Poetry

The sun has set behind the Panamint Mountains
Before me are a pair of well-worn shoes,
A blanket,
The finest sand eons ever created,
Just this side of fairy dust
Outside of Stovetop Wells
Having chewed on the lord’s finest blue veined mushrooms.
The moon, did I say that it was full, arisen
The sand still fine
People speaking foreign languages disappearing
Those picnicking by the light of the moon gone back to their rental vans
Children no longer somersaulting down sand dunes
Outside Badwater the lowest point on the continent
And the Artists’ Palatte
Where god glorifies form and color.
Perhaps a memory here
Three years old
Wanting mother to know as much about me
And my needs and limits
As I knew of hers.
Perhaps a beautiful woman
Perhaps a distant auto slowing
There was a sign down a way,
Obviously placed there for me.
It read, Restoration in Process

Only there was nothing needing restoring

And then I was again alone.

1.
Ancestor crow hear me:
fire of black crow wing,
dragonfly.
What wonderfulness is life,
that I and thou in each others’ presence
pick hungrily at dead animals
in needle pines, in the forest of the city
Soaring with our altercrows
over freeways to the sand dunes
Singing our rhythmic song.

2.
Gathering forces we glide,
black crowfeather carries us
on air and prayer.
Maybe we will espy some matters delicious:
dead flesh soft and fragrant
colonels of corn naked in the furrows
some water at somewaters edge.
Easy pickings.
Lovely.

3.
My father was crow and my mother was too
all my sisters and brothers
and, of course, me and you
all our entire nation
vast jet black infestation
we must wed midst our kin
meet our needs from within.

4.
In the airwaves we flutter
dipsy doodle and mutter
this is all that we know
as we go to and fro
there is nothing to strive towards
all we’re given are rewards
simple foods, airs, and waters
and the love of our daughters.

5.
I love to eat me grasshoppers.

6.
We crows are the first to greet the dawn
And we like being first,
Being awake
Talking to one another
Hearing ourselves talk
Waking other songbirds
We are a murder
And proud of it.

7.
In large flocks we gather,
the cawing of our species fills the air.
Our movements ponderous and gracious
we hide in tall grasses
from treetops we call,
the fat cat, the red winged, the human.
Still we multiply.

8.
Time is to flight as shoreline is to sea
Altercrow calls from branch site
Bouncing over stones I press air beneath me
Working hard my wings I lift off
The currents carry me to tall tree.
I am clear and invisible.
Hey you.  Caw.

brtaub – 1978

I discover my whitened bones in the desert
where they have resided for decades.
My head is detached from what was once my body
and lies some distance away from my ribs and chest cavity,
which have been gnawed upon by wind, wild animals,
grains of sand, and the passage of time
until naught remained but bone.
And although the bones were scattered
reconfiguration was easy.

We estimate this to have been a male,
an older specimen,
who weighed approximately 85 kilos and was 190cm tall.
Evidence suggests the cause of death
to have been starvation or perhaps a blow to the heart.
Several natural teeth showing signs of wear and care
are still embedded in the mandible.
Six thin metal springs each the size of a blood vessel
are discovered behind his breastplate.
We know no more.

We are as insects trapped in amber
Last alive in the Eocene,
Which makes us very old,
Moths perhaps.
Our resinous coffins shaped, shined, and fondled
By Cro-Magnon and Baltic men and women
Who burn with wonder
That we were and are and aren’t.

I don’t want to be a bug in amber I cried
And it is hardly being a bug that troubles me
It is being stuck in this terminal goo forever
A prison
A shiver of fear
The terrifying reality of sticky feathers.

I love the pattern on my wings
my dusty pigmented scales
that evoke
female pheromones
and pheromone receptors
sensory neurons
olfactory sensilla
male antennae.

I did not intend this amber fate
He says, as they rest atop one another
atop the branch
on which they are delirious and invisible.

Oh blessed entomology
What is possible
What is true
There is me
And there is you.

At the end of my first thirty day yoga teacher training course (which I took with Anna Forrest in Santa Monica in the 1990’s) the attendees were offered the opportunity to speak for 3 minutes and I offered this “poem,” which is meant to be chanted at a pace to be completed in under 3 minutes. Out loud. Try it. Mean it. Or not. Even disobedience deserves a gratitude.

