Attentive Moon

The attention goes inside

of the moon.  The wires

(or are they veins), the electricity

(or is it blood), the transmissions

(or are they thoughts), the power

(or is it aliveness), nonetheless,

the senses awaken to theirself,

the batteries pump, (the heart generates),

and the eyes of the moon turn inward -

to where the happenings happen,

to where the buzz of the organs,

the vibrations of the soul come into harmony,

the verve and the business of moon mind eclipse

the bright, bright heart, and the windows,

just for a moment, become clear,

so that the moon is an orb of glass,

vulnerable to observation, displying all

the innerworkings - the internals,

the nervous system, the muscular system,

the bones -

the bones of the moon, and,

once the attention peaks,

once it’s highly aware,

once it knows only

the presence of the moment,

drift.

Essence of the Moon

Underneath the surface of the moon,

underneath the dust and the craters,

underneath the blubbering tears

and waves of emotion,

there is the essence of the moon.  

It is more sacred than you or I

will ever know, and yet it is in all

of us, this essence of the moon.  

As we look deep into our hearts,

as we reflect within during moments

of great turbulence, as we hunger

with want and desire and raw sexual

cravings, it is there, the essence of the moon.  

It is like a lunar flashlight undercover.  

It is like a raspberry bush

where each berry is a small moon

that ripens and readies itself to be plucked

in the garden of the heart.  

The small moons grow at the tip of each stem,

waxing and waning with the seasons:

this is the essence of the moon.  

It is like a pearl at the bottom of the ocean

and I am like a new diver, searching,

searching for the wisdom of its moonlight.

A Heart Lost in a House

After I built my house I forgot where I put the room with the heart inside of it, I might have even forgot to put a door or a window in the room, I don’t know.  I lived in the house for a long time, twenty years or so, meandering around the hallways and rooms, always thinking in the back of my mind that I knew where the room with the heart inside of it was but I didn’t know.  I thought that when the time came when I needed to show it to someone I could take a left you know and then a right and then a left again you see and I would arrive there because who doesn’t remember where the room is with the heart inside of it that’s silly.  So when the time came I did the aforementioned and I kept walking into these rooms of machinery - sewing machines and clocks with gears and cogs and hydraulic pumps to lift you up and motors to propel and what not and I just could not find where the room with the heart inside of it was.  It’s unfortunate too because that’s when I really wanted to find it but by this time the house was huge and labyrinth like and I wandered around the hallways lost and depressed which was strange because once, in the past, wandering around the halls was new and exciting, but now I just walked in a fog of despair and I couldn’t remember if I had already turned this corner or that or which way I was going and on and on.  Finally I came to a wall that was rotting and I knew that something was wrong with the house and that I would have to make some structural repairs that would cost too much and take forever depending on how much time I committed to every day but that it had to be done.  I hired an outside agency and I worked with them and when we knocked down the rotten wall I saw something in the dark behind all the furniture way in the back by the lamps and desks that were covered with dusty sheets and it was a heart that was pumping and I knew I’d found the room but everything looked so unfamiliar that I doubted myself.  Sure enough though it was a heart and when I touched it, I jumped because it felt so strange and tender, nothing like I remembered it feeling.  But I accepted it and brought it out into a different room while all the construction was occurring and I even started talking to it after weeks and months though it seemed strange.  It was like a new roommate and I was learning how to live with it and how to relate to it and what it wanted and how to make choices keeping it in mind yeah.  When the reparations are finished or finished enough, I’ll get out of the house and explore another house and see where another person, maybe a woman, maybe just a friend, where they keep their heart and what the room looks like and how they talk and listen to it and just exactly what their experience with their own house is like but I don’t know.

Wind in the Walls

In this room, with silence on,

it seems like there’s wind in the walls.  

I can hear it, like I hear computers,

the buzz of electricity.  And this wind, whooshing,

turns my attention, turns it out,

away from locomotive thoughts,

away from murky ocean past,

away from hot mirage future,

turns it out and in between the walls.  

Where do I go from here? I ask myself

as I listen to my breath, as I confuse

my breath with the wind, as I listen

to the wind, as I hear the echo of the wind.  

When my attention returns to my heart/mind,

I have traveled a thousand years, a thousand

miles.  I have lived as dirt, moon, song, leaves,

the soft petals of a dying flower falling

to the ground.  

In this room there is nothing

more than aliveness and it looks

like me.  I am the mirror

for a vain universe.  I am a shard

of god.  I am a blessing manifested.  

I am the wind in the walls

and the walls that hold the wind.