our divine frustration

Every morning, you open your eyes to find

the divine frustration,

curling the lineation of my window shades

    into shapes

    of a crucifix,

but the light's all straight and the kid, well

he's alright.

Pray to Allen Ginsberg. Pray to the names of people you don't know.

Pray for the faith that saves us.

Pray

Pray 

Pray

On the stage of fascination: an empty page drains 

the years of libation through a full-suit circus

that just claps and claps with its bowl-cut, its legs

and enough words to say anything.

You can write it all away or 

put it in a box with all of your favorite things

like letters 

and string 

and really important string.

Collages of love:

Our colleges, our too full, our president, our don't know what to do, our don't know where to live, our too real, our pitiful, our million, our missing, our too many, our five-star, our opening, our beginning, our returning.

Might as well add the why and call it what it is,

its yours, its yours, its yours, its yours.

The physics of the soul is a book on the wall,

wedged between many

things and thoughts and leftover beans.

Box tops educate the sub-space mind to reside in vagaries,

respect the grammar and check your spelling.

Grow up.  Then, years later, only when turning 

around, whirling dervish-like through the air

did you find your desperation.

Our desperation.  Our divine frustration.

Soul singers sing about searching for their answers.  My answers

Your answers

are waiting for your questions, 

your mind

and the time to sit and have a cup of tea with you.

How strange to sit and wait?

While white cloud wraiths

dance down air

currents, events

are really happening

on the other side of the world and

you will learn about them through telephones.

If I could change my name, then I 

would have harnessed the power of being 

fully human.  If I could trade my name for another one, I would

choose to be known as mr. Jones, but then, I fear

I might be mistaken for a baseball player.

On the stage of grand libation:  power lines clack and shake

shuddering at the weight, the substance of fascination.  

Our homes.  Our entertainment.  Our whistled 

livings.  Our credit statements.  Our thread-bare

old jacket of a nation.  Our intensity.  Our necessity.  Our divine frustration.

On the backside of nowhere, sitting 

on a mountain floating on an ocean,

I read the poetry of my soul from a book full of dead poets.

And I knew then and I knew there.  And I laughed there and then

I cried for all the times I never knew and all the places I'd never been.

If its all emptiness inside,

then where does pain come from?

If its all openness out there, then when

does hate find its footing in the fertile, hurt-broken hearts

of mothers,

sons,

daughters

and fathers?

If I could plot our entirety in a stack of white paper,

using nothing but a black pen and my good nature,

then I would draw a picture, a friendly face with hair and whiskers.

Then I would draw the picture a thousand times, until

with a flipping through the sheets, I could make the face smile.

And it would be more of my desire, more of my dissatisfaction

than any fleeting, grasping, self-bound instant.

And once this papery creation can come to life 

for any set of fingers,

any fleshy friend or foe,

then on and on and so it goes,

the thing will need to be named, and we

will all get together and play with our own image.

We will writhe and curse its sublime animation

and we will call it

our divine frustration.