The Unnavigable Journey

comments 10
Christ / Course Ideas

I’ve been reflecting lately upon the nature of knowing- of knowing anything at all.  How exactly do we come to know?  And what is it that may be known?  The context for my reflections is not a vacuum, but my life, and the way that my deepest desires have driven me to wrestle with questions of meaning, purpose and identity.  As is unavoidably the case for each of us, I have had to answer the questions asked almost daily by my own suffering and that of those around me, even if all I had at my disposal that day were half-cocked, makeshift remedies.  A wound must be patched.  When you see blood pouring out of you, you use whatever rags or leaves or cloth are handy.  I’ve had no choice but to try and make sense of myself and my place in the world, and have ultimately sought to learn the means by which to live in peace and freedom, to find my way to a life not fractured by convention into roles, boxes or norms.

At some point, with a depth of help by my side that no one could rightly say they deserve from their perceived point of origin, and which I scarcely recognized at the time, it became apparent that the fundamental cause of suffering was mistaken identity, which manifests itself as misperception of everything.  Mistaken identity is one way of saying it, but perhaps a more accurate truth of the matter is that it was a case of uncertain identity.  There can be no peace without certainty, no certainty without knowing.  The conclusion about the relationship of misplaced identification to suffering is nothing new, obviously, and I take no credit for it.  The important thing is that, at some point, the nature of the fundamental problem of this world became something that I knew.  It wasn’t a theoretical problem.  It was eating me alive.

Looking back, I realize the type of certainty that arrived with this discovery was profound, and that it’s dawning within me was a genuine miracle.  It is commonplace to think of miracles as spectacular, phenomenal events, but this is seldom so in my experience (which is not to say they don’t sometimes pull out such stops).  Miracles are gifts of awareness, the unprecedented blossoming of knowing, the replacement of uncertainty with certainty.  If you think about it, there is no obvious way for this shift to occur.  How can a mind trapped by its own uncertainty bootstrap its way to certainty?  A broken record cannot play the song.  An out-of-tune guitar cannot tune itself by systematically testing its own notes in the absence of the archetypal tone.  Likewise, a mind that lacks knowledge cannot interpret events properly of its own accord- they merely reflect its own uncertainty.  It cannot correct itself by rearranging its own thoughts.  No conclusions with the requisite power to shatter falsehood may be drawn by studying phenomena in isolation.  The miracle is the moment when the mind becomes an open system, and a reorientation of perspective dawns within it.  This is the proper position of the mind, as giver-receiver, rather than originator.

The arrival of this knowing of the world’s fundamental problem was a miracle, and also one of the most difficult experiences of my life, for it was utter and unabridged.  At a moment when I was anticipating an otherworldly blessing, I was given (seemingly) instead, a maximal dose of clarity, a raw confrontation with the meaninglessness that prowls beneath the masks we don in efforts to temper the pain of our identity uncertainty.  I wanted to throw in the towel, to shrivel up and slink into the corner.  I sunk to the bottom and quivered in disrepair.  I hurt inside, in the marrow of my heart, like a sonuvabitch, and there was nowhere to go.

The miracle was a two-pronged attack on the fundamental problem of the world- first, it was a clear presentation of the problem as I’d never before encountered it, in all its brutal and debilitating reality, and then later, it was the realization that only holiness can broker such an experience.  Only holiness can answer our prayers with such power.  I probably saved untold lifetimes by experiencing that encounter with such stark uncertainty and inner discontentment that night.  I was shown who I was being- where my mind was leading me.  When I realized this, I also realized I’d been shown there was a way out.  The realization of the problem and the realization of the existence of the solution were integral.  It was a miracle.  It took some time for this to soak in, but it eventually did.

How do we move from uncertainty to certainty?  How do we recover the knowing of the true identity within each of us?  What began that night in earnest meandered through the following years, as, like a man who had nearly starved to death, nourishment could only be given in small doses.

I know from this experience just a couple of things.  First, my own specific route to this recognition of the problem, and the fueling of my desire to become the solution, is irrelevant.  Each of us has a way that will be distinct, volatile, and perfect.  Each person’s way is incomparable and profound.  I think each person’s experience of breaking through the egg shell of uncertainty is more unique than we might dare imagine, for the world within when we are in isolation is off all the charts.  In our true state of unity, we are more alike, more unified, more deeply known to one another than we would dare imagine in our states of uncertainty.  In our states of uncertainty, we are alone and isolated, adrift in empty and unbounded misinformation and misperception.  We think there are rules, and ways to be right, good or at the minimum, better.  We think there are things happening.  We think our efforts are contributing to something, but we’re simply drifting in la la land, a bubble of passing dreams.  We are awareness masquerading as originator, rather than awareness in its authentic function as giver-receiver.  So, the part that is unique is the path back to knowing.  The port of arrival is the Same.

