If perception truly is everything, then to age in Amerika is a psychological disaster.

Amerika is a youth obsessed country;  a capitalistic consumer oriented country. All the power of capitalism goes into (via advertising, etc.) creating and maintaining this youth obsession.

Take women as an example. If you are female in Amerika, you must always look 25. You must be slim, long-haired, sexually alluring, preferably blond and dress youthfully. Even if you are 60.

This goes a long way toward answering the question why so many women who are 40+ are so fat, unhappy, depressed and ******. Simply put, there is no reasonable way for most of them to meet cultural expectations.

Either they let themselves go (fatties abound in the US) or they resort to grotesqueness to measure up (extreme diet and exercise, plastic surgery, etc.)

They can't win so depression and self-loathing abound.

Most mature women have known that horrible moment when a young, attractive man looks right through them. They have become culturally invisible: they are shocked and hurt.

Men suffer from all this too, but not as much. Younger women will sometimes actually see value in an older man. Rarely, but sometimes, so cultural invisibility comes later for men.

Mid-life money, Corvettes and condos only delay the inevitable. The same moment will arrive and so will the hurt and shock.

This is not as simple as all men are pigs or all women are *******.

If we know that the perception that we don't exist is created by the capitalist media and advertisers, why do we do we buy into it?

Every age has its beauty. Why not accept it and be how old you are? Be who you are. Forget those impossible perfections. Stop trying to be Barbie and Ken. Be real.

It is difficult but possible. I have seen it.

In France you see lovely older women dressed alluringly (but not like 20-year-olds) who are slim, can run in high heels over wet cobblestones and exude sexuality. You often see them with handsome younger men, who are clearly entranced. Why there and not here?

Maybe it's the champagne or maybe it's just sanity.

mce

The convinced
and the stupid:
too alike to be
accidental.
  ~mce

Got it buzzed
back to GI days.

A quarter inch
all over, I said
to the dubious barber.

It took some
getting used to
when passing
mirrors.

But now I love it!

I call it
my Monk's haircut.

No maintenance.

Wake up, perfect;
Swim, perfect;
Stroll about
in hurricane,
perfect.

Now I love
to feel
the wind
in my hair
that is
no longer
there.
   ~mce

Someone once said,
"Vietnam is
the great, epic poem
of our generation."

The greatest epic poem
ever written about war
is Homer's Iliad.

So I wondered,
which character
would I be?

Agamemnon? Too pompous.
Achilles? Too deadly.
Odysseus? Too crafty.
Paris? Too dishonest.

Hector, of course.

Destined to fight on
in a lost cause;
his death inevitable,
already foretold;
courage in the face
of doom.

Hector. I like that.
It has a bold ring
to it.

Maybe I'll change
my name.

  ~mce

Rain drop drip,
mist pale
as starving
white ghosts
clings
to tree limbs,
deck railing,
undergrowth.

A world
lightly glazed
or frosted
like a wedding cake
catered by God.

What secrets
this valley
whispers
through the damp
morning chill.

Cherokees,
long hunters,
dirt farmers,
lost hippies.

Listen closely and
the land speaks
their spirit stories.

In this drifting mist
their insubstantial
shades seek
to live again.

Actions of the heart,
lives of the past:

Nothing
the world
has known
is ever
completely
lost.
- mce

Kiss me, Love.

Your body
is a soft,
white temple
discovered
at the end
of arduous
pilgrimage.

I stand
before you,
the pilgrim
who knocks,
waits,
and hopes.

Kiss me;
open your
secret heart
that I might
enter you
and dissolve
in your
mysteries.

Let me worship
at the altar
of your flesh,
of your spirit.

I have traveled
long and hard
seeking
the one
engendered
by two.

I tremble before
the possibility
of who you are,
who you might be.

Kiss me, Love,
please be
the end
of my journey,
the sanctuary
I have sought.
- mce

How Poetry Comes To Me**

It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light

I would love
to sit in a sunny room
and drink coffee
and have
a long talk
with your heart.

Do you think
it would listen?

Do you think
it would respond?

If so,
call it
a date.
   ~mce

I rejoice as
this soft breeze
caresses my naked,
mammal body.
The wanton
sensuality of it,
like feeling
the touch
of a thousand
angel fingers.
I may not
be beautiful,
but, oh,
I am alive,
a living man
in a lovely world.
Ah, the joy
of being flesh
on this cool,
fall morning.
This magical
conjunction
of skin and air;
how it awakens
my heart!
- mce

At some point,
like Jeanne d'Arc
at that crucial moment,
you must trust the fire
and step in.
- mce

*****, Nip,
*****, ****,
Towel Head:
you call them
whatever
allows you
to ****** them
comfortably;
the terrible
dark side
of the power
of words.
  - mce

When you take
the weather report
personally.

