Poems

    “I used to be somebody else, but I traded myself in”

            —Antonioni’s The Passenger

 

I left so many things behind 

I had another world to explore 

another lifetime to begin

 

I left a huge apartment in San Francisco's North Beach

gave away the multicolor jackets from Kathmandu 

the Tibetan dragon rug 

the painting of the cycle of existence 

 

I gave away the Hindu statuettes 

Shiva in a circle of fire dancing through destruction and rebirth 

Krishna the romantic playing his flute as a cowherd 

Saraswati the goddess of education and the arts 

I carry them all inside me now

 

I gave away a lifetime’s worth of books and records 

I had memorized all the songs 

and all the poems worth remembering

 

I gave away my bed my futon 

where I slept and made love 

the table where I ate the fish and rice 

I cooked in the kitchen 

the clothing that I wore through the fog in winter

everything that kept my body alive

 

I gave away my Thai furniture 

the case with the elephant paintings 

the letter holders and wall hangings —

I would find them again in Bangkok

 

I left so many people behind 

the Sufis spinning at the Mentor Garden 

the monks bowing to each other at the Zen temple 

the poets at the open mic nights 

at the Sacred Grounds Café 

and on the bookshelves in City Lights

 

All the old friends I would never see again 

all the ex-lovers who still hold a place in my heart 

and in my arms

I left my family 

never to see my brother or sister again 

their graying curly hair 

their shouts and their frowns of disapproval

left my orthodox religion 

the stained glass windows of

the domed temple in Brooklyn

left behind what I was taught in public school 

about patriotism and money —

And about America

 

I left so much of myself behind—

What parts got washed away by the Pacific Ocean?

 

Now I live in a tiny apartment in Bangkok 

with a beautiful woman with dark straight hair 

and dark almond eyes 

we eat fish and rice 

that we cook in our kitchen

walk through the night market 

go to glittering temples 

take off our shoes and bow

 

All we have now is a statue of the Buddha 

a painting of the rivers and mountains of Guilin 

a candle holder from Jerusalem 

a tapestry of Sufis turning 

a Japanese picture of Bodhidharma—

All we have now is all I need

 

I write poems and stories 

all around the world 

and live 

unbounded

 

I remember thinking years ago  

that I would be ready to die at any time

if it was my time to go

 

now I would not want to leave this life— 

this love 

 

There are still more worlds to explore

More new lifetimes to begin

step by step 

I get closer 

to myself 

 

until I find 

myself is 

gone

*****

a butterfly floats 

in the wind —

remembering his former life

a toothless shaman

grins at you

as you enter

this holy place

****************

the Buddhas here

are all smiling

and still you say

"Life is suffering"

While others were searching for the Holy One
I came searching for you

you took me in and fed me
you accept me the way that I am

to you all my faults are a grain of sand
being washed by the Ganges

to you all my pain is a drop of water
floating in the Pacific

what I offer you in return
is my love

and all I ask of you
is the thorn

that's been buried deeply
in your flesh

Buddhas at Angkor Wat
with red lipstick and white powder
on their faces

What if the Buddha was a woman?

would she have worn makeup
and a white dress

would she have shaved her head
and worn a saffron robe

would she have said that only women
could be buddhas

would she have darkened her eyes
and whitened her skin

would she have taken the form
of a half-male half-female
walking through the world with
a thousand arms

If the Buddha was a woman
would she still have smiled
that same slight smile
with her red lips

or would she have asked us
to take our own makeup off
to let our hair grow long
to bare ourselves to the sunlight

would the glow of her beauty
have lightened the world
when she rose to dance
like a deva?

on the walk
across the Brooklyn Bridge
I lost the group
when they turned off
and I
hurrying to catch them
on the Bridge
somehow passed them
walking by myself
arriving in Brooklyn
ahead of them all

sometimes you think
you've fallen behind
when you're just somewhere else
on the road--
you think you're lost
when you're already
found--

perhaps at the point
of the Bridge
where you first see
Liberty--
or when you are no longer
on one island
but not yet
on the other

you're afraid you've lost
the way
when the way is right
before you
winding back
to where you began:

the child rocking
in the cradle--
the boy standing
on the beach--
the man swimming
toward the shore--

swimming still

under a bare 100 watt bulb
in an old hotel in Yogyakarta
on the island of Java
paint peeling under exposed wires
laundry piled under
soot-coated pipes

filtered through cigarette smoke
and beer glasses
in the cool midnight air
to the rhythm of one guitar

in soft voices
filled with longing
we sing
long into the night
these songs of freedom

 

On the Rooftop

in the center of the
    city

in the center of the
   valley

surrounded by
   mountains

and the far off invisible
    Himalayas

standing on the rooftop
above the winding stair
I see in all directions:

the rising and crumbling
    buildings

the smoky haze over the 
    highway

the five-colored prayer flags
    swaying

the piles of broken wood and
    corrugated iron

and above it all
eternally:

the curves of the stony
    hills
the sun setting
    behind them

with endless light

and endless
            sky

                              Kathmandu