108/365

he will leave them an old
beard comb saturated
with oils that smell of
wood and bergamot,
like something out of
moby dick
made ancient
in moderns times
through shear will
and nostalgia.

he will leave them
a life time of books
diagnosed with mold
and pregnant with
highlighted passages:
hope and clues
and all the anchors
he thought could
tie him down.
or were they wings
to be used for other reasons?

he will leave them his guitars
practised and well-worn,
short of accomplishment
or mastery, but brimming
with desire and expectations.

he will leave them a
box of photos
and old journals,
useless momentos
and keepsakes
of memories he cherished:
pictures of him in childhood.
and reckless youth.
a few of their grandparents
sepia memories of iran
a universe away.

he will leave them
.docs and .jpgs
and .movs
and half baked poems
which they can use
like fungal filaments
singular hyphae branches
strung together into
a mycelial network
to make sense of the
space he left behind.

he will leave them.

87/365

how has it taken
forty six years
to become exposed to the word:
ineffable?

what other word
could have been the heart
beat of this lazy poet.

we are not human beings
having a spiritual experience.
we are spiritual beings
having a human experience,
was what a sign said
in august
on winston farm,
just west of saugerties,
new york  
in 1994.

we’re covered in mud
sweat, blood and urine
intertwined in our bizarre
mycorrhizal network.
happiness is slavery
the leadman beckons,
as we slither over each other.

there are things
we understood more clearly
through the fog of youth

like how to be
in awe of the universe
and unafraid of anything.

the world and all our experiences
were ineffable in those days,
before we were worn down
and bored and lured
by the false promise of security
and peace.

we had glimpsed
enough
behind the curtain
to sustain us
all this time.