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By the Door of my Sleep
1
I have been on
the move since, monasteries,
ashrams,
sarais, schools,
shrines
on the banks of raging rivers
blue canyons
with Spiny Babblers singing
mule paths
of bleeding porters
base camps
of delight dancing
over the chests
of famished glaciers
airports
without birds
bus stops
without wandering lunatics
apartments
with roofs squeaking from the weight
of pack rats,
their garbage,
their junk food
and the West Village orgies,
Florida condos choked
from the odor of sea food
gunpowder
and impending menopauses,
toilet seats
across the continents
holes in the ground,
seats forged in the branches
of rhododendrons,
wild boars roving
amuck below,
ready to pounce
and clean up
the mess in a minute,
ceramic cells
of Super gurus,
cosmic farts
of New Age gods
monastery looking
toilets with Krishna
idols gawking,
freezing you with
a remorse
of a lifetime.
German,
French, English, Canadian,
toilet paper rolls,
my only clue
to the well-being
of my hosts,
one-eyed
Amsterdam cats
sanctioning
one night stands
Frankfurt waterbeds,
Paris ateliers romancing
endless blow-jobs,
couples kissing
midnight in
Ljubljana train station
where James Joyce
once spent his coldest night
campsites
in a rough place by the Northern sea
workshops
in silence in Yosemite
cycling
in the American keys
skating
in Aspen gondolas
meditations along
the Alps on self annihilation,
cursing ex-partners
in Maribor, watching
80s Bollywood
movies in Den Hague all night long,
cruising along
the bog lands, spreading palms
over Raths
in Yeats’ green glades,
moving in
gum boots over the prairies
in search
of power points
to feel
a tangible tingling
of Celtic souls,
a dark river with bog waters
flowing by
the doors of your sleep
while on the sandy patches
of the shores facing the Atlantic ocean
brown seals
lie, basking in a posture
of time off that only
a Himalayan priest can feign…
3
I may see it this time
coming on a familiar shore
a sheltered bay
or some windy quay
an anonymous wharf
a numbered subway station
a shopping Mall
of some steely city
I might see it coming
again through muggy air
of a New Found Land
and see it hit me
like a Viking spear
or betrayal of a beloved one.
It may come
this time to pluck an oval egg
of my sweltering soul
to turn it into a dry twig,
clutch it
in its beak and fly away
across some lonely island
onto the deeper sockets of the ocean
where compressed
blocks of a century old
garbage lie
piled up like Lord Yama’s
ever increasing
books of the dead
and the dying…
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