Music: Darkness and Light, by Comfort Zone

As some of you know, Comfort Zone is a duo I’ve been in with percussionist/electronicist and general artiste extraordinaire, Breeze Smith. Inspired by my recent poem, On Darkness and Light, which is just a couple of posts earlier than this one, we improvised a 15 minute experimental piece on the theme.

Here it is.



Do You?

do you look here, from time to time,
remembering, perhaps, that month of poems?

it was almost another life away
when i still sought for that thing that wasn’t there.

many and many days have passed since then,
through which have come and gone
love, and lovers,
or so it seemed.

sweet or cruel,
faithful or rotted with deceit,
still, it felt like love.

my quest has changed,
for one can seek only so long
to top a mountain against a torrential waterfall
before realizing one is merely fighting the water
and no longer seeking the top of the mountain.

if you wish to know my quest,
(or walk it for a time with me?)
do not seek for me obliquely
through the great faceless intermediary,
a mere picture of a part of me
that you like.

do instead as I have done:
write of me in the way I have written here of you
and use that name for me that once you used
when you wrote of those you loved,
naming them by their spiritual attribute,
that secret code that we both understand.

write of me, and i will see it
in that place of yours
where warms the great world,
and where you have so often
let you heart speak out
against the torrential waters.
Los Angeles, November 19, 2013

On Darkness and Light

you said your writing was dark
because you are dark

but we are all dark

and have you forgotten
that without darkness
the light is meaningless?

when all is light
without shadow
there is nothing

all things, all meaning derives from
the interweaving of darkness and light

thus i admire and accept your darkness
as perhaps you should mine

Los Angeles, November 19, 2013

Riding the Carousel

She’s back on the carousel,
Riding it ‘round and ‘round.

Back again, trying to grab the brass ring
That she thought she’d gotten 15 years ago,
Only to find she had turned it into lead.

But now there are better riders,
And she knows
She cannot ride for much longer.

But she’s riding the carousel,
‘Round and ‘round.
Madly reaching for the ring.

But she is a fool.
She doesn’t know
The ring chooses to whom it will go.

There is no brass ring for her.

Los Angeles, 13 November 2013


How is it that you always are there
When I return from my many strayings?
Always ready to pick up where we left off,
Mid-kiss though it was.

When I am cold and dripping from the rain,
You embrace me, and warm me
With your whole body,
Until our eyes glow with each others’ heat.

I move, and you bring forth sound.
A lover’s hymn,
That only we two can sing.

Passion grips us in its hands,
One of steel, the other of ice and feathers;
Driving us toward something inevitible.

I cannot see the end!
The oracle who has always served me,
Is no longer waiting by her well of vapors.
But it doesn’t matter.

Now we are racing ever faster,
Pastures and wooded copses flashing by.
No time to stop! No time to stop!

Finally, we crash through the end,
With a sound like smashing glass!
And we become a fading memory of the mad ride.

I turn to you,
And, halfway through the kiss,
I am gone, again.

A poem for and of my muse: the making of music.

Los Angeles, November 8, 2013

I Am

I am the furnace that burns the bones of love
And yields the ashes to waiting mourners.

I am the stone that stands when all others have fallen,
Washed away by rains and time.

I am the endless vista that you climbed so far to see,
Only to turn away, back to your safe walls.

I am the meaning that has always escaped understanding.
I am the ocean of blood that is the foundation of Man.

I am the depths of  joy,
And the heights of bitter sorrow.

I am the Great Beast’s maw,
That one day will devour the world.

And I am time.
I am time.
I am all of time.
And your future is but an ancient memory
To me.

November 7, 2013, Los Angeles

The Knife

when your life is lies, the truth cuts.
and the deliverer of truth
seems an assassin
whose knife bares
what you’ve hidden inside.

and though you:
feel the slice;
know the pain;
see the blood;
hate the knife,
and its wielder…

… yet, the only wound made
is to the false and self-serving image
you’ve been allowed to have.

there will be those who will sympathise,
and tell you that the one with the knife
has harmed you,
for you have something they desire,
and your lies serve their purposes.
but their sympathy and avarice
will not heal this wound.

you know this.

there is but one healing for this wound.
without that, the wound remains
and there will forever be a rip
in the false skin you show the world.

but without your lies,
there could be no wound.

and therein lay its only healing.