  ~mce

I'm no good at this
and my cabin doesn't help.

Decades of dirt and grime,
a decaying outhouse,
cobwebs and insects,
windows nearly opaque:
Cabin, you are lovely,
but you are filthy.

I am in urgent need
of a French maid
(uniform optional)
or maybe just
a compassionate
and tidy friend.

Or, probably, I'll just continue
not to look too closely.

Ah, the bachelor's life!
  - mce

I lost my Normal
at 20 in Vietnam.
I've been looking
for it ever since.
If you see it around,
let it know
I'd like to get
in touch.
Forty-five
abnormal years
is a long time.
Maybe we could
become friends
again.

For a poet
they are
necessary angels.

Poems do not
leap complete
from the head
like Zeus'
Children.

They are built
like cathedrals,
apprentice
and master,
practicing craft,
keen-eyed
over centuries.

Mine are the poets
I have read,
studied, dissected
and read again
and again
over 40 years.

Gary Snyder,
Richard Brautigan,
Leonard Cohen,
Wendell Berry,
Jim Harrison
and far too many more,
but just as important,
to name.

Eventually,
from their voices
came my voice.

Make your own list,
invite them over.
They will never tire
of teaching you.

If you are diligent
and listen closely,
you will learn
the craft
and sing in the voice
you belong to.

Hard work, learning,
practice and devotion:

all it takes to be a poet.
   ~mce

The leaf-mottled
copperhead coiled
near my woodpile,
rendered sluggish
and harmless
by the cold,
makes no move
to strike.

Its flat eyes
simply stare,
as if to say:
welcome
to the Garden.
  - mce

Open yourself
up to me
like a delicate,
fresh blossom;
I will become
a wanton,
profligate
hummingbird
getting drunk
on the nectar
of your soul.
  - mce

World says, must;
I say, won't:
pain results.
Classic definition
of a ****-up.
  - mce

~for Luke

I advise
my God Son
(for whom
I am called
to be wise),
just watch
what I do
and you do
the opposite.
You'll be fine.
  - mce

An Evening In Winter**

When snow kisses
my window
the evening bells
seem to peal forever...

The table is set,
the house neat,
prepared to receive.

From wandering,
many follow
their dusky paths
to this portal.

The earth's cool sap
sprouts a flowering tree
dripping golden grace.

Be still, sojourner, step in:
Sorrow has worried
this threshold
to naked stone.

But  look:
wrapped in pristine,
radiant light,
there on the table,
shine bread and wine.
  - trans. mce

Pretty words
do not make
a life;
pretty words
do not
make a man.
I am good with
pretty words.

What have
they brought me?

No wife,
no kids,
no home.

I have bought
a good deal
of nothing
with my
pretty words.

More;
there must be
more.

I want to sing
meaning
into creation.

I want the stars
to dance
to my songs.

I want
elegant women
to swoon
when I speak.

I want
nightingales
to envy me.

I want God
to hear
my breath.

I want trees
to smile
at my syllables.

I want...
I want...

But all
that happens
are more
pretty words.
  - mce

A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce

You shall not find solace
in the marble laws of Man.
Self-help programs
and sermons
will not dispel the emptiness.
***, drugs, madness, alcohol
will not prevail.
The constructs of religion
will only constrict your dreams.
God is a disinterested third party
waiting to be approached,
not caring if he is or isn't.
Submit to the vacuum
of your heart at four a.m.
Surrender to the void
that only love can fill.
Drink deeply; hold tight.
Dawn must come.
  - mce

Over and Over

Over and over,
no matter how vividly
we know love's landscape
and the lost cemetery
with its sad names
and the chasm into which
the others have fallen,
once again we walk together
beneath ancient trees
and lie down entwined
among the blossoms
facing the sky.
  - trans. mce

Autumn Day**

God, the time is now.
Summer was vast.
Drop your shadow
across the sundials
and loose your breath
upon the fields.

Command the last fruits
to fullness,
allow them a few warm days
to discover ripeness
and press their sweetness
into heavy wine.

No time remains
to seek refuge.

If you are now alone
you will remain so
for a long, long time.

