for Leonard Cohen*

*** and death
are the portals
to love and life.
They burn,
they are dangerous,
we are taught
to turn aside
and look away.
And so we do.
Only a few
have the guts
to face
these twin fires;
only a few
find the courage
to cross
these thresholds
into celebration,
ecstasy, madness,
transcendence
or come what may.
These are the lovers,
the poets, the pirates.
They long to see
the naked face
of creation,
to hold
the burning universe
in their open arms,
to penetrate
the Mystery.
They are not afraid
to be consumed.
  - mce

In retrospect, she was the time's type:
nothing special, really;
nice smile, a decent body,
the obligatory long hair,
almost pretty, but not quite,
seventeen and on her own,
willing to trade her body
for a place to crash, to get high,
maybe a little food.
Nothing personal about it.
I provided her three night's lodging.
She paid in full and moved on.
I can't remember her name.
Those were the sixties.

   - mce

All the women
in his life,
until her,
came from
the same
temp agency.
  - mce

"I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted away within me." Psalm 22:14

From his life
of sorrow,
they pour out.
From the well
of his heart,
they rise.
From the spring
of his soul,
they flow.
They are tears
that seep
from his eyes.

Like water,
he pours out
with them.
From his
sunken heart,
they go.
Like streams
they disappear.
Where they run,
he does not know.
  - mce

Huck Finn is dead.

Some say

he died alone
in an apartment in Tulsa
during a Swamp People
marathon
body discovered
three days later
after neighborly complaints,
face somewhat gnawed
by his trusty cat.

Some say

he died in Montana,
struck mute by space,
rigid with terror,
dreaming of The River,
beside a trout stream,
eaten by a jealous grizzly
with a taste
for southern cuisine
and fame.

Some say

he died in Arizona
rattlesnake struck
and shrieking
beneath
a pellucid sky
seeking
to glean current events
and unlikely meanings
from ancient petroglyphs.

It does not matter
where or how;

only that

Huck Finn is dead,

and with him
the lights of the territories
gone black.

  ~mce

I saw
an old man
kneeling
on the side
of the road
the other day.

I stopped
to ask
if I could
help in
any way.

I could
see him
flap his arms,
hear him
mutter
and pray.

"There is
no help,"
he shouted.
"Be on
your way!"

I left then
because
I was afraid
that should
I stay,

I might begin
to kneel,
to flap
my arms,
to mutter
and to pray.
  - mce

Gems are
like gold,
you find them
where you find them,
faster, the harder
you dig.
People, books,
ideas, poems
and songs,
there at the opening
of a mouth,
a door, a book,
a heart,
that change you
forever.
Keep mining,
you never know
what is next
these pickings
can be rich
indeed.
- mce

Simple Song
a wooden room:

waking in the morning light
beside you in a simple bed.

we drink from simple cups
subtle waters.

simple wood and light
simple cup and bread
simple warmth and calm.

difficult -

the simple world
is difficult…

or

simply open the door:

the breeze calls us
the birds sing
our mortal names…

plain table,
subtle fire.

two plates as round
as owl’s eyes.

your heart and mine:

simple,
simply,
beautiful.
  –mce

If only I could
    plant myself
deep in the
    perfect earth
of your body
    and grow us
a new life
    together.
  - mce

I'm running from the thought police,
I'm reaching for my gun,
the parasites are wriggling
and the madness has begun.

I visited the jungle once
and held onto my heart,
I never knew the reasons why
the darkness fell apart.

Oh take me to your tower
where the ruins of love exist,
I'll pound upon its broken walls
my puny little fist.

But I've no time for poetry,
no time for women's charms,
no time to light the fires of love
or feel its red alarms.

I'm running from the thought police,
I'm reaching for my gun,
the parasites are wriggling
and the madness has begun.

If everything was clear to you
would you tell me what it means
and let me enter in and feel
the wisdom of your dreams.

The sun is thin and chilly,
the dawn is bleak and cold,
the birds have ceased their singing,
my bones are sad and old.

I want my wasted limbs to feel
the power of the dance,
to fling my arms and fall into
a deep ecstatic trance.

