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savoring fall

the leaves that are green will turn to brown
rustle in the wind fall, one a time or in a torrent

no torrent yet, but I feel it coming
the readiness of fall to sweep me away
my body desiring to remain between the sheets longer each day
and yet awoken by my lovers touch
i respond, my body comes alive to greet this day
this day of grace and blue sky
each moment of sunshine a gift to be savored

work or dream

I have things to do. Work is calling loudly but I am not listening.
I’d rather listen to my day dreams. I’d rather remember the stroke
of your hand on my back. I’d rather remember the soft sound of your
voice in my ear. I’d rather remember leaning upon your shoulder. I’d
rather remember dancing passionately with complete abandon. I’d rather
remember being carried upon your shoulders and surrendering to your
support. I’d rather remember making love in our sweet temple.

I touch the keyboard and my fingertips become alive. Even touching
the plastic is an awakening. The sun touches my shoulders from this east
window and it is the most gentle warm caress. I listen and hear the sound
of cars driving by, the sound of hammer hitting nail, the hum of electronics.
I listen more carefully and hear a squirrel chatter, my dog bark, but no
other human breath, no other human voice. I want to hear your breath again,
I want to feel its wind upon my neck. I want to feel your heart pounding under
my finger tips.

I suppose I should get to work now,

a long riff on ethics and religion

I am a social anarchist. I believe in the good of each of us. I don’t think that religion makes us better people. I don’t think that fear of retribution makes us better people. I think that shame makes us worse people and that traditional religion creates a lot of shame in the world. I think that shame drives all kinds of ‘sinful’ behaviors by defining natural behaviors as sinful. The shame that arises from your being labeled sinful drives people into behaviors they wouldn’t choose if left to express their natural longings and desires safely.

Religion should be a place for us to discover our own ethical and moral compass rather than to be given an arbitrary one written for a life and time very different from our own. Religion should be a context where we can explore, as individuals and as community, what the right choices are for our own hearts and for ways to make the world a better place. Religion should support advocacy and a better life for all. It should help us find a way to live a life in tune with what we know to be right.

I don’t need a religion to tell me what is right. I need a religion to help me live a life in integrity. I’ll use a simple example: “Thou shall not steal.” Do I need the ten commandments to tell me that theft is a bad thing? I don’t think so. I don’t want others to steal from me and I don’t feel good if I steal from others. I do not feel in integrity with the world if I have taken something that I have not earned nor returned value for. It is about being in balance with others. So, at the most primary level taking the property without their consent (as a gift or exchange) is wrong. How about less clear territory than direct theft? I try to make choices on the side of integrity, but I stumble and sometimes the answers are not clear. I have my religious community to help find my integrity. As the result of the community dialogue, I find that I try not to steal in many places in my life from the simple to the abstract: I tell the clerk when she makes a change error in my favor. I try to pay the true value of what I purchase, by not purchasing from manufacturers who exploit labor, either here or abroad. I consider ways to return value to the earth in equal measure to what I take for shelter, food, luxury. I consider how and why I drive and arrange my life so I don’t consume more fuel or other resources than I need. I try to live so that I do not steal property or habitat from the other creatures I share this planet with. My list could continue, but these are the implications of living a life of non-stealing (as the Buddhists would say) or living by the eighth commandment. While these religious traditions give us a guideline for living ethically, I believe that the guideline comes forth naturally from finding ways to live in amiably with our global community. I do not need the threat of hell to teach me this lesson. And if we look at the world around us I do not see any evidence that religious creed results in a less theft. Our commander-in-chief while agreeing in the most simple interpretation of the commandment, does not live by in a global sense, we as a nation continue to steal and plunder the wealth of other nations with a rhetoric that asserts ‘might is right.’ Far from any ethical compass that arises simply from reflection on living amiably in community

my bed

my bed is a great white raft afloat
in the deep sea, I have always imagined it so.
monsters once lived under the raft.
I had to leap from the threshold of my room
onto the bed to be safe from their desire.

sometimes I looked over the side of the raft, or
peered underneath to see the creatures terrible
and beautiful aching to nibble at my toes, or more

sometimes I want to invite some others onto the raft
ask them to join me on this rough frolic
through wave and tumble

sometimes I fall asleep, like the child in the old lullaby
and I am awakened by the touch of a lover or a dancer
in my dreams

