The CATAMARAN Literary Reader, housed in the Tannery Arts Complex in Santa Cruz, California, published my poem Clay Feet in their second edition. It was made into a fine print broadside in commemoration of the Tannery's one year anniversary, printed by Sam Amico of Middle Earth Editions.
You can purchase the broadside (unframed) by contacting me via email at: [email protected]
Here's a picture of the broadside - see poem text below:
Clay Feet
All my gurus are human. The best ones
embarrassingly so. The intellectual Indian
with the alligator shoes, fine white hair
brushed forward in a perfect wave over
his Brahmin bald spot, who fell in love
with a woman he wasn’t supposed to,
walked away from the community he
was groomed to lead as the new world Avatar.
Makes me trust him more, that he’s not
pretending to be human. That he, in fact, is.
Like the Japanese roshi whose relentless sake
could not mask the brilliant moon reflecting
through the haze. Or the Tibetan lama who
traded red-gold robes for American business suits
and iced glasses of liquor after braving the Himalayas,
escaping death. And always, the women. Who
wouldn’t want to sleep with an enlightened being?
I’m not even talking about the ones with the bevy
of Rolls-Royces and machine guns fortressed in
the Oregon mountains, nor the Indiana-bred wackos
indulging suicide in Guyana, or murder in Hollywood.
I mean the regular enlightened beings. I love that
they care about shoes, bald spots, that like me
they need a drink now and again to bear the weight
of clay feet under a tainted moon.