The Wedding Day

The mists were rising silently,
from the green hills,
hugging those cow specks nearby,
and this was heavan I said.
Heavan's green fields,
the davening beginning here,
in the cold mists even before,
I got to the restaurant
And then these black and white movements,
of these men in the noisy congregation,
were signalling that lunch was coming,
with chopped liver and everything else,
here in these distant fields,
where the cold mists silently rose.
And the silence now signalled this paradise
in the distance.
If you just took a quick left,
and then a sharp right.
This was the sacred gate to the paradise
in the parking lot.
And there was old Abraham and Moses,
also the Buddah, and Jesus.
The mysterious river STYX was nearby,
on Mt. Sinai where Lao-tse was frantically waving
to the crazed crowds.
He just wanted his schnapps,
just in time for the NFL play-off that God had planned,
this evening with all these horny wedding guests,
and the women with their fat fingers,
filled with emerald rings.
This was heavan here in the holy restaurant,
as I sat down in front of my plate,
and scooped up the dripping humus,
that fell from the World Trade Center.
As the silent
mists continued to slowly rise
from the distant green hills,
here and thus forever.

Note:
Davening: Jewish praying.
Humus: A smashed chickpea dip.

Seven condors circling,
around these bits of white deer,
grazing in the sharp, snap of this falling tree.
These branches, broken, sleeping,
in front of me, the swift trickle of frogs
that now croak full-throated,
in these muddy puddles, glistening
radiantly with orange leaves,
clustered around these raw ferns,
that now embrace,
a solitary white deer,
which now runs,
suddenly away from unknown fears.
The auras of the trees,
clash with a voiceless sign
that now says: " meditation here. "
I now see three deer turning,
standing, still with their nervous limbs,
swiftly racing here, as the sun above
them softly hides behind--
these stubborn clouds.

Mist

Mist rising from
the mountain floors,
---grey,
---dark green
---curves
stupas, tree branches,
slag heaps, reflecting
ponds,
smell of
tea,
of footsteps
on woodeen
floors,
of roller
coaster rides,
the working
world is just a meditation,
are you sure you want
to drink it,
mists rising eastward
silently,
along a solitary walker,
coffee,
the election was stolen,
a raven is flying,
there is a crack of
light breaking,
through
the
sky,
during these longest of raging days.

Cold

Cold air,
freezing, gurguling,
in cold, brown
puddles
scattering, the crackling
ravens,
who fly into the
blue snow
of the sky,
then frogs shout,
farting
near these
floating mountains,
which sting, now
of - warm
silences,
fresh
with
a melecholy
hovering,
a brown
womb
is flapping, now
in the
rain,
croaking at ravens,
who
----- dive
-------------into
------------------- the speeding - white clouds
---------------------------------------- frantically cawing as
--------------------------------------------------- this old blue truck
------------------------ passes by mountains
--------------------------------------------- riveted in their
-------------------------------------------------------- freezing blankets.