I do not sleep well when I dance in my sleep
The touch of the sheets awakens me, I shiver,
try to find peace, release the touch
and find my own skin again

basking

Overripe plums cover the sidewalk
Although the leaves have not yet begun to turn brown or drop
I feel them beginning to yield, surrender their summer green
I too drop to the ground, roll from side to side
Yield, surrender bend to the turning of the seasons
Basking in the last of the summer’s sun

day dreams

maybe, i'll morph this into my own daydream: the water is
clear. stunning bright blue shallow water, a lagoon surrounded by
a white coral beach, small mangrove along its edge, no people, i've
been here before, the island of Abemana. the water is very
warm and salty. water so dense we can float on the surface with almost no
effort. we have a small raft on which to nap and rest. very small
waves gently rock us all day long. we come in and out of the water,
swimming with sea turtles, tropical fish, a great manta ray. we follow these
great creatures wherever they choose to lead us, we surrender (yes)
to these wiser beings. we grant ourselves the indulgence of time, beauty,
resting, warmth, impulsiveness, freedom. i fall asleep here in this
warm place outside of time. and wake up back in my life.

my house is dirty. there is a pile of work to get too sitting
right at my feet. i have responsibilities. i turn my face from the
computer screen and my life reminds me that it is waiting.

i drift back and forth from my daydreams to my life. my life,
my work, is not boring. i start choreographing a new piece today.
it will be about women, sexuality, and aging. i have rented a rehersal space
for the next month until the studio is complete. it is my first step
into choreography. i am excited, frightened, alive.

Easter Nightmares

beauty

The garden turns brown too quickly
because of my neglect
the plants are withering
one rose remains, a tough bad boy

It is small in stature, growing along the parkway
absolutely ignored, occasionally stepped upon,
it produces flame colored blossoms
bigger than the plant itself, with a rich erotic scent
a wild flower amongst scattered weeds

this rose brings me smiles deep in my heart
I am grateful that it does not need my tending,
that beauty can survive on its own,
and that dense thorns keep me from picking the blossoms