Gratitude is an attitude
Not a platitude.
Be Gratitude.
See Gratitude.
Sculpt Gratitude.
Wear Gratitude.
Where’s Gratitude?
Here’s Gratitude.
Practice gratitude.
Standing. Gratitude.
Death. Gratitude.
Breath. Gratitude.
Downward dog. Gratitude.
To the injured. Gratitude.
To the healers. Gratitude.
In suppression. Gratitude.
For expression. Gratitude.
Courage. Gratitude.
Caring. Gratitude.
Not caring. Gratitude.
Wish it were different. Gratitude.
Wish I were different. Gratitude.
Accepting what is true. Gratitude.
Openness. Gratitude.
To pain, to pleasure, to change. Gratitude.
To jealousy. Gratitude.
To crow pose, to lion, to life. Gratitude.
To the teachers. Gratitude.
To their flaws. Gratitude.
To the slights. Gratitude.
To the mind. Gratitude.
To the heart. Gratitude.
To muscle, sinew, joints, and bone. Our gratitude.
Electrons. Gratitude.
DNA. Gratitude
Our spirit. Gratitude.
Ancestors. Gratitude.
Continuity and flow. Gratitude.
To distrust. Gratitude.
In trusting. Gratitude.
Pranayama. Gratitude.
It’s a feeling. Gratitude.
It’s all thought. Gratitude.
Love of beauty. Gratitude.
Look before you leap. Gratitude.
She who hesitates is lost. Gratitude.
No matter how much I try … Gratitude.
It will never change. Gratitude.
In the rocks and in the stones our gratitude.
Step in the stream. Gratitude.
Don’t give a damn. Gratitude.
I’d give my life. Gratitude.
For our genitals. Gratitude.
And our effort. Gratitude.
Inspiration. Gratitude
Transformation. Gratitude.
Warriors I, II, III. Gratitude.
To the liberators. Gratitude.
Thinking. Gratitude.
Don’t know mind. Gratitude.
Fish, fire, phoenix. Gratitude.
Mother, brother, straddle. Gratitude.
Tomorrow. Gratitude.
Bird of paradise. Gratitude.
In beauty. Gratitude.
The hoop of our people. Gratitude.
Loved and lost. Gratitude.
Humility. Gratitude.
Futility. Gratitude.
Magic. Gratitude.
Tragic. Gratitude.
The arrival. Gratitude.
The departure. Gratitude.
The explicit. Gratitude.
The unstated. Gratitude.
In the Word. Gratitude.
The inversions. Gratitude.
The unconscious. Gratitude.
All the dreams. Gratitude.
And the dreamers. Gratitude.
To be small. Gratitude.
To be huge. Gratitude.
Active feet. Gratitude.
Chanting. Gratitude.
To the monk. Gratitude.
To those present. Gratitude
And those absent. Gratitude.
To our graces. Gratitude.
For the dolphins. Gratitude.
Tears and fears. Gratitude.
Competition. Gratitude.
To the guys. Gratitude.
And the goddess. Gratitude.
No one asks. Gratitude.
Bring it on. Gratitude.
Forward bend. Gratitude.
In the dark. Gratitude.
In the light. Gratitude.
Namaste. Gratitude.
Blessed silence. Gratitude.

When crossing the border
Which you do on foot
From Tanzania to Kenya
The sign that reads, “Welcome to Kenya,”
Which has seen better days
Also marks the start of a strange little piece of Earth
Where you’ve departed Tanzania
But not yet officially entered Kenya
Not until you reach the visa office
Some hundred yards away
And it is in this very space
That dozens of colorfully bejeweled and beaded Masai women
Some with absolutely stunning faces
Have established a free trade zone
Designed to separate the tourist
From any remaining Tanzanian shillings
Left pleading to stay close to home in his pocket

Their technique is masterful
As they grab dozens of colorful necklaces and bracelets
Hold them out to you by the handful
Offer them to you at genuinely low wholesale prices
Bracelets and necklaces you really don’t want
Which they are slipping onto your wrists
And hanging about your neck
As you worry about pickpockets and say
“No, no, no,” in English, German, Mesopotamia, and Swahili
As kindly as you can

“Then keep them as a gift for your wife,” they say,
“Your girlfriend, your daughter, your mother
Take them, they are yours.”
At which moment
You first notice the young tall African man wearing the extra large,
Green T-shirt with the number 5 on it
The word Celtics on it,
And the name Garnett, your favorite player, on it
Standing on the court as it were, here in no-man’s land
Wishing you had your camera
Which is still in some illegal pawnshop
On the wrong side of the tracks in Moshi
Hoping that you will rescue it
To take pictures with it like these
Of the incongruity of Kevin Garnett
Your favorite player
Here in no-man’s land
Against the backdrop of trailer trucks clearing customs
       and bejeweled Masai women
When the man sees you looking at him
Approaches you
Asks what you are looking at or want

So you point to his shirt
To the number and name on it
To the words on it
As you say, “It’s my team, my favorite player”
And before you have put your finger down
He has pulled his shirt off
And standing gloriously thin and beautiful above his belt
Just like Kevin Garnett does
He hands his shirt to you,
Says it is yours
As you are saying “No, no, no,”
In English, German, Mesopotamia, and Swahili
To which he replies, “I am African, keep it, it is yours.”