But I've no time for dancing,
no time to dream and pine,
the day is broke, the way is up
and they are close behind.

I'm running from the thought police,
I'm reaching for my gun,
the parasites are wriggling
and the madness has begun.
- mce

I'm waiting for a message.
I'm sitting in a bar.
I've flown 10,000 miles.
I've journeyed from afar.

The stranger who would meet me
is no one that I know;
I dreamed her voice in Paradise,
she told me she would show.

Oh where are you my only love,
when will you dance with me,
step from the crowds into my heart,
I long to set you free.

When will you stand before me,
when will your face appear,
I'm sinking into loneliness,
I'm sinking into fear.

I want to lift your flouncing skirt;
I want to touch your soul;
I want my hands to trace your *******;
I want to make you whole.

They're wiping down the tables,
it's time to disappear;
I guess that you are far my love
and yet you feel so near.

But I will haunt this table,
each long and empty night
until you finally show up,
until the time is right.
-mce

A great man said
fatigue makes cowards
of us all.
When I tire I falter.
After 72 straight hours
of flying at An Loc,
I slept with my eyes open
and was terrified
every moment
I was conscious.
No more wars for me,
an old man 50 years later,
an old body bent
on a different life.
When I am weary
I see the raw meat
on the floor
and think a new life
is impossible
but maybe some
variations on a theme
could happen.
I feel like
a worn out raccoon
treed by the hounds of life.
I feel giddy
with self-doubt
as if the world
is telling me something
I don't want to hear.
"Devouring time blunt
thou thy lion's paws."
And I will sleep
and tomorrow
what is impossible
tonight might
even seem likely.

  ~mce

You should
meet the Muse;
she'll wear
your *** out.

She never takes no
for an answer.

Sure, when
she comes
she screams
out poems.

That's fine, but
her demands
will leave you
limp and gasping.

It's not all
sighs and play.

Be careful what
you wish for.

Don't quit your
day job.

A Muse will
satisfy you
but she won't
buy groceries.
  - mce

Hungry and tired,
I try to write this poem.

The only images
that come to mind
are the creamy white
mounds of your *******.

The world and
my mind
wobble as one.

This is both vertiginous
and thrilling.

Biology always trumps Art.

  ~mce

Look at the world,
not up your ***.

  ~mce

The brittle
silliness
of life
is only
temporary.
I endured,
but I didn't
prevail.
God was ill
on the day
I was born.
It's been
a crap shoot
ever since.
We are what
we are until
we aren't.
  ~mce

Where everyone
is damaged goods,
there are
no damaged goods.

  ~mce

If the Christian afterlife
is so cool, why would
Jesus play such a cruel
and mean trick as to raise
Lazarus from the dead?

  ~mce

Dear Louise,

At 2:30 AM after
two hours of sleep
I feel I am looking
through a keyhole
and reality
is sneaking up
from behind
to give me
a much needed
kick in the *****.
Somehow, I have fallen
into a hole so deep
I can't climb out.
The arena of death
destroys the illusion
of safety and
at some point
the naked heart
cannot recover.
Everything seems
after the fact.
Everything is
after the fact.
You can't change
anything after
a split second ago.
I feel a curious desire
to do the right thing,
but there are not
enough right things
to go around.
Is life accessible?
Is life inaccessible?
I have the curious urge
to puke out forty years
of my life's garbage.
Maybe I'll change my name
to Antonio or Ivan,
move to Hiroshima or Dachau
and see the world
through the binocular
but astigmatic
eyes of a tiger.
If you asked me
to describe someone
I really know,
I'd be very hard put.
As a kid I wanted
to be a writer.
I wasn't sure
what that meant;
early ideals can **** you
but you probably
deserve it.
I know I am wrapped
so tight that if
I spring a leak
I'll sink in a day.
Could there be a way
to fence my life in
and keep the world out?
I am consumed
by fatuous sincerity.
I'd write down
all the options
int this case
but I loathe
the **** fascism of lists.
My hormones seem
to be deliquescing
into a viscous pâté
of late life protoplasm.
They belong on a shelf,
not in your pants.
I guess if no one else
will make use of me,
I'll have to make use
of myself.
This is a difficult task.
My life has been
a long preparation
for something that
probably won't occur.
For too long I have
defied almost everything.
A strong man would simply
drink himself to death,
but I'm not that strong.
Many of my sins of omission
are beginning to bother me.
Perhaps the only real use
for today is today.
Maybe I need to get
back to the basics:
eating, ******* and dying.
How to maintain
my equilibrium in the face
of incomprehension?
Waking up is a kind of homage.
Or could it be that
I don't need to change?
I'm just this.
Anyway, it's 2:30 AM
on a long night
in a strange life.
I'd better go.
Dawn may creep up
and release the
stench of coffins.
Louise, if you get this note
and understand it
please let me know
because I don't.

