On Trying to Implement Taoism in Your Life

If I took away the stuff the walls
are made of, what would I do with the rest?
And how much larger would these rooms
be without their walls? Without walls
my rooms would be so large, there would be
more than enough room to hang all
the world's great art. Without the paint
in the painting I could send the masterpiece
to you in just the right words. Without
letters, words are too long to read
and by the time you're nearly done
with one syllable, you've thought
of something better to say. There's no
way to say it. Saying it changes it.
How is this going? Is it working?
Let me check. Um. Just keep going.

Four Identical Stanzas

The ticking clock and the dripping faucet
played percussion for me while I typed.
The clock had the beat and the water
clearly had the rhythm and I just sat
back and believed in what they were doing.

Whenever a reporter on the radio has
to whisper, I listen with my whole body.
Something in the hiss of their throats
transmits the human hum of being
and I can't help but feel akin.

Out for a walk downtown, I feel drawn
to the left, like a nerual turn signal.
I turn left at each intersection until
I come back to the same place I started
and the feeling stops.

The slower I drank
the water, the better
it tasted.
I drank
water as slow
as I could.
I drank
water.

Guilt

All you have to do is listen a little closer
to the one distant bell of a guilty memory
and then the hymn plays forth, the one
they play when they try to drag
the spirit in, willing or not, just to make it
dance. But this church has instead of
an altar, a chair, and there you are,
and the hymn has your name in it
and your friend's name, too--the friend
you punched in the groin out of dumb
curiosity, and you still don't know why.
Maybe it's a reason you still have.
Maybe that's the person you are.
And there he is in the front row.
Now the hymn has her name and you
close your eyes but hear her voice
and begin to recite all of the good
things you've done since then.

At The Pied Cow in Portland

They asked you for a name, which they would shout
from the door and you would raise your hand.
Noone gave their real name and noone laughed
at any name you chose. You are Agamemnon
and that's just fine because your waitress
is Desdemona Lisa and you believe her.

When the plate of cheese and oolong tea
arrives, and you cut off the tip of the chalky
white wedge you've never tasted before,
you wonder if this is how Agamemnon eats.
Yes, it is. Of course it is.

A Broken Man Finds Respite

Here is a caterwaul of flowers
and a whisper of grass clippings.
Here is an argument of hedges
and a cacophany of climing vines.
Here I am sitting in a gripe
of a chair on a nagging porch
without a sound in my clang
of a throat, waiting for something
to happen in my tambourine brain.
Even the bees and the flies
are quiet little chimes in this
drum-roll weather where I can't
even remember what time it is
or what it would mean if I knew.