Wednesday, December 12, 2012

SPIRITUALITY OF EXCESS


Artists pinch the tube sparingly,
daubs of paint on a hungry pallet
thinly dispersed by careful strokes.
Spare not want not--divine advice.

But the tulips I saw today were spared no color,
the golden grins, a billion stars exploding on a pasture
of bottomless earth. Such effusion--
dispensed by generous fists, omnipotent palms and fingers
crushing tubes of acrylic bliss,
squeezing as though the source would
never run dry. Pools of infinite hue
saturating crepe petals, field upon
field, air redolent with surplus scent.

Where is this frugal deity?
Wherever did this ascetic spirituality originate?

Surely, the Universe does everything to excess.

end
michael bogar

EGO, GOD AND POPEYE


Have you noticed how the ego gets such bad press,
telling us to abandon that old notion of selfishness,
Shrinks and priests always telling us to give up the ‘me’
if we want to move forward toward maturity.

Tis true that purposeful service is good for the soul
making body and mind healthy and whole,
But some saints and sinners are so anxious to arrive
that they forget to relax and just be alive,

Many of us are like riders in a prolonged bicycle race
sprinting to perfection at a breakneck pace,
Constant accusations of massive masculine pride
ruining my journey on this miserable ride,

Sometimes I simply succumb to the lusts of the flesh,
and square off with some moron in a pissing contest,
Then in comes the guilt and my lover shakes her head,
says, “Save your bellowing for when we’re in bed.”

I occasionally despair at the defects of being who I am
an arrogant proud cockerel, a self-centered man,
But is God that concerned about the self that is me?
Is not my ego an indispensable and vital necessity?

Then God whispered, “Take it easy on your jaunt to be good,
ego is training wheels on the way to sainthood.
Ignore those who keep track of your sins in their meddling
just be who you are and don’t stop peddling.
Remember I made you, it’s none of their goddamed biz,
Like Popeye the sailor-man, you am what you is.”
.
end/michael

GUTTER PUNKS AND YOUNG ARTISTS ON BROADWAY


 She wore a tank top
which read "LIFE SUCKS!"
asked for a quarter,
I gave her twenty bucks,
then read her a poem
from my purple poetry book,
she said, "Thanks dude,"
then gave me that look,
reminding me that rhyming
was just so passé,
that old Jack Kerouac
didn't write that way,
for we need to be released
from the ordered page
deconstruct by randomly mingling, 
a la Dali and John Cage.
Smash a Pumpkin,
put Alice in Chains, be obscene,
puke your bourgeois rage.

I said: "It seems that alternative is now mainstream,
everyone is wearing black, shaving their domes,
piercing clits, navels, nipples and scrotums."

Suddenly she winced
in a burst of realization
engulfed by twenty one
years of revelation, exclaiming:
"Holy Gothic hell, you are so damned right,
you melodic fossil, I am seeing the light!"

She ran to the corner of
Fourth Avenue and Holden
found the poetry section
at Barnes and Noble,
pulled out the twenty bucks,
bought a volume
by Emily Dickinson.

Smiling, I proceeded
down the crowded street
sharing the Gospel of Rhyming
with all I did meet.

end/michael bogar

EULOGY OF A HYPHEN


I saw her internment, again
in the cemetery today,
withered remains crated
cradle to grave.

The granite read:

Born September 7, 1927
                 -
Died September 8, 1996

That’s all the marker said.
I thought about that all day.
Sixty-nine years of life,
summarized for all to see
by a single hyphenated line.
Truer than any biography.

end/michael bogar

DEATH POEMS


I grow tired of writing love poems
because I know adoration,
I grow tired of writing God poems
because I know Spirit,
I grow tired of writing erotic poems
because I know touch,
Perhaps that is why
I never grow tired of writing
death poems.

end/Michael

CHRYSALIS OF A MADMAN

Deep, or not so deep, within
there forms a storm in the corner
of some cryptic galaxy.

 On tilting splintered shelves are
jars of contagion
packed with impending insanity.
Artaud or Van Gogh.
Art is merely an postscript.

This six foot frame contains madness,
latent lunacy cranked low
and coiled tightly, exchanging
love making for screwing,
petting flesh for chewing,
rapacious appetite for impropriety.

Don’t look so shocked, the pupa of
psychosis resides within you…too
and every other sane citizen you meet.

Morphing Mephistopheles,
butterfly with the stinger of a wasp
and the dissecting mandible of a mantis,
crimson eyes and vulgar intentions--
one good blow might just crack the
chrysalis wide open, spilling social
derision from the reeking shroud.

