Category: Blog

A man fallen from the edge of humanity. A speck in the food chain that’s too small to feed the smallest of mice or the petites of birds. A man left in mere nothingness, but surrounded by everything.

The mail man smiles and gives him a nod as he stuffs his box with more unplayable bills. The interest rates seem to eat at any payment he tries to make and the late charges are the venom that kills hope, kills progress. Sometimes he wonders how he got in this financial debt. How he found himself in this lake of bills and low credit scores. He thinks back on the purchases. The swipe of the card and that mental plan he made to pay it off. The self accountant, rounding up his expected pay stubs in his head and determining the pay off date.

The plan seemed solid until another swipe and another swipe made the plan a little more complicated but still manageable. The whisper of no interest for eighteen months brought in another fiasco. His home became false stated with all these lavish gifts.

He thinks deeper and catches the repetition. He has seen this before, practically all his life he lived in false wealth. An illusion his mother started as far as he could remember. He watched her, infatuated with her material things. Always living lavish ignoring the telephone as it rang off the hook with the bill collectors calls.

A home full of items she truly did not need. Four TV’s, three lap tops, enough gym equipment to open a Bally’s, DVD players, CD players, mp3 players, video game systems. Things she never used but always claimed she needed. The telephone continued to ring. Not becoming silenced until the nine o’clock dead line. He use to look at her, pay check to pay check, that was a life he was going to avoid, a life he looked down on. But many years later, as he sits on the porch of a house in foreclosure, watching as the repo men remove that 52″ inch TV. He takes a deep breath, and suddenly the phone rings.

It happened again. This time with Ray. Second Uncle to die. Second Uncle to kill himself. Gordie first. Now Ray. I knew it was about him when my mom called me. I knew what she was going to say. And I knew how he had done it. A loner who hanged himself. Didn’t come to pick up his mail for days on end. He was a spy in Germany. Climbed over the wall in the dark wearing black from head to toe. Started in the air force. Only had one love. Linda Miller in Missouri. He bought me perfume once. And when we were in Rome he put me up in my very own hotel room. He was the closest thing to a rich Uncle I ever had. He was Ray. The cranky bastard. Lovable, tender, shy, scared of people. Things I wish I could write to him now. That pa finished his book. That I want to study in Italy with Brett. That things were going to be okay. But he died. Brett says don’t feel guilty. You had no control over this. Brett played chess with him. He was supposed to come to Seattle for Halloween, but I went to NYC instead. We left him a message on his birthday. A message with all our voices chiming in. Happy Birthday. We love you Uncle Ray.

Pa came home after identifying his older brother and took off all his clothes. He arrived with no bag, I think he was on meth. He grabbed a plastic garbage bag and shoved all his clothes inside. “Where is your bag pa?” No answer. Just a slammed door in my face. Ma says, “he’s not doing well. Not sad, just says I smell bad.” We all went to bed and I dreamed Meghan put me on the phone with a retard, unable to understand that I had to wake up at two a.m. and didn’t want to swap suicide stories. God Ray, look what a mess you’ve made. I knew dad was alive because he kept rattling pill bottles from the medicine chest. Then later it was his snore that kept me believing he was alive. But what if he isn’t.

Some people are scared of ages. The ones you pick up are more of a burden, it would seem. Like it didn’t mean anything. I don’t doubt that. Especially when you’re reading symbols. The story is yours to create – No, not always. To tell – Maybe, if you wish. To remember. To personify – Yes. But experienced knees are such a hassle.

Some people look at ages as building blocks. Concrete, not the philosopher’s stone. Like that point will be the point. There, all things stop, settle. Come together. Perfectly. Not journeying there, but getting there. The point.

Life: Means to that End

But some people look at ages as ages. Who were you, really? It matters, in an encapsulated way. Someone said that our selves regenerate every 7 years. It feels faster now… So since birth, we’ve lived many lives, many lies and many truths. And there is much to take from all of them. Not definitions of self. Experiences of. Through a whole bunch of eyes.