Sincerely,

Mikey

After you turn fifty,
women tend to look
six inches over your head,
as if your genes
are a pile of dog ****
not worthy of registering
in their senses
much less allowing
inside their
worthy bodies.
After sixty
they consign you
without a thought
to the biological
dumpster.
The seeds of
this evolutionary
disaster are planted
even earlier.
No blame:
they are only
listening to
the humming
of their ovaries.

  ~mce

Find an unused closet.
Open it and in it
place your unlived life.
Close it and lock it.
Walk slowly away
and toss the key
where it can't be found.
Notice where you are.
True comprehension
requires all the senses.
Practice using them.
**** plans and goals.
**** life's petty details.
Be like any other mammal:
try, moment by moment,
to figure out what
you should do next.
There is always
another corner
around the next corner.
Don't think:
just choose and go.

  ~mce

Nothing taunts
a geezer so much
as the life unlived,
so if you are young
and still breathing,
get out and live it.

  ~mce

You were born,
as was I.
You are dying,
as am I.
What happens
in between matters.
Too many spend
their time as
they spend
their money,
straining for more
than food, clothes,
shelter until
they suffocate
under attachment
to the unnecessary
they have made
necessary.
They try to buy
meaning with toys
and feel uncomfortable
at the boredom
they have become.
They want the whole
world zoned commercial
so they can work harder,
buy more and feel better,
but they don't.
It is a hard thing
to admit how much
of our lives
we have spent
being full of ****.
Remember:
You were born,
as was I.
You are dying,
as am I.
What happens
in between matters.
We all stand on
wobbly hinges
that can give way
at any moment.
The question becomes
not about death
but about how to live
before the hinges snap
and the noose
breaks our mortal necks.
No easy answers.
It is hard enough
to have your foot
in one world,
let alone two.
You were born,
as was I.
You are dying,
as am I.
What happens
in between matters.
Instead, meditate
on the nothingness
that was and
the nothingness
that will be
at any second.
Do not **** your life
away on nonsense.
Find your way to make
what is in between
matter. Me?
I think I'll go fishing.

  ~mce

You have taken
the betrayal
of your past,
the hypocrisy
of your present,
your fear
of the future
and built
a circular wall
to exclude
the world;
just enough room
for you and a dog.
Oh, you foray
sometimes
for money, food,
a check up,
but always
you retreat
inside that
solid, safe wall.
I, who have no money,
care little for food
and refuse to be
a check up,
where can I
possibly fit.
Where is there room
for someone who cares.

  ~mce

At 4am you are as alone
as the last Tasmanian Tiger.
You are a bundle of screaming nerves
with no skin to protect them.
Absolutely nothing matters:
not women, not friends
not ***, not money, not poverty,
not friends, not lovers,
not the future, not the past,
nothing at all. All that exists
is the terrible freedom
of the insignificant
blob of protoplasm that you are.
You know in your soul
that there is a strong possibility
that nothing means anything.
So you go back to bed
and anticipate remembering
nothing of this in the morning.
The bliss of unknowing
is your only hope
in a world of hurt.
Try it. Perhaps it will work.
It never stays 4am forever.

If you put yourself
at the mercy
of life's events,
you will find life
merciless
and never have
one of your own.

You are playing dead.

If you play dead
long enough,
your chance
of coming back
to life
is questionable.

It is not a question
of choose or die;

the challenge is
to choose and live.