Second, I think it takes both heart and mind to pull this off.  The whole Universe is choreographing each and every experience to usher us back to the known experience of unity, something we cannot fathom until we do, but while we’re coming from the condition of separation with all its inherent uncertainty, it takes all the wits and courage we are able to muster.  We have to pay attention, to invest our raw emotional capital, to talk ourselves down from reactionary darkness, to deny perceived limitations and falsehoods, to ask for help, to cry the necessary tears, to walk away from the unnecessary ones, to choose forgiveness, to offer a smile.  Neither the heart nor the mind alone can negotiate this gauntlet.  We need to create as broad a target as possible to catch the tidbits of Truth that manage to fall through the cracks in our protective facades.

The mind is not the enemy.  The mind that clings to its makeshift patches to uncertainty must be nudged into accepting a broader reality.  There is tremendous power in a mind that is free to receive and amplify the ideas of Creation.  Without the mind’s ability to receive and express ideas, how can the movement of Creation pass through us and bear fruit?  An open mind can receive and enact the most beautiful things, but it cannot do this while functioning as a closed system.  The heart is needed, too, for without it the mind has no tether to meaning or purpose.  The heart is needed to ratify the truth and vanquish the false, and as the mind gives the heart permission to do this holy work, true discernment and authenticity can unfold.  The heart and mind must work together.  They must align in shared purpose, and this alignment is forged in the heat of our desire.

The way back cannot be measured or navigated.  In the end, I confess I have no idea how we move from uncertainty to certainty.  There is no recipe, no magic formula- just moments like little stones inside of us that suddenly come alive, unfolding, becoming butterflies that take flight and zig-zag off into the trees.  I only know that as we apply ourselves to our lives, as we live what is right in front of us, unspeakable brilliance will find us.  Miracles will arrive and offer their gentle corrections.  The dawn will come.  And all the while, our mailing address may never change.  We will never change.  We will merely relinquish what never was, release the after-effects of uncertainty, as we drift across the line to the certainty of self-knowing.

And just because I couldn’t help myself… because Gavin perhaps, said it far simpler, and with driving rhythms and grinding chords to boot…

Half Time Talk

comments 13
Christ / Poetry

However you
came to this point,
however you made contact
with your inner geometry,
whatever brought you
to the point of
finally
placing all your stock
into who you are,
into that infinitesimal
droplet of radiance
lurking in your chest
of which you’ve but caught
fleeting glimpses,
not yet even knowing
what they might be,
it doesn’t really matter.
You’re here.
Let’s leave it at that.

However you
came to this point,
all we can really say
is that it was a gift.
This must be true,
because no other type of way exists.
Whatever you saw,
whatever webs
of shame and violence
you spun, whatever
narratives of hatred
and contempt
you wrote,
whatever whiskey
of loathing and
self-doubt
you drank-
these matter not.
They were merely vapors
rising from the dung
you were once convinced was bread.

No one remembers
how they crossed
the night river
from not knowing
to Knowing, or
what boat they rowed,
or Who piloted it.
No one remembers
what door they knocked upon,
what backstage wandering
in which they lost themselves,
what costumes they donned
in an effort to look the part,
or Who found them,
lovingly weaving their disguises
into a story about something True.
We only know that once
we staggered through
the desert, and then
one morning at dawn
we found bread.
On a plate.
With a Love note.
That kind of
Remembering
is the truest
form of amnesia.

Now that you’re here,
by the way,
we can begin…
Like this…

(This poem is an excerpt from a half-time talk
given by Hafiz to
a drove of traveling merchants,
and their camels,
whom he chanced upon playing
ultimate frisbee in the desert.
Though the second half was played
with astonishing vigor,
there is no one to this day
who can recall
it ever happening.)

Smuggling

comments 19
Christ / Poetry

Like that movie
where the “bad guys”
cast cocaine
into the shape
of statues and
beautiful figurines
so it could be hidden
right out
in the open,
so the Beloved has smuggled
Herself into this
world.

She is all around us,
in plain sight,
frozen into
the shapes
of all those
hot-eyed,
over-blown,
sweaty,
market-gaming,
child-loving,
war-fighting,
family-valued,
finger-pointing,
smarter-than,
smiling-laughing,
loving,
drop-kicking,
device-wielding,
stressed-out
costumed beings
who can’t quite
figure out
how the hell
to consummate
the act of smuggling
once they’ve arrived
on the far side of the Border.

