Ode to a Cathedral

for Kit, Tori and the PNW


I stand on your tippy-top steps,

Goth(deco)esque patina arches above and above,

an Ommmmmman.


(an ant)


Deaf, dumb and blind man Steinman whispers

ancient Wizard of OZ hoodoooooo YOOOOUDOOOOOOOO

house of the rising Son House

Lord Vishnu Solomon Tlaloc Amun-Ra


all-seeing knowledge, free.


And I vow to do my part.

To be a smirking rhyming chanting chiming Ronin steward

(chiming-in from time to time)


as the quaking tidal wave

of Slithxren slithering sleazy slimy voodoo condos

attempts to suckle on Sheesha’s tails,

spreading her legs,

and tonguing the waters of the Columbia and Willamette. 


Thrive or die.

I will go down with you,

for you, and

everything you hold sacred.

Even when the true quake ((((Big One)))) and tidal Tandava

rambles around the bend

a reckoning.


Acoustic cosmic satellite dish that respects right

and left hand/brain.

Tesla-lation tessellation elation.


‘So I began.  First I drew a box that looked like a house.

It could’ve been the house I lived in.

Then put a roof on it.

At the end of the roof, I drew spires.



*Raymond Carver

Lady Seine

Men may breach Medusa’s many veils,

serpentine curls a spellbind,

skinned into wanton hide, 

Yakshinis and back door summon.


Bonds run down deep rabbit holes,

embraces known to be true,

but the King of Hearts can never be

to the black pawn of our rapture.


The bluesmen always howlin’,

trying to hustle the moon,

but Khonsu’s old witchy ways

moves blood tides to her rhythms.


Some attention, a song

and a Defeat card or two.


Institution birthing/canal wither

longing for second handed dogma

where fairy tales

growl glow grow grow glow growl go

to oppress

already stagnant broken waters.


A monk chants.

A sadhu’s arm to Orion.

A priest listens.

A shaman tongues longitude.


Speculation is then, that, than,

though, thus

those thumb uppity ’empty-headed Athenians’

mere meek mirror mind meld

to oppress

already archaic algae alligators.


Starry pathway infinite,

tuned to winds

Skip and Charley theorize,

Johann dips quill.


Belief irrelevant shebang

Asparmara's ToE

My ignorance is serpentine

with seizures

massaging the monoliths of knowledge.

I sacrifice my immortality,

so boons may be bestowed

off my cracking, chaffing hunchback

with the complexion of a newborn baby.


My lips are twisted with herpes.

My eyes are contorted.

My cheek bones like the elephant man.


But I know stuff too.

There is a ballet to this continuity.

For all knowledge is a distant relative

to my karmic suffering.

And under my left-handed toes

another Tandava exists

where the gods are bored,



and the Bodhisattva's epilepsy is revered.

(my friends, strangers)

A crowded room.  Imponderable thoughts,


And though they may be tempered by the abstract offhand,

they are strained by dint of mitigation.


But there is no blame other than the gods.

Candor is tenebrous at best:

The cuckold consonant consequence of constant conscious consciences

tangled, snarled in collective consciousness.


We ache and long for knowing,

impossible feelings.

That perhaps your gnash of dysfunction and accumulation

will one day be recognized as mine too.


"There are known knowns.

These are the things we know that we know.

There are known unknowns.  That is to say,

there are things that we know we don't know.


But there are also unknown unknowns.

There are things we don't know we don't know."*


Humankind is fabricated out of knowing.


*Donald Rumsfeld


A wall (observation/dimensions).

A theory.




The particle flotsam and jetsam

gets prodded and probed

while the milky cosmic waves

churn Lord Shiva

to undress his simpering riddles.


A nesting doll ablaze.

A frenetic inception.

The Crow's Nest

The rain collects

while the gutter tides inch closer

and closer and closer.

You are never quite aware

until the damage done

because the soggy technicolor raincoat is

tailored in only two sizes.


But as the clouds break,

sleepless seafarers of the sublime siren

finally close their eyes.

They rest on shipwrecked shores

to ignite new bonfires

with the driftwood

of falling explorers and fish tales.


Crisis averted.

Turquoise sextant in hand.

Dioskouri gazing down.

A Fool's Prayer

To stand alone naked

to entice others

to dismantle their layers of accretion.


And the rain will laugh.

The cinderblocks will crumble.

The sun will remind.


A manic cosmic dance.

Prophetic Absurd

True inner freedom

only exists in the psyche


of collective being.


No stone can numb it.

No club can tame it.

No sword can sever it.

No bullet can make it submit.


Even splitting an atom --


Nothing more than cardboard

and tempera paint.


The Kali Yuga of Reaganomics

will continue to build


and the willing willing wiliness

to shackle ourselves.


Our kingdom is not of this world

*is of this world

*is everything

*is nothing


*is desire and awe.


Obsessions of self-doubt

may darken the skies.


But as carbon spews,

the stars have memories,

and Crick unlocks the mystery

of the double helix.

A Sonnet For the Manic-Depressive Woman

When I see that Lithium roll off the crown of your tongue,

I wonder what the malevolent force may brew,

And as that lipstick rolls off the butt to your lung,

All personality must succumb to a humankind in lieu,

You lock yourself in the bathroom as if time had no hour,

Yet a toilet could never hold your mercurial reckon,

But you later reintroduce yourself shaved but still sour,

Though when you need pink wigs I obey without beckon,

Most times you do not want to be touched while in fetus,

So I shift to the couch waiting for the beloved circus.

Third Eye

As drones fly over Berlin,

I meditate on the quiet beyond the St. Johns trestles --

My mind fixates on Nazi Germany

and the twists and turns of the Willie Wonka dollar

selling golden tickets

only for more Willie Wonka dollars

and more golden tickets

and more Willie Wonka dollars.


Shiva winks with both eyes wide open.

The ironic delight in his smile

becomes my own.


Sighing sadly but laughing too.


And when the Tandava finally subsides,

the wreckage

of the new age will sprout


more ironic than the previous.

This I am sure of.

Untitled, 6.14.15, 6:36 pm

Set down the Menlo Park apparatus

of sticky doodad doodad doohickey doodickey hoohickey

(direct current),


if only for awhile.


And 'let it snow, let it snow, let it snow'

waves of ultra high frequency


in lactating oceans

of electric rainbow projection


beyond the fool's kingdom of neigh nays.


Adolescent hallucinations will keel,

but wishful savants will remain,

marveling at absurdity,

refusing to squander anguish,



By possession only,

the ancient antenna entombs itself,

in pineal glands and gospel sermons,

rarely ever heard,

vivid odd passaging.


Alien wavelengths,

masquerading as awkward Earthlings,

quietly scurrying about,

forming homesick doohickeys,

in and out of reality.


And when the bell tolls catastrophe,

I will be skipping hopscotch

with Belmondo

and other fellows

who have turned into insects,


self-loathing a morning.