  ~mce

Come into my hands
like a book.

My hands are strong,
have weathered decades,
will hold you tight.

Let them open you
to the right page,
the center of you.

Let me enter your story
and together we will
search your text
for meanings even
you don't know, yet.

We will write
unimagined chapters.

Cackle at the comedy;
weep at the tragedy.

We will read
each other's pasts,
guess what happens next.

We will find
the perfect passage
and know where
we belong
int the world.

At the tale's ******
we will explode
into a final
exclamation point!

If you only
come into my hands
like a book.

on belatedly hearing of an old friend's death*

A simple 18-year-old
Pennsylvania kid.

He volunteered
to lead a patrol
down a heavily
mined road.

Gifts were exchanged.

He gave them
half a left leg
and a whole
right foot.

They gave him a
shining silver star
in a beribboned box.

A few moments
of congratulations
before whiskey, drugs
and homelessness ensued.

The hero's life.

Now he is dead,
the medal long pawned.

Life can be merciless
even for the brave.

No part of this story
means anything.

  ~mce

I am not a poor man.

Just a rich man
without money.

Not the same thing.

  ~mce

I no longer
wanted to be
part of a system
whose sole intent
was to produce
reliable employees
when I didn't want
to be one myself.

  ~mce

In the woods walking,
early morning cool,
one eye on the ground
for snakes otherwise
empty-headed not looking
for anything;

over a rise and down,
a rotten chestnut stump
probably 100 years old
and at its roots
twenty-three Morels.

Instant hunger:
the smell of frying
butter, salt and
tender mushrooms.

I lust for them.

Take off my shirt
to carry them home.

Real desire often
takes us by surprise;
pure delight
of the unsought.

  ~mce

Three words
(in English)
spoken out loud
for the first time
jangle my brain,
flutter my stomach,
turn my monkish world
upside down.
There are words
old men never expect
to hear again.
Yet such delight.
No different than
a teenager.
What do we do with this?
Where do we go?
I don't care.
I don't know.

While teaching at a local
community college,
A 19-year-old man
announced to my class
there was no reason
to learn foreign languages
because if English
was good enough
for Jesus, it should
be good enough
for everyone.

Just the brain
telling tales
we are helpless
to resist.

  ~mce

Either
you develop
your own private
religion

that allows you
to live on earth

or
you run the risk
of falling off
the world.

  ~mce

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
   But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
   Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

for RLA*

Life rarely gives good odds.
Yet even in ****** battle
I have managed to beat them.
I am a lucky Monk: bulletproof.
Take a chance with me, lover.
Maybe I have enough luck
to cover you too; maybe I don't.

But as the lotto sellers love to say:
you can't win if you don't play.

  ~mce

Trans. Elaine Pagels


Jesus said:

If you bring forth
what is within you,
what you bring forth
will save you.
If you do not bring forth
what is within you,
what you do not bring forth
will destroy you.

1.  If the enemy is in range, so are you.

2.  Incoming fire has the right of way.

3.  Don't look conspicuous, it draws fire.

4.  There is always a way.

5.  The easy way is always mined.

6.  Try to look unimportant, they may be low on ammo.

7.  Professionals are predictable, it's the amateurs that are
    dangerous.

8.  The enemy invariably attacks on two occasions:

       a. When you're ready for them.
       b. When you're not ready for them.

9.  Teamwork is essential, it gives them someone else to shoot at.

10. If you can't remember, the claymore is pointed at you.

11. The enemy diversion you have been ignoring will be the main
    attack.

12. A "******* chest wound" is natures way of telling you to slow
    down.

13. If your attack is going well, you have walked into an ambush.

14. Never draw fire, it irritates everyone around you.

15. Anything you do can get you shot, including nothing.

16. Make it tough enough for the enemy to get in and you won't be
    able to get out.

17. Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than yourself.

18. If you are short of everything but the enemy, you are in a
    combat zone.

19. When you have secured an area, don't forget to tell the enemy.

20. Never forget that your weapon is made by the lowest bidder.  

21. Friendly Fire Isn't.

And Mike's Three Corollaries:

1, Keep your head down.

