The Way of Water

I was on assignment today for the alternativepress.com in Westfield , NJ at the Mindowaskin Park. The thought occurred to me, that in my writing, I need to write from the eddy that water creates on the down stream side of a rock. It is a place of refuge. When I was young my dad taught me that you can park a canoe or kayak an eddy, even in rough waters. The fly fisherman knows the fish hides in the eddy; seems the eddy is not always a safe-haven. But compared to the constant flow of the river's center, or the choppiness of rough water, the eddy is a place to meditate from and see things clearly. If water had eyes, they would rest in this place of peace.      
I have undertaken this journey of the heart. I go under the bridge to see what words and water have in store for me. There is life and there is death of course. There is fire and ice. There are children, and there are people who are willing to hurt them.

This bridge is perfectly old. When I die I hope I get to cross it. No doubt the other side will just be a big black abyss, and there will be no choice but to jump.

Beautiful Holly is the sweetest dream I know. She says that I'm not fooling anyone with my poems. They don't mean anything.


This boy running through bubbles was one of the gems of my walk today.  Those bubbles are orbs of water, little spheres of fluid light dancing in this boys dream like vapor angels he will never catch, yet chase with energy, energy that creates light. Those bubbles are stars like azure stones of perfect water, this boy running is a monks prayer, like a chant in the dreamy wind, he is the heart of the buddha...I hear him laughing, his laugh is eternal...



Forgive this image. I am innocent of this damage, but not innocent of damage upon the world. I am as guilty of this mess, as we all are guilty of the great mess this beautiful planet may one day become. I almost stepped on this guy. I'm thinking he drank too much last night, and maybe he just needs a bath. Looks like he took a shotgun to the side and had his face kicked in. Why in God's name am I writing of this filth. That bridge lead me to this. Thanks bridge. Thank you muddy waters. I do not trust water anymore.



Tomorrow I will be covering the Hopatcong boys travel team for soccer. Soccer has polluted the world with riots, this ball deserves this I swear, but the river did nothing but flow. Beautiful Holly asked me what I'm writing about tonight. What should I have said? I barely gave her an answer. I want the world to healed a hundred times! I should have said that. This is grieving water, water that sobs with the notes of a blue guitar, monumental wailing lost in a silence of it's own fall, this is an endless sea of grieving carrying sadness to the distant dead, this is thick water of the black night, an unholy night of sickness, this is broken water...
There will always be truth in water and truth will always wear a mask. Volcanoes are explosive, yet the Tsunami of 2004 showed us true power no volcano could ever match. Water is like Adam's Ale, a deluge of metaphor, a baptism of tears in a flood of knowledge. Water burst open the sky! This is water like beautiful Holly's great wet apple, this water like a thousand shivers, like a Holy Grail of offering, like millennial waters melting at the end of an age. The ways and waters of this water are Atman, Brahman, the Heart of Scripture, Agape... Beautiful Holly is pure...a drink in the heart of a flower...The Way of the Water is dedicated to her...