Meditation # 28- Trying to Get Back to Zero


Two toads on the front
porch- a heavy rain
falling from a
darkening day down sky-

thundering Bossa Nova
overhead- writing seven
years worth of ink in
was it
two or three?


Smoking my final
cigarette for now
have another when
that old bottle is cracked-
who needs another
country western
disco song?

The blue media
machine has
ten thousand
ten thousand

Grateful old time
playing on the
jukebox of the
night- sweet songs


On the old family
radio hour Blind
Joe Melon sings
a Dead Father Orange
classic- “Dog Head
Under the Bed Blues.”

Consulting the old
media machine- quarters
line our pockets in the
spirit arcade- lightning
flashes across the sky like
neon on downtown cold
house grinners.

Exit Music plays against
a blue screen telling you
to go back home with the
tickets already in
your hand like an ode.

“Wherever you go there
you are,”
I heard in a song
one night goin’ down
the road. It was an
old CD- a
serendipitious buy, but
completely desultory.


Songs of silence on a
forest floor- volume
rising with the sun-
can’t sleep in under
that morning
sun shining
volume rising
alarm clock dream wreckage.

The melody of bells in
the night where
strangers laugh behind
the glass wall-
laughter forever ago being
released on a laugh track
infinity loop. An echo
reverberation of the
laughter of ghosts.

I’m afraid I don’t always
speak the language of the
poems I read- Spanish is
beautiful- eventhough
I don’t know but a few


Wild Horse Measurements

Down at the ocean

trumpet swing

the sounds of the shore,

the Kings and Queens

will be out tonight.

It was a shaved dog afternoon

with a big time mariachi band

playing in the rain, and you and

me standing under the hatch

smoking a cigarette- later

watching the magic

of the old media machine- about to

drive me, blind! Watching the magic

man- you fall asleep to blue sky

angels- with halos playing

horns- all aglow. What a

musical moment high on big

thoughts soar from heights-

our hands entwined.

No stars in the sky filled

with lightning and thunder-

you in the shower- a lateral

movement- and me

studying the routes of

empty taxi cabs at


It is those wild horse measurements,

brothers and sisters, let us study the

heights of trees, let us listen to songs

sung golden, or let us read verses

about imaginary hills and


Piano chords

playing against

the pouring rain-

pouring so hard

my mind turns

to post cards-

doing the math of

sending everyone I

know a line.