Flying from Oakland to Portland

Alameda, downtown, Lake Merritt,
bay water, breaking ripples
windsurfer, decommissioned naval base and runway
port and crane, I580, Lines of spaghetti laid down as arteries,
Emeryville, Campanile, Doris and Chuck’s, Berkeley Hills
reservoirs, Carquinez Straights, Grizzly Bay, Browns Island
faults and Folds, Oil tanks, Salt Marsh, Flooding Tide
gridded lines of houses, planned and gated communities,
landslide, Grassland, Salt Pond, Scrub
smoke plume, fire, Lake Berryessa, The Great Sacramento Valley
rock Outcrop on Lakeshore, Water flooding valleys
parallel ridges of folded rocks smashed against the continent
human quilt of agricultural fields laid down over her bed
of sweet mounds, hills, mountains,
lurching out from under the covers a stripe of red sandstone
rock thrust up and over soft tan silt and clay, red sandstone
holds the long ridge up. River meanders across the ridge carving
rock apart, slow but sure, river cuts. Hot springs there, in that
valley warm water arises bubbling between the mother’s folds
does she long for her to touch us the way my hand wants to reach
out and caress her slope and breast
again the quilt of farm land spread smooth across the valley,
the bed of mother Earth where we lay our heads, with which we
feed our round bellies, shadow of cloud blocks the view now,
then again river, canal, reservoir emerge into view. A stripe of green
land and field along the banks of the Sacramento River hides the water,
other fields are tan, brown, buff, pale green, dry,
only scattered fields kept fecund with water this time of year.
Flying north the valley narrows as
coast range and sierra slowly converge, purple pen explodes, ink on
hand and face, wash off what I can, drink
coffee, water and return, pick up the cadence, the
view again. Ache of skin, ache of muscle to move, dance,
reach yield, great reservoir, crenulated red shoreline,
volcano, forest, dappled, small round craters, curious
volcanic landforms, mounds, don’t know for sure where
we are as we pass north of the great valley, north of Shasta to
Oregon, south of the Williamette still in mountains forests
unnamed in my mind, another river dammed, waters held in
check filling the mothers valley, no longer cutting her so deeply,
and the clouds return now, look to be moving fast
but no, the shadows are nearly stationary so it must be us
who is moving fast across the land. Long straight road cuts
right across forest, hill, man-sign = straight road = valley’s
flooded and still now. Stay still the men say again and
again to the mother taming river and shore, but eventually
she breaks free, moves, dances again, thrusts
herself dramatically over any man made wall, dikes fail,
shorelines flood, people flee in horror and look to blame another
human: president, governor, agency director takes the blame,
becomes the fall guy. She has been still here in this wilderness
for a while. Leaving us feeling secure but she might choose to
dance any day now, to wash this coastline in a bath of salt water,
washing away all that itchy debris of
development from her shore. Does she choose?
This mother of mine, of yours, of ours, does she choose or
simply tolerate our presence upon her. Can we learn to stroke and
caress her with love and affection?, can we learn to be her lover?
Can we erotically lay our head upon
her bosom knowing she will continue to give and yield to our hand.
The clouds form mountains now, ridges, valleys, spectacular and
ephemeral forms of water, booming thunder, shedding ice,
my hands cold now with purple splotches of ink, one small diamond
on my finger, nails longer than usual, I softly clutch this pen
knowing that it is keeping me sane in the
flurry of time here, the random conversation over heard:
“time is going to run them over.” The rumble of voice and engine,
the sway of hips, the suckle of breast, the hand reaching for a
cheek and skin melting away, on fire between palm
and cheek. An invitation in eyes, too close to the edge.
We should be going down now, falling slowly back, perhaps
that is why the bell has rung. I long to see the seatbelt light come
on, to feel us descend again toward her, through
cloud, controlled falling, no longer rising the mother
inevitably pulls us back to her flesh. Controlled falling, foot on
pavement, we roll forward one step at a time. We fall into the
clouds now, slowly any sight of land or sky disappears,
then the shadow of the plane on cloud, and then the
shadow is gone, a ghost, a vision of ourselves dissolved in white.
Too bright to look out the window now
and yet I keep looking for land. The sky comes first,
looking up, a bit of blue, then it too is gone. There she is as we
descend out of the thickest set of clouds, I
see two more layers, blankets between us and the earth,
the soil, we fly now in a sandwich of clear air between cloud layers.
Another sheet of white to be lost in, I want your hand on my cheek,
my shoulder, I want to fall into your arms tonight. We pass through
white again, only a veil now between us, before she disappears again.
I yearn to see beneath these sheets her skin exposed,
seemingly vulnerable to my touch. Wheels drop, ears pop,
we get louder as we come into this place. She likes to make loud
noises in quiet places. She likes to disrupt her easy life. I have lived an
interesting life. It shows on my face and hands,
blotched purple at this moment. Portland metro emerges
now form the clouds industrial zones, housing, pool, field,
freeway, cloud bank and she disappears and reappears so fast I
cannot make out any landmarks, don’t know which freeway
that was. River flow and tributary, not Williamette, then who?
Fields, river bend, forest, clear cut square, we spin in a circle of
air to land the other way around, accelerate briefly over golfing green
and fairway, white veil, hilltop pool, fields stripped in shades of green,
Columbia River broad and deep chasm, cut down to slow lazy river here, now we fly west toward the airport. A child sings, I ache for you.
Green island, river shoals, tree and field again we fall closer, small
orange tent on island shore, logs, great bridges crossing from
Oregon to Washington and back. Grass blades now, trucks, cars, rear
wheels touch runway, then the front, air brakes, deceleration,
we’re one hour late, no dance tonight.

warning

this is a warning to my relatives and other regular readers of my page.
i am exploring and pushing the edges of what i write. getting a little
sexier and explicit. a me you are not accustomed to hearing from.
read if you like, but your warned.