But the key is, to only be there. Not seeing age as a burden, or a block. Not anything to run to or from. See it as a stage. Try to be aware of every word and most movements and it becomes something instead of. Something instead of another nothing. We get too concerned with how far away from it we are. This is it. And why would you want it any other way?

Carpe Diem

“I’ll steal you.” that’s what I told her. Her eyes looked at me with sort of a intrigue. Her lips smiled and I knew she was flattered. “ You’ll steal me?” she repeated, dimples penetrating her cheeks harder now as her eyes sunk into more of a seductive tone.
“Sure… you don’t have any security tags on you, right.” her voice exploded in laughter, breaking the silence of the bookstore. “ No I don’t.” she said under chuckles. “But I do have a husband that may put up a fight.” her laughter continued as I joined in with a grin.

This woman who only stood five feet off the ground, made me sore stories above that. In fact I haven’t touched the ground since I met her, and every time we were together the earth seem to move a little further from my feet. A beautiful woman of Asian descent, her shanghai accent still attached to each word she spoke, enhancing her wonder and inflaming my interest.

The laughter continued, as she slid her pale fingers along her forehead, removing the long black hair from her face. “ Do you like cookbook?” she asked. Pointing down to the one in her hand. “Like you, I like anything that has to do with food.” she smiled at me again and I smiled back.

Time had not seem to touch this woman in twenty years, although she was older than me, it could not be seen in her features. She would joke at times about how old she was, and how beautiful she use to be, but to me she was perfection, with a smile that out weighed gold. “ Big cook book, many foods for you.” the words left my mouth with a horrible Chinese accent. She looked at me and laughed, returning her eyes back to the book her face took a more serious tone. “This book no good… you get to fat.” the look on her face was priceless as usual and I blurt out laughing. This woman could change on the drop of a dime. From serious to funny to intrigued, her mind set truly marveled me. She would be talking about a topic, stop and then jump into another. Things she liked, things she disliked, things she loved, but in the time I knew her she never lacked a smile nor a laugh. My eyes scanned along the wooden shelves following the titles until stopping atop a diet cook book. I reached out and grabbed it.

“ Would you like this more?” her face held suspicion as I handed her the book. Eye’s pointed, she read along the title. “ Oh, this one is better.” her face held the same expression as she flipped along the pages, until finally stopping at something of interest.
“ Oh look.” her eyes expanded as she gasped out in joy. “ Shanghai veggie roll, sound good, right?” she flipped the book around and showed me the page, pointing to the enlarged picture of the dish. Her closed ended questions where a everyday occurrence, and I loved the way she got when I disagreed. “ What do you mean you don’t like?” she would become so animated, disapproving your disapproval. “ What’s in it?” I asked has I moved closer to her, the creak in the wooden floor boards applauding my advancement. “Spinach, cheese, onion, pepper..” she continued to read on but her words where lost to me. She smelled good and I became lost in the scent. A fruit concoction that tinkled the senses, just like a commercial would promise. “ Did you wash your hair?” I asked her, my words cutting off her aloud reading. “ Smell’s good right?” fluffing her hair with her hand, she looked at me and smiled.

In times like these I felt astray. My mind was conscious of our friend relationship but my heart beat for more, it raced with hopes of a conclusion. Either this woman could see my desires and maybe meet them with her own, or my heart would stop this foolery and reside to its normal state of nothingness. A simple thing, being no more than the tool it was designed to be, pumping blood along the body and supplying life to its inhabitants. A familiar existence for this four-chambered device.

Love had found it’s way to me twice before. Once during my high school years and returning again after college, but only for a brief stay. It was no stranger, but it was a companion who pursued different forms every time it entered your life. From the constant thought of the person, to the shear over enjoyment you had around them, to the way your heart yearned for them, love was a sickness with extreme symptoms.

Mental and physical affects reside from its infection, each person experiencing different exposure, but the final over bearing of the heart was inevitable.

I stood there, lost in here beauty once again. I relieved a sigh, unenthusiastic of the events next to come. My knees went limp as she touched me, and I prayed for this to be a crush and nothing more… Time will only tell if those prayers will be answered.