This isn’t rocket science, people.
Let me remind you that
there’s no instructions
for obvious reasons,
such as the downside
of leaving a paper trail
for the local law enforcement.

(Here’s a clue:
Pick up the person
next to you, and dunk them
in the ocean of your heart.
Dissolve them
in the waters of your devotion.
Go out into the woods
and set up a little tent-factory
where you can work
for the Duration
without interruption,
inviting all beings
to go for a swim
in your heart pool.
But watch out!!!
The Beloved
wouldn’t have gone
to such extremes
as smuggling
if She didn’t
know She had
access to
some really
good product.)

The Tides of Love

comments 6
Poetry

If you make
a plot of human population
over the past
few thousand years,
the results are–
well listen,
let’s speak plainly here, as friends
who have not the time
for posturing
or taking offense:
the results are
startling.
If you are inclined
towards levity
you may even
have a chuckle
as you gape
at the steeply
rising curve
and reflect upon
the multiplicative industriousness
of the recent age.
Experts
in prognostication
and the statistical arts
such as actuaries, naysayers,
political pundits
and military strategists,
not to mention pensive futurists
and the tragically unhappy,
will generally agree:
the prognosis for us
is both obvious and bleak.
The numbers
will tell you that,
but the people themselves
are evidence
of an altogether
different premise.
If you find one
of those people,
look in their eyes.
This will confuse
the matter entirely.
Find a pair
and study them deeply.
Take what you have found
and try to add it up,
or stack it on a line.
Go to the train station
or a high school graduation
or the frozen pizza aisle
and just look.
I think
in short order
you will understand
why Hafiz studied
the graph for but a moment
then winked at me,
tapping the paper
with his fingers
as if “X marks the spot”
before crossing
the room
to whisper
a single grinning word
in my ear
on his way out:

Reinforcements.”

The Catharsis of Elroy Pontchartrain

comments 12
Fiction

After fifty odd years of reckless living, things finally came to a head for Elroy Pontchartrain late on the afternoon of August 9th– a Tuesday.  The sun was blazing down upon all men equally that day, like a walk-in furnace advertisement, but this equanimity was hardly any consolation to Elroy whose access to reason was temporarily suspended for the duration of his personal apocalypse.  That was when the cycles aligned, when he finally rounded the corner to see the future into which he was careening in three dimensions, when he finally confronted the only decision that really mattered in all its glorious simplicity.

The final unraveling began with an unexpected call from his recently-ex ex-wife Patricia, which he received while proceeding southbound on I-something-ninety-5 in the travel lane at roughly one and a half times the posted maximum speed.  She rang just as he was commanding his cell phone to locate a proximal establishment that served cold beer and didn’t ask questions.  His first mistake was taking the call.  He had thought he was saying yes to his cell phone’s polite, loop-closing request for confirmation as to whether or not it should begin navigating to the nearest watering hole, when in fact, due to his phone’s inability to set boundaries, that question had been voided from memory forever in favor of requesting a ruling about the incoming call.  As a result, Elroy had inadvertently commanded the blasted device to patch him through.  By the time the connection was made she was already three sentences into a tirade about their son’s failer mentality and his unconscionable disinterest in pursuing a summer internship, which, as Elroy surely knew, was the next and thus ass-numbingly vital milestone on the course to the enduring and successful lifestyle she had in mind for the lad.

Archie was just too much like his father, however.  Was it not obvious?

That was the segue Elroy had known was coming, the one for which his unconscious mind had been silently prepping him for the last three tenths of a mile by parading a highlight reel of past, similar harangues across his mental screen.  And since you can’t focus on your mental screen and make any sort of honest attempt at keeping an eye peeled for state troopers lurking in the median, he’d streaked past Officer Forsyth’s idling Ford Mustang without so much as a courtesy brake slamming.

Officer Forsyth might have nabbed his man that day if he had fired for effect with his strobes from the get-go, signaling clearly his intention to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law and breaking Elroy free of the mental pile driver in which he was gripped, but instead he had opted for stealth by bringing the police cruiser up to speed before deploying his arsenal of canned light and sound.  He may as well have been trying to catch Secretariat in the Belmont.  The first pulse of electric blue light from Officer Forsyth’s panel-mounted peace-keeping apparatus finally caught up with Elroy’s rear view mirror at precisely the same instant that Elroy realized the next exit, then only a few hundred feet ahead, had his name all over it.  Simultaneously, Elroy noticed a wall of produce-laden tractor trailers four lanes wide steadily approaching from the north like a darkening sky, as if on cue to sweep up the mess.

