Barometric Pressure

"No beliefs and no concepts are true.

Throw them all out and let the flame of silence

burn you awake."

-Adyashant

The weather wears me down.

Yellow fiery spheres grind us

like incisors gnawing edgy nerves.

A rare cloud looms

a roller of gray-edged silver,

Its little ledges of blue slow motion

force stillness in my belly,

tense, mute

waiting in the space of weather

spellbound

like the poised baton

or the liquid silence palpable

after a poem’s last line.

Or, the silence of the sting

Inflaming the cheek after the slap.

Something in the muggy air of summer

locks us in a bellicose temper

then the shock of silence

purifies the room

after the thunderous slam of the door

wakes us.

The Question of the Color of the Walls

"There is one great question, can human beings know anything, and if so, what and how? This question is really the most essentially philosophical of all questions."

Bertrun Russell

Like pox upon the wall we’ve slathered fat strokes

of bad greens. We have no space left to strum

bluegrass-blue or paint patches of sky-blue sky. We splash

lightbulb yellow to find our way across the bedroom, sunbathe

In splats of blistering gold & refresh ourselves in grapefruit.

Angles of untidy color addle our mood. Chaos surrounds

our chairs & reading lamps, paintings & posters. Finally

we plunk, grossly, across the dining room’s once pristine

white, a swath of deep cranberry. O’Boy!

the cat’s meow, the whoopee-du the eur-eka color.

Our lives will change when walls

are cranberry red. Our hearts will beat faster.

We will find the answer to why one sock is missing

it’s mate, who is God, and find, in the midst

of calamity, a way to world peace.

Eau de California

Quiet as a sponge

I steep in the fragrance

of night blooming jasmine,

eucalyptus,

and waxy oblong lemons

stemmed to a tree

lending flavor to the dark

in the outdoor atrium

lit by moonlight

at your white

stucco house,

long standing

on the skinny end of the state.

I inhale slowly

studying

the sound:

the disarray

of air thinning

into the aperture

of my throat.

The flow balloons

my lungs, delivers,

a symbol for scent

through swinging

doors of synapses

strung

within my nervous system

on the back side

of my spine.

Impulses pass

into neurons and cells

into the blood stream

to transport

the signal, the neophyte symbol

to the tip

of the somatosensory iceberg

in my cerebral cortex,

triggering an avalanche:

a phenomenal sensation

of smell!

Thus the precise instant

I am cognizant

of the balm of scent.

After the fragrance,

some residue remains

from many

ephemeral emergences

and the pathways within

my memory will

recommence,

years from now, how within

your cool white walls -

California was perfume.

The Perfumer

Eyes shut ardent

lover he buries

his nose

in his palm

delicate with perfume.

Blind in childhood

his grandfather

kept him close

teaching him

how to smell

Grandpapa’s empire

of perfume. Frangipani,

patchouli, iris and palm.

Now he’s the luminary

of fragrance, featured

in an interview.

Tall, short,

bald, blue eyed?

I’m awakened

by the music

of his French accent

on low volume.

The soufflé voice

follows me everywhere

and I follow it.

I close the door,

take off my dress,

turn out each light.

In the dark he teaches

how to strip habit

from my eyes, teaches

me to lace you

with nothing

but my scent.