Immune? I think not.

There are those days you feel it emerging.
I do.
Wings scuffing the concrete webbing,
kicking at night covers,
yanking me from my placid dreams,
that image scratching
against the fragile shell of my skull.
No, that t is not Athena rising,
it is hatred for caring about those in pain.

end/michael bogar

Friday, November 16, 2012

Again

I want to kiss the words from your mouth
my poet,
pierce the crease of imagination
my artist,
slip past timid inhibition, releasing
through each famished pore
as much, or more
as I empty this brush over and over,
slowly…

quickly, rhythm and stroke.
Squeeze me, mold me -
slender fingers long with lust
hold me.

I will ooze through your eyes and
over nipples polished slick,
rich and thick with the scent of warm clay,
oils congealing on neck and chin.

Lift your slender arms again,
my easel,
spread your fingers,
hold my chest, a taut canvas,
press your pink into my skin,
and when we are done,
I will hang limp, lifeless, still
in some gallery.

But soon, desire wakens…

I want to kiss the words from your mouth
my poet,
again.

end/michael

Hidden in the Dharma

A bus ride with an annotated copy of the Bhagavad Gita,
sunny window seat, I continue my tidy
journey to enlightenment…

I am a student of Myth, the disciple of Books,
the Vicar of Psyche,
greedy for education, for you see
my Dharma is squeezed from cold ink.

But today Krishna met me on the icy field of Kurukseattle,
stranding me between duplicity and truth.

Today I was caught in the tug of ambivalence,
as a woman wandered onto the bus.
Some invisible thread needled us together
as she nodded under a newly inhaled spell,
reeking of an unwashed and over-lived life.
She had mastered the art of sleep-sitting in Metroblivion,
freed from the cold slap of perception.
Some part of me wept for her vacancy,
yet I also envied her successful postponement of consciousness
                         for one more day –

She lifted her slow-motion gaze in my direction,
unblinking, looking beyond my transient mental meditation,
cupped her dirty palm and caught a tender cough,
then rose like a crashing Phoenix,
unfurled her stench and stumbled off the bus.

I watched her drag aimless boots across some train tracks,
her filthy fingers plucked a needle from a sack.
Krishna whispered, "Pay attention, consciousness
always slips up on one like uninvited love."

As the growling bus lurched from the curb
I watched her thread the needle with a slender vein,
together we straddled the seat of time
and pedaled in reverse. I saw her story:

A little baby shed her mother's womb,
slipped unseen into a filthy bed,
stripped of possibility -
the  placenta was insignificant,
she was the afterbirth...
aborted before she took her first breath.
Sad to watch a womb become the grave
before she even had a name.

I reached into my bag for another book
to ice my concern in flakes of inky snow,
oh these words,
so much cleaner than living.

end/michael bogar

Desire is No Sin

Veiled in silk,
she slips into my room,
drifting opalescence,
to the verge of my bed,
ethereal epiphany...

I whisper,
“Please, come sit next to me”.
Innocent, mysterious,
she settles lightly by my side,
eyes reflecting the candle on the nightstand,
a ribbon of shimmering crimson
forms a demure smile
tethering my gaze to her radiance.

I am captive as her eyes prowl,
not content,
need bringing shortness of breath.
The mystery of longing intrigues me.

Her Catholic-curious voice whispers:
“Did you know, Saint Augustine said,
'Desire was a sin?'”
She is somber.
I inquire,
“Yes, and?”

Her kiss
       like a snowflake
                 floats
                        softly
                                to                 
                                   my
                                        mouth...
.
I catch it, let it melt,
feel the moisture, sensual texture,
collect the sweetness with my tongue.

Then, her touch, a single slender finger
drawn along my cheek,
along the rim of my ear lobe,
etching her name leisurely,
carefully across the curve of my neck,
shoulder and firm bicep.

She fans her fingers,
strokes my chest, grazing each nipple,
her palm brushing dark hair,
pressing firmly into the muscle beneath.

She speaks,
“I love to touch your strength."
With an open hand I draw her hair back
unveiling an iridescent smile,
engage her eyes, softly
compress the delicate strands in my fist
and draw her gently toward my awe.

Connecting body to mind, soul to kiss…
her spontaneous confession spills forth,
“I desire you”,
her serious eyes stab the candle light
and she continues,
“But what if my passion is a sin against God?”

Cautiously I respond,
“Lover, what if your passion Is God?”

end/michael

Clepsydra

[NOTE: A clepsydra was an ancient device made of wooden
bowls with holes placed in water and used in the ancient Greek
temples/brothels of Aphrodite to keep time.]