Elroy’s unraveling took a massive step forward when, having just a split second prior established a visual with Officer Forsyth’s rapidly approaching Interceptor, Elroy checked his mirrors out of instinct, cleared his mind entirely, closed his eyes for a half second, decided to trust the Force, and then clenched his guts up into his rib cage as he banked his gray sedan onto new heading two-two-five, slicing the highway like a cake.  Forsyth, now just eight lengths back and hurtling down the asphalt at nearly twice the posted maximum speed, couldn’t believe his perp’s blind luck, as the braking that Forsyth would have to deploy in order to match Elroy’s perilous maneuver, though technically feasible, would no doubt wreak broad and unpredictable havoc with the incoming cucumber trucks.  He cursed his luck and resigned himself to drift lazily with the corpuscular current towards the county line.

Elroy meanwhile, who was pinching his cell phone between his right cheek and his right shoulder in an effort to maintain a semblance of decorum with Patricia, was not entirely aware of his behavior by this time, and was pouring years of pent up resentment into his phone’s receiver at the top of his lungs while nearly correcting his steering for the tilt of his head.  It sounded like the holy trifecta of release: monosyllabic bursts of screaming, wild laughter, and unconsolable weeping all superimposed, which was doing nothing but fueling Patricia’s assessment that her ex-husband’s allotment of atmospheric oxygen was being poorly invested, indeed.

Could he call her later when he felt like using his words?

Physics being sublimely immune to circumstance, roughly four seconds after placing his trust in the Force, Elroy and his vehicle flew off the McFarland Boulevard exit ramp with minimal attenuation of their previous speed.  Years later, Elroy would marvel at the inexplicably vacant intersection through which he slid, but astute readers will recognize the accumulated effects of whole generations of positive thinkers in the region.  Elroy and his vehicle slid through the intersection of McFarland and seventy-third street unscathed, but found themselves barreling down upon a startled house cat.

Elroy instinctively voted for life and straightened up, letting his cell phone follow a centripetal path into the passenger side door.  He attempted to swing around to new heading one-three-five.  This proved too much for his economical all-season radials, which shrieked in dismay and bled upon the road in thick black bands.  Like a hulking mechanical figure skater, Elroy and his car whirled across four empty lanes of urban corridor, burning off energy and rubber at a prodigious rate.  When Elroy’s right rear fender finally bottomed out on a lamp post, the pole wiggled back and forth like one of those old spring-type doorstops, repeatedly bashing his defenseless fender into a smooth volute, but not much else really happened.

Entirely pleased, and having jettisoned the need to conform with social norms somewhere between the travel lane and the lamp post, Elroy patted the dash, unbuckled his seat belt, and stepped out of the vehicle feeling like a million bucks.  He hunched over and took the plates off the car, grabbed the registration papers out of the glove box, and walked away on heading zero-nine-four.  His unraveling was nearly complete.  Halfway up the street he chanced upon an interesting establishment with an elephant painted on the window, and the words “Yoga Shala” in arched letters over the door.  The door was purple, with moons and stars on it.  When Elroy opened the door he was greeted by a man who said, “Namma stay.”

“No, thanks,” Elroy replied congenially, crossing his arms on top of the counter and looking around the studio like a carpenter thinking of bidding on the job.  Something about it seemed just right.  “I need to leave my steaming wreck of a history behind and probably get a line on some community service.  Can you folks help with that?”

“Uhh, maybe… yeah.”

“Good, good.  Sign me up, then, son,” he said, slapping the counter.

Two hours later a nearly crippled and buzzing all over Elroy took a bus to a rental car establishment, and drove a strange car home.  He decided to wait and see how long it would take the local fuzz to haul him in for questioning rather than call it in.  Miraculously, his cell phone still worked, so he sat down on the front stoop to dial up that Archie boy and give him some fatherly advice about what could happen if you keep stuff pent up inside for too long.

Off in the darkness, just out of sight where he couldn’t see them, there stood two angels scanning the block up and down like hawks.  Now that he had finally unraveled, they weren’t going to let him out of their sight for even an instant.

A Real Stickler

comments 24
Poetry

“The way will be muddy
and seemingly alone,
even when
you find yourself in crowds,
even when all the refugees
are funneled together
through a narrow pass.
You will find yourself
trying to avoid
being crushed,
trying to avoid
being left behind,
trying to avoid
being starved,
trying to avoid
being plundered.
You may dream
of blue skies and sunlight,
but your path will wind beneath
overcast skies and sprinkling rain.
You may dream
of virgin landscapes and the perfume of flowers,
but your path will wind through
fog and muck along well-trampled trails.
The melancholy call
of an all-seeing raven
will be the only flavor
to your gruel.