she lives

she lives
break the rules she said
and we did, and we made love all night long
watching the moon rise and shine on yourface
my buttocks, your hair

she lives
and even as we broke the rules
we came together, yes, together
in a great sea of musk and mhyrr
in a great frothy eruption, both hers and his
we rolled on the waves of our broken rules

she lives
like the basket of broken glass at my feet
beauty arising from that what was torn apart
the windows rattle, the train whistle blows
the rattle wakes me like dreams of thunder
the bed rolls and i reach out for you

she lives
in the reflection of the full moon on the bay
in the strong desire throbbing in my finger tips
in the dreams and thoughts of one lover for another
she lives and the earth's heartbeat will rock us both back to sleep
even when we are continents apart

she lives
the train fades slowly, the whistle distant now
i let the desire drain and pass
imagine you with a clove cigarette dangling from your lips
choosing now to be a bad boy
while i applaud from the sidelines of your
deep dark pit , don't ever forget we are in this pit together

love, love, love

Years ago, bearing the world on my shoulders, trying to live by obligations and expectations my world imploded. I fell into myself and into the dark. I went into the woods and prayed. I prayed hard. I chanted while I climbed mountains. I asked for guidance. I asked of anyone who might be listening to me. The Trees, the Rocks, Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, Zoraster, Spider or Toad. It didn’t matter, I just needed an answer that came from beyond my limited mind. Slowly the answer came, in bits and drabs. No one in particular answered. I wasn’t born again to Jesus, he never answered my prayer. I was born again to myself. For although I kept hoping someone else would answer the answer came as my mind opened. Yea, me, my mind, that’s right. The spark and answer are right here and I am the source of my own answer. I am my own guru, just as you are yours.

God is here and tangible, right at your fingertips, damn, right in your fingertips. Touching the keyboard, God is at play, putting on your pajamas, God is at play, making love to your mate, God is at play. This is it, this is all there is. Enjoy it while it lasts.

I don’t think I’ll take the burner’s temple wisdom to: “skid into my grave sideways and totally worn out shouting ‘holy shit, what a ride.’” Instead I’ll aim to dance into the grave, like Keriac did, riding the sound of didgeridoo, surrounded by lovers, dancing a small beautiful dance of love and leaning on whoever will carry me.

new friend

I am slowly introducing myself to a new friend. It has been a different way of journaling, a conversation that tells someone about myself. I get to pick and choose what I tell, what is important to share. I am who I choose to be, I can name my history or just be it. It is an interesting process to watch. Making a new friend is a chance to redefine myself again.

So here is something I told my new friend today: I test borderline introvert/extrovert on the Myers-Briggs scales. I am a shy exhibitionist who needs close friends. I am much less shy than I once was. I am sufficiently self assured that people don't think that I am shy. I am more interested in an intimate conversation than a cocktail party. In fact, coctail parties (or the like) are one of my least favorite things in the whole world. What i like best is long intimate conversations that tell me the depth of who people are and how they have lived their lives. It is something I can only sample in a small group or one-on-one. Like eating a single chocolate truffle rather than the whole box at once -- it has taken me a lifetime to appreciate that eating a single chocolate truffle is a better experience.

the size of love

I have been thinking about the size of love. My natural inclination
is for love to be really big. I can fall in love at the drop of a hat.
I can have my heart broken open by a smile or a touch. I long for
that heart break. I like living in the desire. The dikes with which I
held back desire are breaking open and a tidal wave is washing over me.
When I allow the dikes to break and I find my self in the immediacy of desire, my very cells feel alive. Building the dikes and trying to confine love is fatal. I am giving up the battle. I want the dikes to fail. I want to be drowned in this ocean.

Manna

I had a dream. I pushed away all the voices that I allowed to keep me in their dreams rather than my own. They were just gone and I was free. I rode a Manta Ray deep into the ocean. I didn’t really ride the Ray, I became the ray, broad arms with small easy pulses taking me on a long joy ride ending exactly where I needed to go.

I found a wooden box on the ocean floor. I sat down and cradled it. I wanted to open it but there was still some fear holding me back. I cradled it for a long time before I opened it. Finally, slowly lifting the lid it appeared empty. I dipped my arms into the emptiness and tossed the invisible contents into the air. It was manna, the sweet diaphanous flow of abundant life. I had all I needed and could literally shower myself in it. The box was empty. The box was full of something sweeter than I could have ever imagined. I have no name for it.