Rushing into action, you fail.
Trying to grasp things, you lose them.
Forcing a project to completion, you ruin what was almost ripe.
Therefore the Master takes action by letting things take their course.
Lao Tzu

This is what we are referring to when talking about a breath-centered yoga practice. Often a yoga instructor’s cadence becomes, “inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale…” until it becomes ambient sound and our ears habituate as we no longer pay attention. And at any given point you will hear the instruction: “coordinate the movement with the breath.”
Yadi yadi. Yada yada.
It’s plenty easy for your mind to convince you and your body to do a lot of things. The converse is true too– you may convince yourself that you have no control and you are possessed by your body by addiction or greed or whatever other deadly sin you might think up. These two things are true (and not just because I’m trying to promote the concept of non-duality either).

Try this: cat/cow vinyasa
inhale, cow
exhale, cat

Fair enough. Now breathe normally. Let the cow happen as the breath comes. As though the transition is in fact a function of the breathing mechanism. It is.

We are being breathed. The atmospheric pressure outside of the lungs and the pressure within the lungs is what causes the diaphragm to move up and down. Respiration is an autonomic function. You do it while you sleep.

And cat comes because you exhale. Bring your mind into your breath. The song is the breath and your movement is the dance. Freedom within choreography. Moving and breathing in a yoga practice is a celebration of being alive and capable–
bringing your mind into your experience
and being there
with yourself
the whole time
to witness,
to act,
and give thanks
just for that.

Now, try this:cat/cow vinyasa
(do this simultaneously)
inhale=cow
exhale = cat
(let the postures and transitions become synonymous with the word “breathe”)

The movement is fluid and the breath is like a river…always flowing…. Sometimes it settles
as in a lake
and the breath suspends
and the mind stops.

If we try to force our bodies to do things without first giving ourselves space to breathe, we will never be able to live in a place of ease and stability. If we fight against the currents around us, we end up defeating ourselves. If we try to hold on to all of our possessions, they will possess us. If we strain, we restrain. If we take shortcuts, we don’t understand where we are.

Practicing restraint in yoga is not about denial, it is about transformation. There is no need to bottle up. To be frozen in our emotion. Become a Master by moving with the energies that nourish you. Support yourself without gripping. Trust yourself. Use self-authority by receiving guidance from all that you are and can be. Pain and pleasure follow the same rules of nature–they each will come and go. Inhale. Exhale. Birth. Death. And the spaces in between. Before and after. Let’s take more time and find more space and live a little now and then.

The media has once again cast its dark shadow over another news story. A story repeatedly played on by every news channel and has now stepped up to get it’s own special. A story that sooner or later will have protesters, politicians, and maybe even Jesus speak out against what the media promotes to be the problem. But in all truth it’s not the problem, it’s only the fall man.

Law enforcement has been looking into Craigslist for a while now due to their alleged posting of prostitution ads. Robberies, sex solicitation, and now murder!!. Craigslist must seem like the worst website on the planet?. You go on to a community board in search of a car, a roommate, a job or maybe even a girlfriend and you could now wind up with a axe totting medical student at your door. The media points the blame at the site, portraying it to look like the worst thing since the Holocaust. I hear these news reports and sigh, the same cycle always happens. When shit hit’s the fan someone always has to take the blame. Whether it be McDonalds for forcing people to be overweight, or Craig list, an enforcer for the obliteration of man. Society always has to find a villain to make the accused look like a victim.

Ronald McDonald did not run into your house with a military assault rifle and force you to gobble down three big Macs, two large fries and a diet coke. So where is this law suite coming from? Why is the media reporting the highest percentage of obesity in American history and showing a picture of McDonalds? Because I make mediocre hamburgers that you decided to make your soul source of nourishment is not cause for attack.

Craigslist did not have a tab on its site for murder or mayhem. Did not have a section for robberies and sodomy. It does have a section for adult and erotic postings. But it is not the one doing the postings. It’s a board, a community board that allows anyone to go on and post or search for a desired product. So before the media begins to poke its mighty spears into another innocent. Just remember that something created for one purpose and is unconsciously used for another, is not the cause of the tool, it’s the cause of its operator.