“The way will not be
a hero’s gauntlet.
The decisive battle
you crave
will not come.
The chance to
pin yourself forever
to the field of stars,
to ignite meaning
with one swing of the sword,
with one ferocious assault upon a leviathan,
with one moment of participation
in a glorious last stand of heroes,
will not come.

“You will find yourself, instead,
in the sopping ditches
and ceaseless irritation
of a guerrilla struggle
with the many faces of suffering.
These you will find
beside
within
and across from you.
Instead of dragons, beggars.
Instead of bandits or pirates, scared vagabonds.
Instead of beasts, disease.
Instead of praise, silence.
Instead of sworn enemies, strangers.
Instead of bounty, paucity.

“The way begins
when you discover
that a hero
is not the right tool
for this job,
when you find
that you’ve been
missing the obvious
by trying to conform
your every experience
to the last chapter
you read
in that hero how-to book,
when you discover
you can permeate the mud and goo
surrounding you
with the radiant contents
of your heart
the way
magnetism can soak through an iron bar
and reveal its inner majesty.
The way begins
when you discover
Love has permeated you
in much the same way,
saturated you with a field of potential
ready to spring across
every seeming gap
and flood the world.

“The way ends-”

Whoa! Whoa!
What’s that!?
My one man audience
sprang to life,
sending his stool
flying, his arms waving wildly
as if to signal the premature
conclusion to a prize fight,
casting winged-shadows
upon the far wall.
“You had me
going that time,” he said,
“until that part
about how
it all ends.”

Then he stepped close to me.
He put one hand
on each of my shoulders
and gazed into me
as if a single, clear look
could compel
an entire desert to abandon
its belief in drought.
I tried not to think or flinch.
It’s hard, when an ocean
is pouring itself into a creek bed,
not to wonder what could happen.
Then he patted me on the shoulder.

“Let’s take it from the top,” he said.
“Again!”

I tell you what,
that guy is a real stickler
for getting it just right,
that Hafiz.

The SheepMan’s Instruction

comments 11
Book Reviews

After reading the final passage of Haruki Murakami’s Dance Dance Dance, I pinched the book shut in one hand and took a deep, satisfying breath- the kind of breath you might take at dawn on the Seventh Day, a breathing into and through kind of breath.  Part of that satisfaction was the rich fullness of having encountered a work of art that spoke to me on a deep level, a story and its telling that fit so perfectly into my psyche at the time that I couldn’t quite imagine it ever having been complete prior to my reading it.  Before, it was a static compilation of words on a shelf.  Afterwards it was alive within me, painting the inner walls of my skin with figures from its dreams.  I felt as though the story had taken on new life from our encounter, that as a reader I had somehow multiplied its power by giving it a kindred soul in which to roam, a windswept tableau haunted by resonant brethren and complicit yearnings.  The other part of that satisfactory breath was relief in discovering precursors to the themes that Murakami would use fifteen years later in 1Q84, the other Murakami novel I have read, themes that continue to surface in my own life with spiraling persistence, questions about sliding between worlds I have yet to fully answer.

Those themes have vibrated in Murakami’s own bones for at least a decade and a half– probably longer– fermenting, transforming, unfolding.  There is hope for me yet.  These are not themes we digest in an evening.

In the Dialogues of A Course of Love, Jesus says, “You are called to accept and not look back, not to dwell in any of the states through which you arrive at acceptance, nor to focus on acceptance of one thing over another.  You are not to label good or bad.  Just to accept.  Accept all.  You do not have to hesitate here because you think you are still angry, or think you are still depressed.  When you hesitate you have not accepted but dwell with the cause of your hesitation.  When you accept you move on.”  Jesus is speaking here about accepting who we are: successors to his own choice to accept Love and nothing else.

There is something essential about his advice to refrain from looking back.

To cross the threshold into a world experience permeated by the presence of Love, there is a need to transcend thinking and assessing, to wander mapless through fields of discovery, to lose our way and in doing so, find it.  Looking back handcuffs us, contracts our vision into an analytical flatland, and reduces our stunning potential to a hollow question.  Looking back is looking away.

When Murakami’s broken protagonist encounters the novel’s principal otherworldly inhabitant and spokesperson, the SheepMan, he asks, “So what do I have to do?”

