Fresh Bread

Part 1

Fresh Bread


i smell fresh bread baking
ummm
how deliciously hungry i am
once again
for all that life offers
in spite of myself,
just because
the moon is new,
so high and big in the Western
sky and the sunrise so soft
in Parrish
pink, and mellow tangerine
glistening on the snow
the air,
so pure of heaven

i think there is no God alive who
can disagree with freshly baking bread,
the full moon
of another day.

there is no need for guardians at the
gate,
heaven is a soft footstep inside.

Part 2


Midnight at the Oasis


It's midnight at the oasis,
my camel is tethered
while i look for a new poetic thread,
stitching my shadow to a white-haired Peter Pan
stitching a full metal jacket on
Persephone out on a leisurely stroll,
i'm climbing Arunachala
with my last annointed task,
i'm losing my religion
somewhere i've never thought of
looking before,
i'm going out on my own limb
i'm going to wash every man
right out of my hair,
(men are such weak creatures
so damned full of themselves)
i'm going to contemplate my navel
and make love with the Buddha
who looks much like
Bukowski under this strange desert moon's light,
so constant and blessedly resassuring of nothing
but how hot the sun is and how
only a drunken poet can speak of God and truth
in the same holy breath.