No better place than now

The door in front of you is open
today is the time to live
whatever is underfoot
is the path to take
whatever is rumbling inside
the knowledge to excavate
there is no other knowledge, past or future
there are no other arts except those birthing
now
stop looking around—you’ll see
pop songs resurrect Mozart
remixed rap turns back the head of Orpheus
teaching English in dormant schoolrooms
incites the Aegean breeze
Sophists’ roaming summits
planting their Johnny Appleseeds
who too came before….

Whatever is inside now has form
there’s no better other
there is no other we
the best books are being written
the best art forms reinvented
the internet is not a friend nor foe
new media existed in Plato’s cave
technology is not the overlord
there’s nothing to escape
reality heaven or a zoned out space
as if there could be a next life
as if it’s possible to be born twice

What are you seeking summer upon summer
spring upon spring
arriving again at the same branching
oak tree
running from unwatered seeds to
ride out shores of euphoric greed?

Having discovered pregnant roads converging
upon stoic taverns
where inside Celts blare rusty horns
and meeting at the bar
become swollen eyed and blushed

Seeing in every lad a cousin
listening to the poor ballad of William
who went wandering too
with a rifle under belt
and did not come back til his body was dead

And everyone cries, Hegarty, Mic and Rourke
the tears sweet and salty
fallen into pints
having drunk my fill, to return to that hill
the next day and the next
to hear the same song…

Having scavenged for keepsakes
in the market stalls of Istria
sensing beauty like a marauding horde
overwhelmed by sun and lore
shopping for art in vacated churches
stunned into stillness by inflated cakes
gorging, singing, sipping, slacking
pulling from Pandora’s box
books to bow the head back and forth
imagined Minyans, the great and small minds
of Alexandria, Zurich, Dublin, New York

Having seen mills in Prague
lifting up buckets under stone bridges
water-fulls of dream
pouring nostalgia over sandlots
Grandfather’s Brooklyn
laying down the baseball stick
and walking, for the sake of walking

Asking, shall we go up this hill?
thinking the view will be different there
finding the marketplace crowded
with lavender honey and truffled cheese
dropping weights into the shouldered bag
the honey lost, the cheese spoiled
the memory never to be found again

Almost to the end
the calendar clicking
time to strategize some new future
I’ll build a rock garden to rake daily
I’ll line the backyard trees with Burmese bells
I’ll walk barefoot 20 minutes a day
take the vows of a zen monk
or just nail the painted bird
spiraling her rainbow’d tail of desire
to the kitchen wall—

How do mountains move?
not like the mass of men on vacation
we ascend roads from an old instinct
and find atop a temple there
to Christ
to Osiris before
a price to enter

And to the corner of his ship
an abandoned artist, the last survivor
looking adrift his sails
the passengers leave quick
before the creaking vessel sinks
and downhill with seeming ease
find safety at the harbor
gaping throngs at the water

(It provides no release)

Sanctuary now seems back uphill!

Keep going
this wandering was ordained
from long before

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