Two lonely lovers on opposite sides of the Atlantic fall into the arms of another. Each wake up the next morning with fear of what the other will think and if they should tell them.

Six months go past and the lovers are finally reunited. They both have completely forgotten about the episodes during there lonely period. They hug and kiss at the train station with such passion and desire that it turns heads. The returned soldier grabs his bags and his wife leads him towards the parking lot. As they exit the station a familiar face catches his eye. Short blonde hair, deep blue eyes and thin red lips. A face also comes familiar to his wife. Brown eyes and dark curly hair. A face directly in front of her.

An awkwardness falls over his wife has she introduces her one time lover. The woman turns to her husband and says. “ This is Jackie, she helped me a lot while you where away.” The husband looks in suspension at the nervousness in his wife’s voice. “ What are you doing here?” the woman asked, now becoming a little twitchy. “ I came to pick up my husband, David.” she said pointing to another soldier approaching them. Short blonde hair and deep blue eyes. The husband gulped and the awkwardness continued.

You can take the poet out of the city certainly. But can you take the city out of the poet? I suppose I will soon find out. This week I left New York City after living there for five years. First I was a college student, and then I was on my own, trying to find work in the very bowels of a recession. Needless to say I was not successful and have had to flee the metropolis of Manhattan for the much greener environs of Arlington, Virginia, my old home town, or more appropriately, county.

I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that I am not moving to any place horrible or in the middle of nowhere. Arlington, if any of you know the area, is across the river from Washington, DC and is the home of the Pentagon, the Corazon of the Military-Industrial complex. That’s right, we were attacked on 9/11 for real. So, I have not come back to a hamlet, or a town with no Vietnamese, Indian, Thai, or Italian restaurants, or a place where there are no bookstores, libraries, bars, or stoplights.

Yet it always feels odd to call Arlington “urban.” At one point we were part of DC, but were given back to Virginia. They did not want us. We sort of went through the opposite process as Brooklyn. I suppose as a consequence we never had the need to develop any sense of pride to prevent from being devoured whole. I have never heard anyone utter “Arlington in the house!” at an event.

So maybe I am still an urban poet, a troubadour without music but with city streets. And perhaps if one begins with poems about subways and grime, one never loses their edge even if they are surrounded by lawns and streets empty as a ghost town in the middle of the day. Then again, can one who never lives in a city ever develop an edge on their own? Without ever feeling that strange combination of joy and fear when walking home drunk at 4 in the morning, unsure of what saints or sinners one will meet or if you are heading the right way down the street? Maybe. If so there is hope for me.

Manhattan made me into a poet, she was the ultimate unrequited love of my life. And we all know that it is at the touch of such feeling one becomes a poet. An urban poet can be surrounded by such reminders of failed romance, and so they can really develop a voice, since they have to stand out against a crowd of potentially millions of admirers. If I had stayed in Arlington I would have been pastoral if I wrote verse at all. I do not think being a writer of prose is so dependent on location, except as source material. But I do not think a city tempts and then rejects a novelist like it does to a poet. A poet can be crushed to death by a city. That is why I am somewhat happy to leave.

A question that needs to be asked is if being urban is good? Certainly in the city it is a defense mechanism. It is also sensible, one writes about what they know. There are few cities where poems about hunting on rolling hills full of deer might connect with an audience. Yet is there something about being an urban poet with an urban vision that makes one important to poetry wherever one might go? I think so. Oddly enough, it is a “tradition” that the poets of the cities are the ones who reinvent the language through experimentation and taking the chances that being in a large mass of people allows to occur safely. A poet who faces the city is looking towards keeping poetry and by extension, literature, fresh, and also keeping poetry a community, not just a series of cells of lonely men and women writing verses for themselves and no one else.

So how does one keep an edge? How does a poet keep their urban flavor? I could travel into DC by subway and roam the streets at night. I could walk the bridges over the river during winter and send clouds of breath over the Potomac like little rafts of myself. A few drinks and rolling in a few gutters could do the trick to. Yet maybe that would just be posturing. Can I bring the urban into Arlington? Can I make my county truly wake up and realize that it is a city in its own right and should begin to love living life on the edge, however dull it might be and low off the ground?