You will stay up late,
writing letters
to no one,
restlessly wandering
the hollow streets
while the leaves
tumble aimlessly.
  - trans. mce

I loathe consistency. It is the premier hallmark of the small mind and the stunted spirit. Don't look for any from me. I am a jumbled mass of contradictions. I embrace them. They are me. I say what comes into my mind (what's left of it) as it does. Tomorrow (or even later today), I may write the opposite. I am a smeared and blurred painting. I disdain simple solutions and answers. I accept chaos. ****, I eat chaos for breakfast. Some have called me mad; I call myself human. What you see is what you get - for the moment...

...in all this imperfection i seek the perfect tone the lost chord the forgotten lyrics that call the lord to action when last we made love i built a pyre of your clothes and burned them because i wanted to make an offering and to hold you perfect and naked forever but you were only chilly and distant like god well who knows what successful supplication requires so now i light many candles against the gloom lace my morning coffee with bourbon ply the fire how many shades of gray does the world contain i have tried to count them and failed perhaps you know tell me love what is the spark that sets alight and where is the fire that breaks the night i want to take you violently from behind deep and without remorse like a centaur mounting a greek maiden on a perfect frozen vase i am praying hard for redemption and more whiskey perhaps a smile but darkness swirls in my brain an old friend whispering me toward the abyss saying it's ok just a few more steps and silence shall reign so what is the sound of one synapse firing why did the golden rule tarnish where have the indigo buntings fled the squirrels in my walls are scratching out messages in code if i can decrypt them and expose the international rodent conspiracy will i become famous and rich will lovely women fling their lingerie at me like silken boomerangs and ride me like a trojan horse or will the masters find me first and sequester me and my waterfalls of words in the madhouse of obscurity and is this a chance worth taking that those who care not should know the truth i know i am a river but where am i running the words pour the words rain it is hard to know what all this means and yet it must mean...
  - mce

I am often told I am charming,
but I don't feel charming.
The days of dinner conversation
and cocktail chatter are gone.
Now I speak from the heart
without care for whom
I might offend or wound.
Poetry is asking the questions
that hurt and then
writing down the answers
without regard for consequences.
It is putting your neck
on the chopping block
and laughing at the executioner.
It is announcing to the world
your total disdain for its opinions
and not being surprised
when the world kicks your ***.
It is spitting globs of truth and beauty
into the faces of those most comfortable
with the conventional and the merely pretty.
It is the open wound you display
dripping and draining in public.
It is the dis-ease you create
and flaunt because you
have never sought or valued ease.
It makes people depart abruptly
as if a ***** had just
offered to shake their hand.
It is the legless soldier
whose stumps remind you
that your taxes bought his loss.
It is the bullet that finds its mark;
the blade that pins you to the wall;
the bomb that shreds you into pink meat.
It is not charming; it is never charming,
and neither am I because
I have just written this down
for you to read.
  - mce

A strange woman
dances in dreams
snug in bed
far to the north
in a kingdom
of ice and desire.
She is wrapped
in red velvet
and flowing hair;
her ample *******
rise and fall sighing
for the lost sun;
her hips recall
the warmth
of summer lovers.
Something stirs
between her thighs.
Wise otters
gather and chant
about her
in a charmed circle
intoning mystery.
She is at once
their priestess
and their captive;
a rosetta stone
not yet deciphered
for a language
as yet unspoken.
They offer her
perfect lake pearls
dripping light;
their fur glistens;
their tiny paws
clap out ecstasy.
Her world is cold,
but she is warm.
She does not see
as others see;
does not feel
as they feel.
She is caught
in the ceremony
she leads.
He feels
her body sway
across the boundaries
of man and time.
The gods of poetry
disdain distance.
Far away
in a south of hills
and waterfalls,
imagining her,
he knows
that she knows
what he knows.
  - mce

On this shortest day,
the dark has risen,
a black cloak
covers creation.
The light,
reduced to spark,
awaits its time.
The earth turns,
the trees remember,
the flowers,
in imagination,
dare to hope
and blossom.
On this shortest day
the darkness falters.
Smoldering embers
flare again.
Soon, the world
will turn once more
from cold to warmth.
The light of the east
will not be denied.
Death, rebirth, new life.
On this shortest day,
darkness defeated.
  - mce

The frozen meadow
is a hard, white
**** carpet.
Seven wild turkeys
arrayed in a
gobbling skirmish line
pick their way
carefully across it.
I stand silently
on the frozen deck
in my bare feet
and watch.
The algid world
contains us all,
no exceptions.
Strutting fowl,
the flaneur
who watches,
no one escapes
this brumal vista.
The God of heaven
is simultaneously
the God of phenomena.
Skepsis slips away
when your toes
are cold.
  - mce

Poets:
the only people
on earth
who stay awake
all night
writing poems
about insomnia.

