My wall of books needs editing
but like a Fat Tuesday sinner
I retch
rather than gently yield
this willful mother of a habit
and binge on another stack of books
now seeping into my bloodstream;
it shellacs my interior.
I am sick with words
the Tylenol-in-the-morning kind of sick
that reminds me
the liver is as old as I am
and the room went spinning
before I finally slept it off.
The stew of poems and psalms and epistles
is caught in my gullet.
Sutras seep from my pours.
I have lent my birthright to others,
painted my image with a thesis from a book;
regurgitated wisdom to form a hard candy coating.
I have silenced the kingdom within.
Give me space.
Let me think,
just a moment, please.
I need a simple glass of water
on the nightstand,
a few hours in my flannels,
stripping it all down
before a bathtub or a yoga mat.
God, give me quiet
and speak again to me,
directly in me, without words.
lila.p.levy, February 17, 2010
Are waves like wormholes of the sea? The distance a wave travels feels like my writing attempts -- a tiny swell that could become double overhead poetrics across time and space. We dive for the truth and are taken elsewhere to Truth. If coastal tsunami warnings can attest, complex algorithms may be required to see it coming. Gratitude to memory of Hokusai for distorted use of his "The Great Wave off Kanagawa" image.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Friday, June 19, 2009
when my husband can't sleep
When my husband can't sleep
and I dream;
scientists experiment with
surgically grafting a man
to a woman's body
and she dies, and
he is left a cretin.
When my husband can't sleep
and I dream;
we are the last liberals
in the country.
Our escape to safety
is long and trippy
with shortcuts through medical labs
getting lost in suburban malls
walking miles in the marsh
after a wrong turn in a hotel lobby.
When my husband stirs,
I dream we're
touring a Buddhist monastery.
I dream
young gang boys,
bored with tired teachers
and vastly intelligent
conspire to destroy the school
so they can be left alone to
teach themselves trigonometry.
I dream Arnold Schwartzenegger is offended
that I touch him deliberately on his forehead
in front of his small daughter.
When my husband rises,
announces he's going to watch some TV,
I reach for his arm as he leaves
then ride a chestnut horse into
an old farmhouse,
the one I believe
my grandfather grew up in.
When my husband can't sleep
And I dream;
I lose him in a crowd
on a cruise on the Seine.
I search endlessly for a private toilet.
I find unpacked boxes from a long ago move.
I remember the Buddha's sixth perception:
Allow the present to be.
lila.p.levy, June 2009
and I dream;
scientists experiment with
surgically grafting a man
to a woman's body
and she dies, and
he is left a cretin.
When my husband can't sleep
and I dream;
we are the last liberals
in the country.
Our escape to safety
is long and trippy
with shortcuts through medical labs
getting lost in suburban malls
walking miles in the marsh
after a wrong turn in a hotel lobby.
When my husband stirs,
I dream we're
touring a Buddhist monastery.
I dream
young gang boys,
bored with tired teachers
and vastly intelligent
conspire to destroy the school
so they can be left alone to
teach themselves trigonometry.
I dream Arnold Schwartzenegger is offended
that I touch him deliberately on his forehead
in front of his small daughter.
When my husband rises,
announces he's going to watch some TV,
I reach for his arm as he leaves
then ride a chestnut horse into
an old farmhouse,
the one I believe
my grandfather grew up in.
When my husband can't sleep
And I dream;
I lose him in a crowd
on a cruise on the Seine.
I search endlessly for a private toilet.
I find unpacked boxes from a long ago move.
I remember the Buddha's sixth perception:
Allow the present to be.
lila.p.levy, June 2009
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