Friday, June 21, 2013


I'm in a paradox

This is a poem I wrote many years ago.  it's coming back to haunt me.
I am alone,
an orphan.
I wander, shabby,
in a cave or on a street...
in a car...or at 7-11.

I wander alone in the nightclub
listening to the barkers' call
beckoning me out of my aloneness
with their vacant voices

into open doors that reveal nothing
that I haven't already known...
like pain,
to make me feel alive.

when actually...

I am alone.
My movements are linear,
along forgotten railroad tracks
and empty streets
that pass a long way from oasis
or automobile stops
with hamburgers and cheap gas.

I am alone,
a wanderer in time,

a little ball...

no orbit,
just spinning out in space,

no nucleus to hold me,
no gravity stops.

I sit on bar stools, desk chairs, and factory trucks
turning over soil with no minerals in it...
delusions of real manure....

I am alone.

It's curious to me that while I don't feel all those feelings now, I do feel quite alone--which becomes especially paradoxical since I aspire to end duality.  It's a quandary "devoutly to be resolved."
I have lived in 8 different places since moving out of our townhouse in Fairfax in early May.  I have lived in a house version of a junk pile,  a small bed on a boat, in a tent, on the floor behind a couch, at a Motel 6, a room in Ashland, OR--friend's house, and until next Tuesday at an apartment in Terra Linda (San Rafael). After that, who knows?

Now, here's another poem that I wrote years ago, that makes an interesting compliment to the first one, but which enhances the intensity of the paradox I live in.

"On a walk
or pacing,
when I really want to focus in,
to perceive Him
I stare down into grass, dirt, or concrete,
for in that focus, mesmerized,
the sweet inner stare of the unknown Father filters up to me
and I gaze, 
as into nothing,
the ground within,
to walk in the experience of realizing
I am accompanied."

So, I am left with this poem as a possible way to resolve the dichotomy:


a face flows by me
            on the window sill
                        against drops of dew

a good morning face,
            feeling its own pulse
                        over the concrete

lying back into itself
            beginning to wrinkle
                        but unwilling to make

say 'hello', face
            and know
 Think on't
Andy Rumi 


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