xxxiii
Beneath the skin, there is a world unseen
Of forces gathering in hidden points—
Paths of power linking liver to spleen,
Gallbladder to fingers, kidneys to joints.
Vital essence flows on these secret roads—
Highways of energy too great to know.
Yet, with steel needles trembling fleshy nodes,
A body is healed of the pain it stows.
A hunchback straightens; perhaps, the blind see—
All with the prick of carefully placed pins.
Too much bile collecting behind the knee?
All you may need is a stab in the shin.
Our bodies are mysterious machines
Running on Spirit flowing East in streams.
Mary went to an acupuncturist last week. She went in with a uterus twisted, leaning heavily to the right; she left with a womb upright and straight—the head of Junior now able to engage the pelvis.
All caused by a few needles jabbed into secret points.
Some would call this 2,000-year-old Chinese art hogwash, others may call it magic. Whatever the case, Mary’s body seems more aligned, and now I’m looking for my own ailments to be cured by a few stainless steel pricks.
Of course, insurance companies won’t pay for such treatment, but perhaps someday they will hear Hamlet whisper:
There are more things in heaven and earth, Blue Cross/Blue Shield, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
My poor shoulder aches
As I heft laundry upstairs
Goddamn gallbladder
xxxii
As with life, love’s heart lies with sweetened pain.
Within experience’s muddy soil,
Acorns crack, seeds split, and fibrous roots strain
Toward broken bedrock while green shoots uncoil.
From such toil, night-blooming jasmine unwraps;
A rose opens; the maples touch heaven.
Agony is sugared with life’s sweet sap
As Cupid’s barb is dulled by love’s leaven.
And that is how vegetable love labors—
With the passionate languor of ivy
Grinding bricks to dust under leafy fur,
Rippling our stone walls beneath verdant seas.
Upon such an ocean, my bark does drift,
And despite the pain, I savor the gift.
Last night, I dreamed of love. I have such dreams every few months. The plots of these fantasies twist and turn as most dreams do, but the difference is the emotion with which I wake up.
It is love pure—with all the agony and joy helixing like DNA upon my heart. As my eyes open, I realize that this feeling is at the core of everything—in the iris blooming, in the cow chewing grass, in the man waking beside his wife. That feeling will shape the letters of my next book.
Yet, as the sun climbs higher toward noon, I wonder if I will be able to properly convey such sentiment with words. To capture life with a pen is an almost impossible task. For my heart’s sake, I hope I’m up to it.
Emotion explodes
With Dawn climbing cloudy skies
White like blank paper
xxxi
O Muse, remember to me what I know.
Show me where I’ve been and where I’m to go.
The land is wide o’er which ambition blows
And often blanketed with blinding snow.
O Muse, remember to me what I seek.
Like swine greased, through grasping fingers it flees.
Seeing empty hands makes vacant hearts weak
And vacant lives lost like air as lungs wheeze.
Remember to me what I am, O Muse.
Guide me, carry me, lift my words to heights
Unknown to minds distracted with mundane hues
And hidden to souls shadowed by black night.
As bleak Winter makes us forget ourselves,
Spring arrives like a new book on bare shelves.
The disconnect between what we do at work and the shape we want our lives to take is incredible...and disturbing. In my romantic imagination, my hands would directly produce the fruits that sustained my family. Such physical struggle, I imagine, would emphasize the metaphysical struggle of living—hard labor reflecting hard life.
But, farming or carpentry or goat herding is damn tough, and I’m incredibly lazy. So despite my desires, I have a feeling I’ll find myself within the geometric prison of office cubicles.
I just have to remember: it’s not what is accomplished at work that matters; it’s how your life takes shape afterward.
Fluorescent lights buzz
Above a clothed cubed prison
An empty desk waits
xxx
Snow spills in early March to drape limbs white
During a night aglow with falling flakes.
Ice coats bark in delicate jackets tight—
At last, a cold covering Winter makes.
The dream of warmth is a season away;
On this eve, clinging to grass, King Frost reigns
With Queen Wind howling across the still Bay—
Rippled tides fixed like rusty weathervanes.
A stretched lattice of frozen fingers grasps
The earth within a temporary death
That will not outlast Night’s final puffed gasp—
Solidified air melted by hot breath.
As the rested Sun on his throne does leap,
Shadowed eaves see light and icicles weep.
I’m so ready to smell the cherry blossoms among those other first scents of Spring: mowed grass, heat-heavy breezes, and the yogurt aroma of breast-fed baby diapers.
Tiny pink blossoms
Sprout on limbs shaped by winter
A child cries: "Change me!"