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embedded in it all

 I find my Dad’s stooped forward posture here
 and my Mom’s tightly accounting lips as well.
 Their every gesture and tone of voice
 every feeling and judgment and way of seeing
 all of it in my rulebook for betraying the magic
 that’s right here in the splashing of soapy water.
  
 But this boat-person Vietnamese Monk goes on to tell us
 how the store room contains all of our interconnections
 every star-born atom flowing through us,
 letting us off the hook of ever being a separate self. 
                              2019

Don’t Cry For Me Babey revisited Part 1

 

Sonoma Fog Light

268The last poem I wrote for Grace before she died.

I never managed to find a way
for you and me to live at the ocean
that and a thousand other dreams
I never managed to realize.

So now I drive up Highway One
through foggy landscapes–
you always loved them the best–
gathering the images of lupin in seas of grass
cedars and cypresses, sheep and cows,
barns and tacky vacation homes
all soft in their gray splendor.

I stop and walk along the Sonoma shore
pausing for you at the edge.
The sun breaks through the winter fog
shining the waves breaking up around black rocks
shimmering the water’s backwash
into flashing electric pulses
rushing to me through the milky air.
I know you’d know that vision
like you seeing your own true self in a mirror
like me looking into your clear bright eyes.

January 2014

The American Way of Death

I produced this sound montage in 1963 to follow an interview of Jessica Mitford on her book by the same title. She commented to Trevor Thomas on her devastating critique of the funeral industry in the US. I assembled the sound montage from ads in the industry press, military contractor ads in Scientific American, and music to highlight the commercialization of death.

Photos Fifty Years Later