  
Pale Hellenic beauty veiling
her ashen soul, lolling in licentious gaze
through almond eyes of coal.

Raven hair splayed on an ivory pillow,
through a scarlet mouth she hums
my name as softly as Luna's glow.

Reclining under silken sheets
partially concealing small round breasts,
she smiled--genuinely or submissively?

I hungered, then anxiously ate
the wild grapes, dried dates and
licked the honey from her breath.

Aphrodisiacs each, these treats
peddled by salvation-vendors
on the Corinthian agora.

Her waist, lean as the oblique Peloponnese
called my nomadic palms
to a supple Grecian feast.

Yes, you are the Goddess of love,
dissolving the faith of once strong men.

Moans, frankincense and pulse mingled
in a swirling coil above her altar,
gathering like an amorphous cloud
beneath the chiffon canopy.

I gave only adoration to this Cyprian deity,
aflame with approval. It wasn’t long before she exhaled
her musky oracle, and the scent signaled the Gods.

Her  hollow chalice was filling, yet forever
releasing endless libations. Insatiably I sipped
from her salacious Grail, preferring pleasure
to the celibate grace proffered at the Basilica.

Then, the clepsydra dropped, as did my soul.
Time completed, communion consumed,
my countenance now ashen as hers.

I had entered a finite man,
and now knew the desire for the Eternal.

end/Michael Bogar

Autumn Lovers

It’ early morning and the blue Autumn sky,
           Smudged with a chalky red,
Fills my window like a painters canvas,
           Spilling onto my sleepy bed.
In that sweet rosy light of early dawn,
           Lying behind you I stare,
An ivory round shoulder rising before me,
           Draped in tangles of hair.
Nestled into my cottony pillow,
           I trace the arc of your spine,
Vanishing neath the heavy wool quilt,
           Concealing all that is mine.
A half empty goblet of Burgundy wine,
           Sits on the window sill,
Reminder of the love we imbibed,
           Until we had taken our fill.
I study the skin I so long to touch,
           Leaning forward, unable to resist,
Placing in the middle of your silky smooth  back,
           A soft and gentle kiss.
You stir a bit under my lips,
           As I taste you, smooth as cream,
I want so badly to open the door of
           Your current secret dream.
Lingering there I breath you in,
           Feel my soul join with the sun,
Rising to the heights of heaven above,
           Feeling infinitely young.
          
Suddenly, some discourteous crow,
           Screams from his tented tree,
His rude good morning makes you stir
           Cuddling back, and into me.
My right hand glides along your waist
           And gradually comes to rest,
Slowly sliding along smooth skin,
           Cupping your warm round breast.
Indescribable comfort fills me there
           As I pull you closer to me,
Folded together like two rose blossoms,
           My crease tucked behind your knees.

"Good morning lover, you feel so good,"
           You lean and kiss my hand.
"I love the way you press against me,
           The texture of a man."
Inconsiderate crow squawks once more,
           We shift and join our eyes,
I touch each breast with a moistened kiss
           And feel your nipples rise.
Reaching down, you feel me growing and
           Caress me with gentle strokes,
If you only knew the inexplicable bliss your
           Slender hand evokes.
Our kisses and touches on that Autumn morn
           Fell like the floating leaves,
At the right moment, we were both ready,
           I slipped into you with ease.
The wool quilt fell from the trembling bed,
           Delicious sounds escaped our lips,
You held my shoulders and kissed my neck as
           I pressed deeper between your hips.
Possessed by a madness, we wrestled as one
           By that window filled with light,
Rising and falling, then coming together as
           We had on the previous night.
"My God, this never grows old," I whisper,
           "Always something new".
"Let me feel your weight," you purr in response    
           As I collapse on top of you.
It's still early morning, the blue Autumn sky yet
           Smudged with a chalky red,
Filling our window like a painter's canvas,
           spilling onto our loving bed.
Michael Bogar

Friday, October 26, 2012

I Love This Girl


I love this girl, the
one who still retains a
glint of Eden in her smile

I love this girl, young
unformed imagination
not yet defiled

I love this girl, frozen
by Kodak on the
frontier of womanhood

I love this girl, eager
curious, hungry womb
simple ideation of good

I love this girl, dreams
still in the unwrapped box
short on wisdom long on hope

I love this girl, this
one in the picture,
where did she go?

end /michael

Soft Distractions


There is a sound imperceptible,
stumbling to the cusp of the ear -
there is a word unsaid, tasted neither
by tongue nor pen. 

Unbidden nudges these, 
sauntering in like some cat
on hushed paws, weaving in then out,
sweetly soft distractions troubling sturdy legs.