2. Never pick up anything off the ground.

3. Never, ever, trust the locals, especially children.



Compiled by mce

Let my lips please you.
Let my tongue
taste the sweetness
of your soft skin,
the glistening petals
of your secret flower.
Let its aroma entice me
as the taste of you
intoxicates me;
hearing you moan
wild rapid gasps
while you beg me
to bring you
to fullness,
as you feel my tongue
penetrate your gates,
as your hips gyrate
and you scream my name
culminating in ecstasy
that fulfills me too
with the pleasure
I have shared with you.

  ~mce

He was born
not to cooperate
with the world;

to be proudly
contrary and
indifferent.

He tried
the straight
and narrow
just long enough
to discover
the axe finds
the necks
of free men first.

He thought
about it
and decided
life is better
if you are
no one's victim
and that he
did not want
to **** his
away on nonsense.

Contact with
humans had
fried his brain
into a remnant
of carnage,
a napalmed city
or forest,
cold scar tissue.

He had to unlearn
the universe.

Naturally
he became
picturesque
and poor.

Men thought him
lazy or crazy;
women, mostly
interested in
money and power,
avoided him.

It was easy
to become a hermit.

He wanted a life
as free from
other people
and consequences
as possible.

He hides out now
in the edge places,
the waste places,
where no one
looks or cares.

You might
find him there,

but you will
never catch him.

  ~mce

There seems
to be a fatal flaw
in the world's design
that keeps those
who care for each other
separate and at a distance,
sometimes forever.

  ~mce

You do your best.

You fail.

You try again
hoping you
have learned
something,
intending
to do better.

The merciless
world does not
care for your
intentions.

Try, fail
and on it goes.

In this case
mere facts
are not
instructive.

What must a man
do to be at home
in the world?

  ~mce

Questionnaire**

How much poison are you willing
to eat for the success of the free
market and global trade? Please
name your preferred poisons.

For the sake of goodness, how much
evil are you willing to do?
Fill in the following blanks
with the names of your favorite
evils and acts of hatred.

What sacrifices are you prepared
to make for culture and civilization?
Please list the monuments, shrines,
and works of art you would
most willingly destroy

In the name of patriotism and
the flag, how much of our beloved
land are you willing to desecrate?
List in the following spaces
the mountains, rivers, towns, farms
you could most readily do without.

State briefly the ideas, ideals, or hopes,
the energy sources, the kinds of security;
for which you would **** a child.
Name, please, the children whom
you would be willing to ****.

Look It Over**

I leave behind even
my walking stick. My knife
is in my pocket, but that
I have forgot. I bring
no car, no cell phone,
no computer, no camera,
no CD player, no fax, no
TV, not even a book. I go
into the woods. I sit down on
a log provided at no cost.
It is the earth I've come to,
the earth itself, sadly
abused by the stupidity
only humans are capable of
but, as ever, itself. Free.
A bargain! Get it while it lasts!

Everytime
some health ****
tells me smoking
will take ten years
off my life,
I remember my mother
and grandfather
both in their eighties
and their last
ten years of misery,
decline and dementia,
smile, light another
and think
how wise I am.

The Self
we cling to
so tightly
departs
in an instant.

Ephemeral moments
we could spend
making love,
eating, napping,
thinking, sighing,
engrossed in beauty

we waste on war,
greed, grasping,
hatred, hurting
and senseless ******,
the profound anxiety
of power, jealousy
and envy.

Worrying all the time.

And still,

the Self
we cling to
so tightly
departs
in an instant.

  ~mce

Oh, my broken country.

You are cracking now,
faster and faster
and into the cracks
not light,
but darkness flows.

When that
darkness prevails,
you will
crumble into chaos
and your people
will wade in
in their brothers'
blood.

And there
will be no more
second chances.

  ~mce

Poetry is a river running.

You know it is there and
sometimes you take
long walks on its banks.

One day, a Muse emerges
and calls out your name
in a magikal language.

Suddenly, you know
where you belong.

You jump in, surface,
roll over and float,
but remain immersed
for the rest of your life:

mesmerized, flowing,

speaking only in poems.

  ~mce

An Irish Airman foresees his Death**

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.