The SheepMan, who has “madearrangements” and “thoughtofeverything” so the protagonist “couldreconnect, witheveryone,” replies, “Dance.  Yougottadance.  Aslongasthemusicplays.  Yougotta dance.  Don’teventhinkwhy.  Starttothink, yourfeetstop.  Yourfeetstop, wegetstuck.  Wegetstuck, you’restuck.  Sodon’tpayanymind, nomatterhowdumb.  Yougottakeepthestep.  Yougottalimberup.  Yougottaloosenwhatyoubolteddown.  Yougottauseallyougot.  Weknowyou’retired, tiredandscared.  Happenstoeveryone, okay?  Justdon’tletyourfeetstop.”

The SheepMan inhabits a world held in existence by the protagonist’s inescapable yearning, a space in which what has been lost and disconnected may be recovered and bound together.  In contrast to the recovery we ourselves desire—a return to the state of Unity whose recovery is only a matter of when, not if– there is a missing inevitability to the reconnection the protagonist seeks that propels the entire novel forward.  There is a chance of failure.  He cannot do this on his own.  Characters in the protagonist’s life bleed into the SheepMan’s world, crossing the boundary back and forth, blurring the lines in the protagonist’s waking dream of redemption and recovery, keeping the passageways open, signaling the movement of one world within and through another.

Our own lives are like this.  We encounter those who inspire us with their presence, those who have been there and back again.  Our heart slips out between the bars of falsehood on unthinking forays into holiness.  In other moments we stumble through distrust and doubt, crippling self-assessment, misunderstanding and suspicion.  Yet all the while, our SheepMan is at work, stitching together all that we have lost, desiring to offer us every good thing there is, if only we would keep moving, keep dancing, keep the ball in the air, the game afoot.  Jesus calls this “willingness” in A Course in Miracles and A Course of Love.  We need only be willing, he says.  Love will handle the details.

Murakami paints this picture beautifully.  Daybreak on the final page is glorious.

I don’t know if this view of mine is what Murakami saw or intended to convey.  Who knows.  I like to think I met him halfway, that novels exist not only as they are written, but also as some sort of noumenal creations born of the intersection between a writer and a reader.  We can meet there because his SheepMan and my SheepMan are relatives.  We are keeping one another’s passageways to the next world open.  The same Love stitches connections together through all of us, all the time, so long as we limberupandkeepmoving…  In this regard, the SheepMan’s instructions are clear.

Evidence

comments 7
Christ / Poetry

Sometimes me and the boys
like to go on jaunts.
Get outta’ the office.
Fact-finding missions
what we call ’em.
Get a handful of shirt,
press crumpled cotton fists
towards unsuspecting chins
and make eyes into accusatory coals.
Speak calmly while
turning the place upside down
to shake it for loose evidence.
This will only take a moment, sir.
See what coins fall out
and jangle to rest
on the pavement
like glaring statements
of the not quite hidden obvious.

Where’d that come from, sir?
That your only one?  Yeah?
What about this one here?
Somethin’ you’re not
tellin’ us?
What’s this one for?
Did you think it
was gonna’ be a secret?
You’re all the same,
you people.
You know that?

evidence.
That’s what we’re after.
I walk down the middle
while my Dissatisfactions
fan out through the byways
and corridors, eyes peeled
like card-punchin’ gumshoes
scourin’ the scene:
note pads curled over,
pen behind the ear–
a quick dab on the tongue.
‘Zcuse me ma’am,
do you recognize this man?
What’s this here then?
Yeah?  Who gave that to you?
Why?

My Dissatisfactions
never sleep.
They bring back
press-clippings,
web pages, journal articles,
works of fiction,
dim theories,
bar codes, soggy receipts,
concert tickets,
government statistics,
half-rusted beer cans, card keys,
license plate numbers and
anecdotal patchwork
machinations
scribbled on note pads,
fuzzy memories
and torn photos
of people I
can no longer trust,
a list of probable futures
I’m too good for,
compiled grievances
against the world
typed up and ready
for me to sign.
They’ll file on my behalf.
Always looking out
these guys are.

Then.

Just like that
one day
Hafiz walks in.
The door jingles jangle.
The blinds shake and crinkle.
Something big flies
by the outside window.
Whoooosshhhhhhh!!!!
One strange hombre
this Guy.
Got timing, I’ll give Him that.
And it’s Just Him.
No Dissatisfactions.
No yes or no men.
No briefcase or badge.
No photo ID.
Clean as a soap commercial.
Has this twinkle in his eye
like he just collected
on a friendly bet
with a mountain lion.
His other car
is a Singularity.
Hands me a pack
of pink slips.
You know what to do, he says gently.
When it’s time.