Softer,
smarter
than men,
they
smell better,
too.

Certainly
a subject
for a
lifetime
of study.

The final
examinations
can be fun,
as well.

But about
the time
you become
arrogant
enough
to consider
yourself
an expert,
their unique
beings
will slap
you silly.

Reading poetry,
early in the morning,
very nearly
restores my life,
only not quite.
- mce

When asked why I am a Buddhist,
I usually reply, "Because I'm
the kind of man who needs
a great many second chances."

The Dharma Wheel keeps spinning.

Turn after turn, life after life,
eternally, world without end:

another chance to get it right.
   ~mce

Most folks
have a past;
I have
nightmares:
same difference.
  - mce

Here's to you, Life.

You beat me up quite
a few times,
but mostly
you have been
kind and sweet.

Everything I am
and all I am not,
you created.

People curse you,
not understanding
you were meant
to be a mystery.

I understand.

You beat me up,
but never
let me down.

As time
grows shorter,
I look forward
to solving you
and enjoying
my surprise
ending.

Here's to you, Life

A strong rain
pummels this
silent valley;
my bank account
contains $29.87;
I could really use
a new pair
of shoes;
far from here,
in Afghanistan,
brave men
fight and die
for nothing at all.

These are facts
and every fact
contains a poem,
if only we
look hard enough
and have the guts
to write it down.
- mce

Ah, the swoosh
of your dress
gliding off you,
finding the floor!

It pools black
and elegant
at my feet,
an entrancing
****** puddle.

But I
cannot look.

Nothing between
us now but
silk and flesh,
my hands
and fingers
have become
the only eyes
I have,
the only eyes
I need.

Your soft
yielding skin
offers
all the seeing
and knowing
they crave.

Love,
let them
look closely
and discover
the delicious
details
of the world
you are.

This seeing
transforms lust
into magic,
makes
a ceremony
of desire.

It can lift us
off the earth.

Soar with me.

Touch me
like the sound
of that black dress,
falling.

What more
is necessary?
  - mce

I am thinking
of you, Lady,
and my thoughts,
while tantalizing,
energizing,
and enjoyable,
are not, exactly,
of the purest sort.

Well now,
how I wonder
what runs through
through that
pretty mind
of yours.

Would I blush
to know?

Oh, I hope so.
  - mce

Poetry
is the sound
of your heart
speaking aloud.
Listen.
Ignore the voices
that say no,
and you
are already
a poet.
- mce

If creation
were simple,
it would be boring.

Contradictions,
internal and  external,
the garlic
of existence:

Pass me that clove!
- mce

I just published a humorous (I hope) essay on elephant journal at http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/04/henry-miller-i-think-you-need-to-stink/

If interested, have a look.

Thanks

Mike

I am at war with time.
At war with. At war.
With time. War. I. Am.
I am at war with time.
Second by second,
I am losing the war.
  - mce

Poetry is solely
the archeology
of consciousness,
the ***-shards
of a mind
whose true
experience
can just be
guessed at.
When you read it
you discover
mere pieces,
not the original
arrangement.
You try to wonder
them back
together,
but can't quite.
When you write it,
you leave clues
for scientists
yet to arrive
who will never
fully understand
who you were,
which is OK
because you
never did either.
  - mce

On the fourth
painful morning
after the fourth
drunken night,
he merged
with Reality
and achieved
Enlightenment:
he no longer
had a hangover;
he was a hangover.
  - mce

Pirates
are fun
to bed,
but woe
to wed.
  - mce

When the
fresh green
of spring
sighs;
I recall
the peridot
of your
eyes.
  - mce

My ghosts are hungry
this morning
and demand to be fed
or they won't shut up.
Where, exactly,
do you buy ghost food?
  - mce

Perhaps the most
honest woman
in all history;
she only did what
all women see.
  - mce

for SJH

Even when most frozen,
the soil of the heart
contains the possibilities
of fresh and better life.
Water it; tend it; nurture it.
Wait for the warmth to return.
Many flowers wait to blossom.
New bouquets for new days.
  - mce