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George Murdock

Need is a sturdy tabernacle

The pockmarked yellow moon
falls through the evergreens
through slender arms
along the still boulevard
driving in a trance
the fragments of music
burst in and out of conciousness
I wonder as the world awakens
in a rising storm of purpose
how many of us are at
the breaking point
how many of us have only begun
the fight of their lives?

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Poetry

Is a device much like music.
Like fur but without guilt
Like voicing something without saying it
Like a gasping robin in a vacuum
or like wandering in endless thirst
without claim to water
it’s like money without a bank
it’s a cheap shot thrown back without virtue
or want
poetry is the sensual voice
in a senseless world
it’s something to come home to
when the times become
unbearable

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Retreat

I have abandoned the revelatory
Left the dated volumes and cluttered furnishings
Putting things in a cardboard box
the blue silk scarf of a vanquished lover
the green wine bottles throttled with candle wicks

I move into the sun room where warm winter light
through the window’s prism
explains there is feeling without reason
there are visions left in the senses
the only reality ever discovered

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A Grocery Cart's lament

I see them on the higways and throughways
abandoned under bridges
or trucking the obligato of some homeless urchin
like a destitute's sation wagon
I've seen them stripped bare
toppled and lifeless
straining the filth of a cement river
I saw one hurled from an arch
crushing the sturdy chrome skeleton
the wheels askew and writhing like broken limbs
I saw one bearing a case of bottled water
and a bawling child
a mile from the store

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Diddy Ba Bin

wa wa diddy ba
oer the way of kuriga
searched for love
and found a cave
and from above
a pact was made
and there he spent
the rest his days
saying wa wa diddy ba
searched for love and
found a voice
which gave him then
a bowl filled thrice
and everywhere the ba ba went
his bowl was filled
with sticky rice
the years wore on
the days wore thin
and what was left of ba ba bin
was found among the curios

[...] Read more

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Calamity Jane

He looked like a good saddle horse
though his hair was long
and his beard three days course
she soon had the saddle on him
and he worked at the ride
it was a matter of pride
everything that he tried
drew the noose tighter still
till she'd broken his will
till he'd do anything that she said
he worked like a mule
while she soaked the young fool
taking just about all that he made
when she cut the horse loose
he was well beyond use
and she advanced on the herd once again.

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The Guru says:

sometimes all that glitters is broken glass
that most of what we are is empty space
yet sometimes we are filled
with hate or lust or fear
when we gasp for air it should be for love
that if we could find god
we would most likely not recognize him
but we know the devil each time we admit him
The guru says his path is not one we can follow
that we must find our own way
that where there is buckwheat there is bird droppings
and only a wise pecker would know the difference

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Labyrinth

This strange juncture of flesh and soul.
An ironic union of the profane and the infinite.
This fire burning slowly in the hearth.
This cannibalistic fire of sense and guilt.
Feeding on itself in order that one
may experience the other.
This frail and diaphanous frock
worn with such shame.
Woven from earth and fowl
and bovine delicacy.
From industry of slaughter and tiller.
How can this be the temple?
This seamless conjunction so much an illusion
divisible by a universe of one.

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The Buddha says;

The Buddha said:
We must open ourselves to the world
Knowing that what we sense about the world
Is Maya.
and the pupil asked: If what we see is an illusion
then what is the purpose of opening to lies?
The Buddha answered To open our inner eye
to the truth which is found by emptying oneself
of all that you know about the world.
the pupil asked: If all that we see is misrepresented
then what is the use of inquiry?
The Buddha said: You have already asked that question
What is the use of repeating the answer?

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Lotus Flower

I dream of you open like the pale Lotus flower
The petals of your nether lips moist with
dew drops of honey nectar
your inner flesh luscious and splayed
pink to red like a strawberry
I stare at your belly rising and falling
My eyes moving upward to the swell
Of soft round white mountains capped with dark currants
The odor of your honey melon
rising from the wings of your hips
reaches my flared nostrils
it is the sea and mist
a grotto of joyous communion
a soft lovely nest of lust
waiting for the lash of my tongue

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