Irish Winter part 3 of 3 Hitler/Heaven

12.11.2008

true power - when dark and light unite

Today a bit of sun. Enough for the house plants to take note and be watered. A load of laundry to be hung, after repositioning the tipping over clothes tree. Put on another load of laundry, meditation by the window incense and Buddha nature as far as far as far can be…

 

Now fire stared table cleaned I sit here typing again. \Work some poems? At least continue edit for Bassa Nuvo. Maybe work on s’little russia, its needing major over haul for the Basso collection.

My mother went to Italy before she died. After she died I don’t know where she went. Despite her Roman Catholic insistence, dragging us off to church, vigil candles before the infant on her bureau, even my fathers contribution on the Irish side… I did not believe in heaven or hell or very much in that god of the bible – a little to human in his despotic approach to governing. I’d a probably signed up for the republic n joined the Lucifarians. But when my mother died I remember praying, crying, hoping at the risk of my own self like “god if you’d take my mother to heaven I’d gladly go to your hell”. Like please let her find what she believed in. Let it be the way she thought it would be. I don’t care about me but let heaven be heaven for her. You know a variation of take me instead. I’ll hope heavens real even though if it is then hell’d be real too and well I wont be surprised if I’d end up there. But what about my mother would heaven be a place without her child? Maybe. But I think she had some of that old time stuff you know you get to meet your loved ones again in heaven. I guess it could get complicated like you die and want to see your loved ones in heaven but what if since you left them they became evil? Or what if the ones you loved didn’t necessarily love you? What about that gorgeous one you had a crush on but couldn’t stand you? Is one persons heaven another persons hell? what about Hitler's mother? Maybe she loved her son? Maybe she will love him forever and in her heaven he’d be with her? What would the neighbours think of that? Maybe each person gets their personal heaven and all the loved ones are kinda illusionary? Like the part of Hitler before he got evil would be the part that would be with his loved ones? But then wouldn’t heaven be based on a lie? Fuck it. All I know is I loved my mother and I wished and continue to wish that she was not too surprised by what happened after she was released from her cancerous body full of suffering. All I know is I’d gladly go through hell if it would help the one who gave me birth be where she deserves to be.

May all beings be free of suffering wherever they may be whatever they may be – now.

its not my birthday any more. I’ll never be 52 in this lifetime again. so how different is it? I like 53 for some reason. I like the sound of it. 52 seems kinda white breadish but fifty three – a little like a sharpened steel. Fifty three, seems to prowl through the environment, seems to be a more sure footed creature, confident of each place it puts its feet, able to look things right in the eye. No regrets.

you cant go with your thoughts even if you try.

you only think you can.

the thoughts rise pass fall

each begins the cycle anew. you think you can go with them making plans worrying defining good n bad self n other but really

no matter how profound or elaborate no matter how many seemingly stung together, the weave no matter how intricate precise is only woven out of smoke.

your true nature cannot go with thoughts even if you try.

irish winter part 2 - Pants

Irish Winter part2 : pants (intimate)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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There is no fire and its cold. I ,usually so phobic of the cold ,today don’t mind. Welcome cold let me feel the small pain of knowing I’m still alive. happy to be so. of course I’m wearing my fingerless yak hair gloves from Darcy’s, Michelle’s over sized brown jumper form Jones – over a denim shirt over a maroon tea shirt; a pair of Levis brought back from last years trip to the states, blue wool walking socks, n a pair of regatta waterproofs. And why is it a pair of pants? Is each leg a pant and therefore you have a pair? shouldn’t it just be a pant? It must be that each leg is a pant, therefore I’ll put on my pants. maybe originally they came separate? Un-joined like long socks? Pair of socks makes sense. Two make a pair. I put on one my sock then the other and if they match it’s a pair. If they don’t is it ,or are they, still a pair? Can you have a pair of unmatched socks? Maybe if they’re not on you they’re not a pair but once you put them on they are even if the don’t match? I’m wearing a pair of un -matching socks? or is it unmatched. I’m wearing a half a pair of socks on each foot? anyway why a pair of pants, I’m not wearing two pants I’m wearing one blue denim Levis pant.

Lapwing is editing a new collection of poems for publication. I had thought it might be ready this year which would have made it 8 years since they did Searches For Magic. Its been about 10 month now I think, more than a baby. Oh well horses take eleven months. In fairness I sent Dennis about 200 poems, basically the contents of caribou and sister stones that I self published via LuLu. Well I’m grateful for his interest. was hoping he’d print soon so I can attempt to do so public reading and have product to sell. The LuLu is mad expensive for shipping and blah blah blah.

I have been too intimate with my life for regrets. I was happy for that thought, it freed me from the erroneous belief that life must have regrets. I have had dreams that didn’t come true, things I felt so sure of that turned out to be not so, but how would I wish away any of my closest friend, my own life, my own self experience? If I were to have only one minute to relive before I die – would I waste time saying OK but not this one not that? I liked the little boy who lived for a while w/ no siblings, I liked the shy boy who got slapped around in school, I admired the courage that teenager had to drop acid to smoke dope to fall in love without any restraint to write a life time of poetry, I felt protective of the young man in jail, scared for the one who registered for the draft, and for the one who loved women, who loved the whole idea of women who loved the exploration of the most mysterious beautiful being called women and who mostly always ever seemed to create pain…
I have been too intimate with my life for regrets. It is a beautiful day, it is a good day to die, it is another day deserving gratitude to all who were my mothers and fathers, all my teachers, benevolent and wrathful formal and informal.
I am here in this beautiful land with my beautiful partner and our beautiful daughter and today I’m 53 years old. woo hoo!

When I Lost My Mother

When I Lost My Mother

wadsworth atheneum,Hartford ct.

When I lost my mother I lost the past as well as future. No one would ever know me as well as she did and no one would ever remember me like she did – again. Today is Bastille Day. There are french songs as I pass through the NPR stations onto a local Italian show. After an immense bit of Italian speaking they play the theme from Zorba. My mother liked Zorba. My mother also liked the scene in Casablanca where they played La Marseillaise, as much as she liked the farewell scene – the airport fog a kiss a hill of beans the usual suspects. I wonder did she dance like Zorba once? Were there foggy farewell airport  kisses in her life? If you watch Zoba can you be Zorba? Zorba envy or Zorba memory? Who knows. That was the past I lost as well as any possible future from which to ask when I lost my mother.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1EvBll8L4Hg

Today refused

Today refused the sink full, refused the audible complaints, crows impatient for scraps and fat as if they knew soft Cabernet rib eye steaks ten p.m. alone with sci-fi DVD's. X-file memory lingered now angularly my pre-coffee kitchen receipt as if the same sun graced us together amazing our way through un-pathed reservoir tall red pines every inch a carpet worth laying down on. What if you were here now? What if just like I remembered you were here now. But no, not this now, this now I am afraid of, rather our now or our own now of then; smoking popping dropping snorting drinking now both hands full both high school bodies, twenty, twenty one year old bodies wild full dancing midnight at the park and swallowed whole each others dark so found our way and sandy sheltered on the shore when pale into orange wore purple phantom clouds gone into a pale yellow walk me home alone dawn. Across the other kitchen table of my mother's somehow even I explained in some way that all she did was make me tea and told me take it with me up to bed.