And you want it
Want to give him some money
Or at least a young goat
But at the same moment
The bus driver has taken your arm
Hustling you toward the visa office
And a customs officer watching the event unfold
Is pointing at you,
Moving toward the scorer’s table,
Motioning that you are to give the shirt back
To the half naked Africa standing in no-man’s land
Maybe a little drunk, or a tad crazy,
Or someone with poor impulse control,
Or poor boundaries at the borders, you joke with yourself
Handing him back his shirt with regret
Enter the visa office
And exit ten minutes later
An official visitor to Kenya
About to get back on the bus
Greeted by the same coterie of Masai women
And one familiar Kenyan man
Wearing a black jacket
You cannot imagine where or how he found so quickly
How he grasped the situation so quickly
And is waiving what is clearly your green Kevin Garnett
Number five, official NBA T-shirt

And notwithstanding the bus driver
Trying to move you along
And a bus filled with Indian’s, Kenyans, Tanzanians, and Americans   
Who also want to move along
You reach into your pocket
Giving the man your last ten thousand Tanzanian shillings
The equivalent of about seven U.S. dollars
As he gives you the shirt
The Masai women screaming at you
And at him
At the injustice of it all
The ridiculousness of it all
That you are paying for a dirty green T-shirt
When you could have a jewelry box filled with treasure
For even less money
And the bus driver is blowing his horn
And the passengers are waving you forward
And you climb onto the bus
With your new shirt
Checking your pockets
And waving at the Kenyan Kevin Garnett
Who has clearly made the winning shot at the buzzer
And is smiling.

A poem is born
By describing what is sensed or seen
And never saying the word “it”
Without describing what it is.
Admiring yellow squash flowers
Among the riot of purple morning glories
In the gardens which greet the day.
Crows standing pensively
Rocking back and forth on their toes
In black wing tipped dress shoes
Hands intertwined behind their backs
Engaged in a familiar dialogue
About roadkill
The harbor
And their diving neighbors the cormorants.
Transplanting small sprouting vegetables
Who convey their gratitude for soil and love.
After a demonstration at the bank
Calling for corrupt lenders
To hold very long meetings inside federal jail cells.
After yoga, and music,
And even an unwelcome creeping sense of paranoia
That emerges of its own accord
And leaves the station on its own schedule.
At the end of a good day,
A present day,
Where pain and stiffness are at a minimum,
The mail is taken to the post office,
And you approach life and death with hands raised high
In the universal sign of surrender.
Welcomed home
By the lover you’ve awakened
Eating pumpkin pie made with home grown pumpkins
Roasted seed, and ginger.
.

the love life of clams
is poorly understood
and being the shy creatures we are
i can tell you only certain things
without blushing.
for starters i’ll say
we enjoy very long periods of foreplay.
indeed, many think,
foreplay is all there is in the life of a clam
and they’re not all that wrong
it’s something we clams do for hours
dare i say entire seasons without cessation
excreting eggs and sperm by the millions
sometimes the very same clam
ushering both into the world
rocking back and forth
with the flow of the tides
with the pull of the moon
laughing while switching sexes
one day female
the very next male
our essence blended
into one multi-sexual organism
open to every other clam
without shame or grief
bodies buried in the mud,
faces buried in the sex organs
of each other and of ourselves
switching sexes repeatedly …
and not only don’t we care,
but i can tell you
from personal experience
we are awash with joy
with libido and saline
free from certain sad mammalian quandaries
the chasing about looking for yet another puzzle piece
thought to be missing
the rarity of finding a mate

One drop of rain
Contains millions of separate
And also merged
Molecules of hydrogen and oxygen
Gases we cannot see or feel
Combined to make a substance
No life on earth can live without
And like those elements
We are joined together
As molecules and drops
Wet and liquid inside our sweat, tears, and blood
Hard and frozen, brittle as ice,
Rising as steam and fog
Lifted to the heavens
Fallen back to earth
Never created
Never destroyed
Only changed and transformed
Always water
Inside our eggs, water
Inside our sperm, water
Inside the promise of the future
Water
Drunk by the roots of plants
Where it rises sweetened in the veins of trees
Water falling into the lake
Water rushing over the dam
Over rocks and pebbles for one hundred miles
Entering the great ocean
Floating across the sea to China
Drunk by giant seaweed
Nibbled at by small fish
Eaten by a larger fish
Caught by a fisherman
Served to his children
Taken into their bloodstreams
Urinated into a sewer in Shanghai
Risen into the heavens
Falling again onto earth
We breathe in one another
Like drops of water
Absorbed by the human soil
Drawn up through our human roots
Up through our veins
Sweetened
Released into the air
Lifted high into the heavens
Soon to fall again to earth
Somewhere still unknown
Still water
Immensely happy to be here
Washing bowls and plates
Made into thin soup
Aide to the silent kitchen crew
Aide to the walking meditators
Held here, home here
Illuminated here
Part of the sangha assembly here
Part of you
As you are part of me
Walking together
Doing good deeds
In war and peace
Manifest in our shared breaths and blood
Our shared Buddhahood
Merged drops of water