me nowhere, not the kind

of fear that weighs on my shoulders

and makes me sick. it will come always

and it will always teach me something

i need to know, about the world or else

myself; but the magic lies in being able

to feel it and yet cast it away

to saunter

to the mirror

and do a little dance

stupid and ugly and all mine,

which makes it marvelous.

freedom that smells like a very fast wind,

even when i am being slow or still.

the moment is complicated. i understand

this is where everything truly gathers, exists,

in the nowness and right here of my breath.

but things take form in the river of time.

wind makes a shape when i find

the words for it, can tell

the story of my life to a friend.

this time around i am trying to believe.

in what i still cannot be entirely sure,

but it is something good. something

that wants me to be kind, first of all

to myself. to believe that all the work,

all the gathering, every long breath,

it is all coming together

like yarn, but better because

it is immaterial, mysterious, nothing

i can grab with these grubby person fingers.

all the love and learning must remain

somewhere in my body, and even

in the air. buzzing lightly, waiting

to be worn again. synapses always

firing, making new things

that i cannot see. everything so far

has come together and made this

moment, this me

most singular manifestation

sitting regally in stones

in the passing river of time.

and god am i grateful

or learning to be.

the rain again

Inside, rap on the speakers and two candles on my table.

Outside, the rush of wind transforms

into something else

and I stay still, listening.

Water descends

from the skies. Sound is made

when it hits surfaces: hard taps on the road

clangs and claps on tin roofs

muffled splashes from the trees.

Again and again I write the rain

this season. But I have hardly written

anything lately, just the wordless

pull of my breath, and then the

wordless exhale. I am, I am,

even when I don’t prove it.

I am, and that is enough 

for love, for joy, most of

all for aliveness.

when will the dog days be over?

 

trying to understand

you mumble to me but i cannot hear you

it is raining and the rain is insistent

rapping on the roof and roads

drops nose-diving into paddy fields

how can i hear a word you are saying

my glasses are dripping so i cannot

even see your lips move

little petals in the rain

your lips