Checks his watch.

First straight talk
I’ve had in ages.
Makes me wish
I just cleaned up
after the concerts.
Just bathed in echoes
and dissolutions.
Thought about the color clear.
Just filled space,
fanning out
into the Evidence,
becoming more of it
than I ever knew existed.
Makes me want
to write notes
about how true Truth is–
how True it is from one end
all the way to the other–
complete with little diagrams
and tiny footnotes
that run off the page
and onto the back side.

A Dissatisfaction
comes bounding
up the stairs,
chest heaving,
a box of evidence
between both arms.
Backs his way in the door.
Got somethin’
interestin’ here, boss!
Before he can
even turn
I sign the topmost sheet,
tear it off the pad.
Hafiz, not even looking,
has one arm out waiting
behind him to receive my scrolled baton,
the other palm up to the intrepid,
one step ahead,
implying he should stop.
Just stop.
Gives the gumshoe
his early retirement plan.
Whispers in his ear.
Pats him on the back.

Just like that.
Zipbangboom.

(Bing!)

No one
does this alone
you see.
We all
have Friends.

Jawbreaker Longing

comments 17
Poetry

That longing
at the center of your being
is Hafiz
and Christ,
the Buddha,
ten thousand angelic beings,
my mother,
your great great Uncle so and so,
the not so famous one,
his pet Lhasa Apso Louie,
along with
everyone
you’ve ever loved
and
ever will love
and
all their friends
and neighbors
plus
a few party crashers
and
so on and so forth–
hell, it may as well be
Love Itself!–
shouting and waving
and
blowing horns
and
jumping up and down
at the edge of the field
like pandemonium
squared
in an effort
to flag you down.

Finally,
you stop.
(Sighing)
Gee-zeus CHRIST!
you’re thinking.
Put the tractor
in neutral.
Set the brake.
Hop down
and shake off the dust.
Walk over,
careful to step side-long
in the furrows.
Wipe your brow
with your shirt sleeve,
thinking about tomorrow’s weather
and
the position of the sun
and
the acres left to plow
and
the potential impacts
of losing three days
of growing season.
You look at them with
your squinty-eyed
all business
let’s get to the point
‘cuz I’m kinda’ busy here
in case
you hadn’t noticed
face,
as if to say,
Okay, already.
I’m here.
I’ve given of myself.
So… what is it!?!

Hafiz,
who is sitting
next to me
in a blind
on the other side of the field
from which we are both
watching through binoculars,
narrates:

“Here it comes!”

The gathered
assembly of joy-filled friends
are calmer now,
more subdued
now that you’ve drawn near,
but beaming like sunflowers
on a clear June day.
Happy as clams.
Just because.
Just to be near you.
Just to be close.
Just to see your face,
to look in your eyes,
to feel your presence.
Look at you!
They’re
like a stand
of wild-crafted
shit-eating grins
on fleshy stalks,
swaying in the breeze.
Giggling behind
closed mouths and cupped hands.
Joy on the verge of spilling over.

Your own future great great great granddaughter,
a glowing child of eight
and longtime fan of beetle taxonomy–
(she has this whole collection)–
winks at you,
filling you in on a little secret
she suddenly can’t contain.
She is the spokesperson:

“We just wanted to say hi.”

That’s it?

“Yeah pretty much.”
So proud and excited about this.
“That’s it.”

Hafiz squeaks with delight.
Through our binoc’s
we can see you frozen in place,
simmering, uncertain, faltering.
You scratch
the back of your neck.
Whack!
Slap a mosquito dead.
You’re caught cold
between another
Gee-zeus CHRIST!
and the best
feeling you ever had,
if only…

…if only you’d let it come.

Suddenly
Hafiz is gone,
has dropped through
the door in the floor
like a fireman
at the sound of the horn.
He appears
moments later
in my field of vision,
sprinting across the dirt,
a retreating series of dust clouds.
I think he’s headed for you,
but…
he swings up into the cab,
puts the big machine in gear
and rumbles off across the field,
leaving you standing
beneath a dispersing puff of smoke,
cutting off your retreat.

You look around,
spinning in place, grasping.
You stare straight through the blind,
unseeing and empty.
Something is familiar
in your eyes.
I realize you’re me,
standing alone in that field
on top of your own shadow.
I’m seeing myself,
glimpsing my own distance:
Here to There…
Hafiz set me up!
Then I watch
as our knees crumple
and sink into a freshly plowed seed row.
Our shoulders tremble–
with laughter,
with tears,
with every feeling
blurred together as One…
Who can say?
Who can tell the difference?
They’re peeling off
one-by-one
and the distance is fleeting.

