I'll take a small break from the poetry musings to lament the Raiders' loss in Super Bowl XXXVII. Downright embarrassing.

Oh, well, we still have 3 rings to polish. The fourth is yet to come.

I have to give props to Michael Pittman. I remember him from over 20 years ago tagging around behind his older brother and sister, two of my childhood friends. Glad to see Michael have such a great game in our hometown. Much love to all the Pittmans.

More props, this time to coach John "Chucky" Gruden, who stuck it to his old team somethin' terrible.

Last but certainly not least, props to the TB defense: devastating and tenacious. I mean devastating. They picked off the league MVP 5 times and held Charlie Garner to 10 yards rushing (this, for a guy who had over 900 yards rushing and 900 yards receiving this season?). If I wasn't a Raiders fan, I'd really have to like that D. As it stands, they messed up what would've been a great night. Can't wait to see how much isht Warren Sapp/QB Killa's gonna talk now.

getting closer to what the poem wants to say.

"early encounters" (v.2)
Sensei circled the dojo as we
sat cross-legged in perfect rows

imagining a single point of light
in an empty night sky

"You are the light."
...breathe in... breathe out...

and the choir sang,
"Let it shine!"

soul-clapping "Hallelulah!"
till the church rocked

with praise, stilling
my stirred spirit

I started this about an hour ago. I didn't know I was going to write a poem tonight/this morning. Check the technique: I was just letting go after a long day and it morphed into a memory of early encounters with the Spirit. That sounds like a good title: "early encounters". I don't like the last three lines yet (corny as hell). Time to sleep on it and grapple with this a little more once I'm rested. Okay, enough exposition-- read below to see how a poem was born...


I want to write a heart-wrenching love poem about today, tonight, every day, and every night. But it's a little hard. (The loving is harder than the writing). Easier, too!

So much to learn and so little time. I breathe in hope; exhale despair. Close my eyes and look deeply enough to feel my way back to the rec room where Sensei circled as we sat cross-legged in perfect rows. "Close your eyes. Focus. Imagine a single point of light in a vast field of darkness. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. You are the light. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out."

Sensei circled the dojo as we sat
cross-legged and straight-backed in
perfect rows on the linoleum floor.

"Close your eyes.
Imagine a single point of light
in an empty night sky.

You are the light."

and the choir sang,
"Let it shiiiine!"
standing stomping shouting

"Halleluuulah!
Halleluuulah!"
till the church rocked with praise

stilling my stirred spirit

to meet each moment
with grace and compassion
"...breathe in... breathe out..."

So here we are: Brooklyn, NY (in a section some savvy real estate agents have dubbed "Bococa")-- brunch at Harvest; afternoon naps; conversation; and a night still unfolding. Happily, lazily enjoying the day...

It feels good to walk the streets of this neighborhood, with its funky little shops and hipster spots. The highlight of the post-brunch walk was standing in a corner deli that hangs cheese and sausage from the ceiling. (We bought some spicy Soppresato).

I feel wonderfully un-responsible, un-rushed and un-scheduled. The moment is all. The moment is enough.

So last night I bailed out on a writer's workshop that a friend invited me to. Turns out he couldn't make it, I didn't know anyone other participants, and I couldn't get the host on the phone to confirm the details. What does this all mean? Not much, just a minor setback on the path to better craftsmanship.

The evening wasn't wasted, though. Have you seen "Like Water for Chocolate" (or read the book)? Dope!

coming on the heels of the holiday season, a poem (go figure!)

"after Sunrise Service"
mom's commute and dad's schedule
gave us plenty time to peel and peek
at gifts stashed in their closet

the knowing as exciting as tearing open
silent morning; never mind Santa--
no snow or chimneys this year in San Diego,

just a basketball, Stretch Armstrong, Simon Says,
and soon-to-be-broken toys unlike any
my parents had growing up

in Louisiana, before migrating West where we
danced ankle-deep in wrapping paper
every year, after Sunrise Service.