Loving Jose

Yes, Jose,
this is another love letter
from anthroprivileged me
to LeftBrain dominant you
for multicultural us.

I’m still here
sinking into my deep blue camp chair
with feet resting on a weathered
wooden platform
for my monastic tent

Now folded
and masterfully squeezed into its storage bag
like a fat green sausage
with a thick
black fly zipper,
awaiting it’s next orgasmic coming out
to camp and play.

And you,
warm and glistening
listening you,
are still driving
west toward this transition
Saturday’s bittersweet sunset.

Perhaps already lonely
of what
and feeling whom
lies ahead
while all else feels left behind

Another week of adventure lost;
another week of memories gained

Yet memories have grown cacophonous
while adventures in knowing
new frontiers
grow old as shrinking Earth
grown bodies

Fading hope to feel
touch abundantly enough
for this full life
experiencing love
quenched time

Comparing future now to back there then,
wishing we could have us all
warm and pleasant
in our head,
bed of intimacy
without embarrassing
premature limits,
boundary issues,
health precautions.

You tried to apologize
for not asking more
about my wounded kids

And I did not think to apologize,
but wonder, now, that I didn’t,
for not asking how you are feeling
and dealing
post prostate cancer

feel like uncertain transitions,
undemanding admissions
both healthy opportunities
and diseased risks
lie beyond this day’s journey
toward Albany.

Perhaps you,
like me,
and already feel
loss of intimacy
yet not touched,
but not appreciably,
healthy needed
but not safely found,
sacred bound
for joy’s immense integrity.

When I walked into our group’s enclosed porch
this past Sunday
for my first check-in circle,
your first facilitation,
I thought of my former boss.

You look and sound
like Bishop Tafoya,
when he was your age
and I was half your age.

I had trouble
shaking this sage off.

It helps
that you sing
with warmth and passion
in fulsome baritone,
as the good Bishop
decidedly did not.

Nor could I imagine him
dancing with a white scarved fan
with integrity
flirtatious machismo
deeply resounding playfulness.

Do you have a type?
I wonder
Are you familiar with mine?

Those romantic,
erupting into erotic,
miracles of preference
we cannot control
or calm our appetites
to accept
AND appreciate,
those with us
here and there
in and out of Gayla 44,
after and before
now heading west
away from east.

So much to hide,
to learn,
to unveil,
to set aside
for graceful aging,
and to warmly embrace
for compassioned wisdom
felt together,
rather than silently,
less sacredly,

The Center’s lunch bell rang
and now has gone

Absorbed by quiet shushing
and rustling
high in evergreens
baking in Mama’s summertime
weekend of commerce
and less commercial passions,
traffic rituals,

Pre-empting ancient natural liturgies
of sea,
flowing water
and strong mountains
inspiring bonfires
bond-fire between rising
and falling phoenix
multi-generational passions;
daddies and sons,
masters and slaves,
tops and bottoms,
poles and holes,
straights and rounds,
dipolar co-arising

Riding forward home
to what continues repurposing why,
reworking hidden meaning
as yet unredeemed
in sensory Business As Usual

Backward east
returning promises
of safe and healthy
bright happy new dawns
transcending broken hearts,
troubled mind’s
loss of time’s
most cherished values

Love’s integral compassions
resting first
returning last

I miss you
ready to miss us.


BoneDeep Lonely

Imprisoning textures
and routine lectures
in loneliness,

“your own fault”
“not Other’s loss”

dipolar co-arising

Loneliness effacing
cognitive/affective reason
and denying access
to more social future seasons

Including primal memories
of self-appreciation
communication resource-fullness,

And yet,
and yet,

Beneath such reasonable busyness,
even when I can sustain
opulent MeWe identity,

Even so,
even so,

EgoWe remains curiously distinct,
courageously Not Other,

peak biosystemic health,
abstractly known
falls short of panentheistic lust
specifically touched
and sacredly sexual

Mysterious loneliness sees,
deeply depreciates
absence of fully embodied
love touches
of verbal sound,
of nonverbal skin
and other shyer shows.

Loneliness knows opulent warm textures
and peak sensory experiences

Efface more theoretical reasons
for co-empathic healthy seasons

Of nurturing resonant,
full-embodied resilient,
Self/Other recombinant
panentheistic full-color wealth,

not yet climate loneliness

Including multicultural SelfAppreciation
BioOrganic SelfSufficiency
CoOperative resource-fullness.


Still-born Metamorphosis

If only you would not deny

when I tell you how sad I am

to hear you so hopelessly alone.

Could you be a bit scared?

Like the rest of us,

that just maybe this is it

and somehow I missed

while dreaming other strings

of theory about who we are,

you and I.


How do we deserve each other

in this life?

How do we dance incarnation’s

precision march through culture,




language perhaps more sustainably waltzed,

and sung with full resonance,

to grow this tree of life,

spin dark Earth to reach dawn’s light,

to race winter’s season into warmer springs

of laughter, love,

and hearty hugs and memories,

worn rugs with stories gently

gracefully unraveling.


I understand it hurts to imagine

someone I love but cannot find

grounds for stable relationship,

leaving home on pilgrimage toward

a lifestyle of regenerative promise,

like turning my back on our potential

in search of a fool’s dream

to have only what I already have,

if I would only want you

just a bit harder,


more regeneratively.


Even so, your pilgrimage

already has my blessings

wherever, to whomever,

can bring you less loneliness

than I have,

and more love,

less fearful peace.


I don’t know how to love you

away from your cocoon,

and you’ve left no room for me inside

to metamorph together.

While I realize we made this mess together,

I see no way to clear it up

or live in it as is

other than embracing your cocoon,

by crawling up in mine.


If only I could not deny

when you tell me how sad you are

to hear me so hopelessly alone.