Hafiz is rumbling back down the field now,
making another pass,
driving almost straight,
(not really),
(not even close, actually),
(but beans don’t need
straight rows to
reach for the sun
when the time comes),
and we have
a little girl in one arm
and a creepy crawly beetle
we just found in the dirt
in the other
and my longing
has sprouted shoots
from the field Hafiz has plowed.

That’s just one little thing
about longing.
It’s all in there,
everything you’ll ever need,
in that one feeling,
like a jawbreaker
that just keeps
changing colors…

Hafiz, and the House Key Problem

comments 21
Poetry

One morning
Hafiz was giving
a seaside discourse
on the subject of Love.
The wind was whipping
in off the surf, causing
flags to flutter and hats to fly.
Overhead, gray clouds and brilliant sun
were vying for dominance,
swirling around one another
so that the sky appeared to boil like a kettle.

A woman near the back stood
to ask a question.
“What about the hockey problem?”

The wind carried her words
directly from her mouth
to the next town over,
like trails of smoke
released into a wind tunnel.

“The house key problem?”
Hafiz replied, his hand
cupped to his ear.  “This
is no problem, surely-“

“No, no!” she cried.
“The hockey problem!”
The act of yelling
really seemed to dislodge something
because she was off and running,
like a race horse lunging from the starting gate.
“All those goons crashing into each other,
smashing one another
up against the boards,
defaming one another’s mothers,
pointing and taunting
in between plays,
sacrificing teeth and bones
and their better natures
over a little rubber puck,
always losing their cool
and smacking things
with their sticks: each other,
the goal posts, the ice, the walls, the benches…
Oh- and spitting…
They spit, too.
Right on the ice,
on the bench, in the penalty box.
It’s gross, violent and vile.
It’s shameful and disgusting.”

She was really winding up
as she came around the far turn.

“It’s awful.  Just awful.
It’s skulduggery with instant replay.
Each team has a couple of uncouth Goliaths
they send out onto the ice
like half-starved pit bulls
when enough is enough.
They whip around the rink
like heat-seeking missiles
until at least one man
wearing the wrong-colored sweater
is up-ended, lifted off his feet and twirled around
like an enemy flag being rent in two,
nearly dislodged from his moorings or
crumpled into the boards
for what someone did the last time to their guy.
Message delivered.  Everyone cheers in approval,
their eyes hot and red,
their beers and chili dogs trembling in their hands,
as though justice has finally come to the land.
Then it’s back to the puck.
When the puck does what they want,
the players pound the glass with their fists
and scream like victorious barbarians.
When the puck doesn’t do what they want,
they pound each other with their fists
and grunt like the Roman legion.
And the whole time,
the coaches glare at everything in sight
like caged eagles who have taken offense
at existence itself.
It is a scar on this land,” she finally concluded.
“Something must be done.”

Hafiz listened.
The wind blew.
The sun danced over the water.
The rest of the crowd
sat speechless, sharing a silence,
though each in their own way-
one stunned by the intensity of the outpouring,
one smirking and ready to laugh her off as a quack,
one curious how Hafiz would respond,
one wanting to comfort her,
one wanting to shut her the hell up
so time wouldn’t be wasted on such absurd questions,
and so on…

“This is not just an important question,” Hafiz said finally,
“it is the only question that matters.
Because if we are honest,
we can see that we each
have a hockey game inside of us.
We are full of hockey players,
and if they will fight like that
for a score line, imagine what
they will do when their
very existence is called into question.
I suggest,” he concluded,
“that everyone buy season tickets.”

“Season tickets?”

“Distance does not transform.
You must stay close to them,
invite them into your Home.”

“What happened
to your hockey players?”
someone asked.

“Oh, they are still there,” he said, winking.

“So… are they, like, figure skaters now?”

“No,” he scoffed, taking a moment to spit on the beach.
“No self-respecting hockey player could
turn to figure skating.”

“What then?  Did they retire?”

“No, no…
They are toothless ambassadors of Existence itself,
radiant-sweatered skaters
charging across the heavens,
careening into every falsehood,
pinning them up against the boards,
daring them to test the resolve
of Love’s bannermen,
whispering from the bench
every time they skate past
that resistance is futile…
that one day you too
will join us, because
with Hafiz inside us,
we can keep this up all night…
Take the easy road, they say now.
Don’t be like we were,
learning the hard way that
no falsehood can go that distance…”