There is little life in
knowing nothing but cars
and magazines, work, food and sleep,
which parties to fill up the weekend.
The hands of a monk are weather beaten,
well-traveled, and wild. No one
can make you turn inward.
Every man is a multitude.
We are made up of desert and garden,
underwater kingdoms and
Who will answer the love that is in you?
Taxis roar toward the sunrise
of Brooklyn with heiress
and artist a silent tangle in back seat.
Bus-boys clock in for side-work
Music makes the soul move
or drowns out its yearning.
Every man is alone in the most
most rail against the silence.
God creates out of love and
lets go of. Who is He that would
leave us to our freedom?
What is money that we would trade
our freedom for it?
Waking early while the sidewalk is
still glistening with last night’s rain,
the heart finds uncomfortable silence.
No one can make a man love,
but solitude is a gift born
out of the dirt of aloneness,
growing toward the light of others.
The sirens from 2nd street roar
toward a burning building.
The commuters file back to Jersey City.
When will the scenery change
enough to satisfy the longing?
What can satisfy the mouth
Lonely and solitary,
lust and love,
greed and hunger;
these are not two sides of the same coin,
they are different currency altogether.
How do we not close in on the ones we love?
Who keeps our house of cards from falling?
Every man needs.
Hunger comes back.
So does the morning.
Discipline expands the realm
Laziness cripples the one
who would live.
When will we beat the grasping?
Find freedom in letting go?
The garbage trucks leave
before the sun rises.
Who is God that He would leave
us to our freedom?