Archive for the 'Peter Zimels' Category

Xmas with The Grateful Dead – Peter Monk

… for the management
Here we areSend this monk to the Grateful Dead.
with a price on our heads
and the coldest blood on the planet…
outside the law…
where is the law?
The law is what we do.
Surplus of prophecy
dying of habit
finding fulfillment
ties the world to music.
San Francisco / London… round-tripping…
(both those flags red, blue, and white ) …
Play it again Sam, take it from the top… A toss-up between “survival of the fittest”
and “the meek shall inherit the earth” …
In either case… He Who Is The Greater Is The Servant Of The Other…
All success… Never Blame… Transatlantis…
The idea of the Dead…
What’s in a name?
a rose by any other name would smell as dead…
a rose is a rose is a rose…
Violent night… silent and holy.
Lennon and Dylan on junk behind shades…
( mirrors at opposite ends of the room )
pray their recovery swift…
Flores por los muertos…
Hari Tamari…
So many of this Order
imprisoned on the planet…
Three on Crete… in a labyrinth…
an angel shot in the head…
another in jail for trashing a copcar…
a third acquitted of Altamont… the Wild West wins every time…
( self defense )…
London Bridge keeps falling down
just outside Las Vegas.
In deserts
In forests
on mountains… in caves…
a few who live for freedom… never move too close !
Cellular rejection of The Brotherhood’s required…
the object is direction of one corpse.
Both the stage and the pulpit are prisons in a line of lives…
where solitudes breath’s worth pursuing.
A face that turns to meet you
turns into a skull…
the body in your arms
dissolves to skeleton
Dreamers turn to dancers… bodies to disasters…
circles within circles… a history of flesh…
In that place where The Dead Know…

Benares McDonalds – a poem

US Navy flier, New York City beat poet, mendicant monk, songwriter & a lovely human being! On the campus of the Sanskrit University, Banaras, 1965, as ordained Theravada Monks. BENARES McDONALDS

The first corpse of the morning
is a priest
burning on a sandal pyre.

His wristwatch ticks hypnotically
then melts
conjuring the frankincense
three wise men offered Christ.
Forgiving mankind’s sins
mandated crucifixion
so we might opt for freedom
if we dared…
shedding the tax on our flesh
as a serpent leaves skin…
continually becoming what was inconceived
’til then.

At the time
when the veins on the back of the hand
first cast a shadow
the monk goes out
each day to beg.

At the moment
the full-moon
touches the horizon
he shaves his skull
(hair, beard and eyebrows)

At the point
when his thinking
is muddied by his lust
he spends a season
in the charnel field
and lends a hand
at odd cremations.

Ritual consumes belief
that no thing is forbidden.
God’s a corpse.
The abstract only
manifest as fiction.

Sanctified myth
holds the species in thrall
and politics is chosen first
(like poppies)
over freedom.

Vultures spiral heavenward
through clouds of human smoke.
A monk
warms his hands
on the burning cadaver.

Peter Monk 1988