These muted messages, purred in isolation
leave hint of neither source nor purpose,
they are just born, then expire. 

Mostly I run away, as primitive man
must have scampered before rolling stones
or gawked with high brow and squat jaw
at crisp lightning spears. 

Sometimes I turn up the music, consume things
or people, then grind time into mortar,
fill each vacant synapse with clatter.

“Hold me, please, but from a distance
and only for today.”
That is all there is. I am suddenly sick
and fear I shall live.

end/Michael

Thursday, September 27, 2012

THE OLD FERLINS SANITORIUM: T.B. TO A.A.

a thousand windows stacked like altar wood,
each sad eye warmed by sun and fever,
one hundred crosses hung in glass,
some clear, some opaque,
many fractured, broken, jagged.... 
shiplap siding, scabs of peeling colorless paint,
boxing up memories
of dissolving lungs coughing up blood,
inhaling hope...

              there…
my mother’s old room . I once
stood on the razored grass,
a kindergarten haircut to match,
looking up through her myriad panes,

she was strong,
elbows like derricks planted on the sill
hoisting fists of steel
supporting a tiny chin, a smile,
a gown and necklace my dad had given her
dangling like a noose...

now, forty years later I am here again,
looking out of the same window,
through different panes, staring
at the razored lawn,
empty.

end/Michael Bogar

Landlord and Drug Lord : The Day I Met Donovan

Maybe it was Pink Floyd singing
Comfortably Numb which
drew him into my room,
but there he sat,
in a brow bent baseball cap,
grinding his teeth, or what
was left of them; I liked him immediately,
traces of a child in that confused smile,
so much love it made me cry,
makes me cry even now.

He took room 41, a dirty mattress,
scratched KISS cds and a gun.
He was tall, black and hauntingly enigmatic...
under that grinning and grinding
was someone I knew.

end/michael bogar

THE COMPENSATORY NATURE OF SOUL-MAKING

“He had the face of a boy who would be excited about life; about women, or the perpetual quest of God, or New Bedford rum.”
     ~  Sinclair Lewis, The God-Seeker

"Only a whole person is a holy person.
I want Zorba and Buddha to meet together."
     ~  Osho, Zen Master


Skillful Athena, temperate goddess
vigilantly rooted in the acropolis,
observe, listen, guide your sober city of philosophers,
politicians, priests and generals.

Marble steadfastness, she pours her shadow
into the choppy Aegean Sea,
turning chaos into sagacity,
illogic into serenity…

                            Balance

Enter Dionysus, reeling, prancing,
disoriented--Eros lets fly a barrage
and romance offsets logic,
whirling, dancing , a nymph hooked on each elbow,
a crooked laurel crown and a smirk,
laughing, music, spinning courtesans
with splayed hair,
full goblets, grapes crushed in a vat of blasphemy 
vulgar giggling
damn convention!

                          i  m  B a  l  a      n   c  e


Dance with him wise Athena,
             seduce her you slipshod reveler.
Crooked Sinner - Faultless Saint
Olive Branch meets Wild Grape
Mature Goddess, Imperfect Divinity
Eternal Wisdom mates with Spontaneity...
Here the straight trunk of time sprouts twisting vines...
weaving together heaven and hell,
giving birth to Michael.

end/Michael Bogar

THIS CHILD IS THE MIRACLE


“A mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.”
     ~  Walt Whitman
  
She slipped into this world
like a new song,
lovely child 
caught my heart with a glance.

I stood beside the bed of birth,
watched her emerge,
little round eyes, powdery skin,
tiny feet,
an enigma revealed.

I felt as though
I had been born anew 
in her struggling cry,
knowing only myself
until that August morning,

Someone told me that a birth
is a miracle;
hardly what I found,
births occur every second,
this child is the miracle.

end/michael
(written after my daughter's birth, Carise Renee)

AUTHOR ME

"We are the products of editing, rather than of authorship."
     ~  George Wald
  
I am the page, nothing more,
stark white parchment willing…

between us a ribbon of night
thick with black, dense with life,

strike the keys, write what you know
impress your words upon me,
each idea--each  letter--each blow...

Author my story, not cautiously
but with passion, etch indelible glyphs,
imprint mouth and soul with
vulgar vowels and holy consonants,
scar my hungry flesh with iron angel talons.

I expect some wounds in this tender skin of cloth,
bleeding around letters edge,
question marks, many exclamations,
gentle corrections -

each morning a new page, new episodes…
I am thirsty for Our Poem,
Author me.

end/michael