roytube.com

my new website, roytube, is launched. go see my poetry films...

facebook spontaneous poem

its time for bed you silly head
its time to go to sleep
the wees and woes that no one knows
will fall into the deep...

excerpt from libretti lumi

the universe

is not measured in space

but in time

the size of the universe

is not its expanse

but its age

distance is measured in years of light

though years without light are also counted

the number of light years from here to there

the number of dark years from there to here

the number of twilight centuries to somewhere

the number of eclipse minutes to anywhere else

thus the size of the universe

is not the space

between you and me

but the time

between you and me

the moments of light

the moments of dark

the moments of twilight

the moments of eclipse

sometimes your light

bent around me

only by its bending

acknowledging my orbit

sometimes i reflected your light

increasing the beauty of heaven

master moon that i am

but always

you were the star

i was the satellite

no binary solar system here

the yard stick of light

which keeps the time of the universe

measure for measure

does not plumb a black hole

that which is reckoned there

is more essential than light

and measure for measure

is more accurate

dark matter is what matters

it seems

without radiance

your gravitational pull

exerted influence

on my body

for a time

until the implosion was complete

and I was a single meteor flying

half frozen

half burning

across the constant night sky

the universe

is not measured in space

but in time

and we are measured

in moments

of light

of dark

of twilight

of eclipse

of emptiness

the hole in my heart holds your shape.

the hunger of my arms

recalls the feast of your body~

now, there’s not a crumb of affection.

my lips fit only the puzzle of your brow,

the keyhole of your navel,

the glove of your mouth

and without these connections

have nothing to say.

silence inhabits the space vacated by your voice:

missed is not the quick laugh,

not the mindless humming~

those echo in my soul;

missed is the voice of the everyday room,

the words with coffee or lemonade or wine...

i am so dry without you!

where is my refreshment?

in the morning, i am a flag without wind.

in the evening, a meal without spice.

since you found a new road and compass,

my life has been full

of the absence of you.

~ Roy Anthony Shabla

the physics of life

is not a universal theory~

it is not relative to love.

there is a hidden mathematics

to affairs of the heart,

a metaphysical geometry

that cannot be proved

in the three-dimensional world.

when it comes to love,

there is no

“one plus one”

there is no

“one plus one plus one”

there is no

“two minus one”

there is no

“two plus one minus one”…

love is not simple math.

if it were,

we would each marry

our fourth-grade sweethearts

forever.

the hidden factors of love,

the secret geometry

for which there is no class,

remain the final mystery

of the universe

beyond the song and dance

of the stars

beyond the song and dance

of the atoms of ourselves~

these are flashes of light

in darkness

and easier to see

than a soulmate.

i have been a poor student

in this subject

or a great failure

depending on the perspective.

i can almost see

the invisible factors of love

but the blind students

still get better grades.

after body of water / excerpt from air play

i have grown weary of this life form

i have grown weary of this life

i have grown weary of this form

i have grown weary of this form of life

i have grown weary of this life of form

i have grown weary of this

i long for a life without form

i long for a life i can form

i long for a form i can like

the physical body separates you from me

the universal body dreams of union

the body of wisdom

is half-full of tears

or half-empty of tears

but full and overflowing with emptiness

the physical body separates you from peace

the universal body dreams of communion

the body of knowledge

is half-full of fears

or half-empty of fears

but full and overflowing with emptiness

the physical body separates

the universal body dreams

with which body do you fall in love?

the body of the heart

is half-full of tears

or half-empty of fears

but full and overflowing with emptiness

(the universal body separates you from fantasy

the physical body dreams of confusion)

i have grown weary of the earth

and the matters of the earth

i have grown weary of matter

and what matters

i have grown weary of birth

and what scatters

i have grown weary of earthly matters

and the emptiness of the heart

(the intelligence of the heart

is that it longs to be filled)

i long for a body of grace

i long for a body’s embrace

i long for a body to taste

i would fill it with the breath

of my love

in my dream

i am the bearer of joy

and all delights you enjoy

but here

i am the body of tears

filling the earth’s empty shore

the form of this earth

my only embrace

the life of this earth

my only store

poetry jewelry

i dont know if i posted this for you...

every action

has an equal and opposite

reaction

but words

are not equal

to the effect of words~

what is spoken

what is written

cannot suppose

the circle it will draw.

a pebble

tossed into a pile

cannot compare

to a pebble

tossed into a pond

and where a word is tossed

is lost

until the ripple

or the avalanche

appears.

every motion

has a sequel as

emotion

and every gesture

has a reason beyond

effect…

every morning

you may roll a boulder

up a hill

and every evening

roll it down again

but what is lost

from the living of the day

is not the distance

between two points

of view

nor the speed

at which life travels

up or down

but that the product

of your actions

and your words

is greater than the sum

of what you do.

spring poem

it is irresistible this longing for the sun

spring poem

here i am
see me now
underground
living how

cold the earth
far the sun
wet the rain
long the run

here i am
see me now
over ground
living how

fresh the earth
warm the sun
sweet the rain
strong the run

casa la reina ii excerpt

casa la reina is

home

to spiders

crickets (they

came back)

grasshoppers

lizards

ants

various other

squiggly things

i cant or

wont name

(we will not

talk about the

m o u s e)

cats (not inside

the house)

possums (with the

cats)

various birds

including

hummingbirds

sparrows

crows (occasionally)

as well as

fairies

satyrs

elves

dwarves

nymphs

(depending on the

party)

and others

and ghosts

some demons

once in awhile an

angel

and even a few

unwanted

visitors

but i am the one

who has to

write

out the check

for the water

and the power

you cannot

be

a star

without

power

and it

seems you cannot

be

a hermit

without

an entourage

i wake up

in the morning

(well what i

call the

morning)

with a headache

a new set

of wrinkles

and a bite from an

amorous insect

on my cheek

everybody has

to eat i

guess

i am

a meal

for many

the spider or

other

bug that sucks

my blood

gets eaten by a

bird

which is caught

by a cat

which poops

at the foot

of the

persimmon tree

which produces

fruit

that strengthens

my blood

in winter

when all the

bugs and

everyone else

want to be

inside

with

me

* * *

there is no

electricity

at two sockets

in the bedroom

i thought i

was too young

to have no

electricity

in the bedroom

but apparently

age is not

a factor

when it comes

to spark

if you have it

you have it

if you dont

you masturbate

the temporary

sleep

of wine wears off

during the quiet

time

but i cannot

turn on the

light

to write

the list of what i

cannot turn on

increases

the need for light

increases

and the actual

writing

is without

juice

a possum walks

its scratchy

walk on the roof

over my

dread

its vision

so poor

it could not

see if i

were a football

stud

or a rockstar

or the boy

who reads shelf

by shelf

in the library

also squinting

at the

light

* * *

the clothes

need to be washed

but i

cannot seem to

gather the

energy

for it

i need

to be washed

also

both of the

body

and of the

soul

but i

cannot seem to

gather the

energy

for it

i am the great

unwashed

from hole

to shining hole

elizabeth

walks in the front

door

and fills the

kitchen sink with

hot soapy water

letting the dishes

soak

then starts a load

of laundry

she talks the

entire time

but does not notice

i dont

listen

it is the

perfect

relationship

the essay on the

abstract

painting is

finished

and she says

wow

i thought

you only looked

at porn

on that thing

gesturing

toward

the computer

art is porn

i say

at least the

good art is

bad art

is anti porn

the cold

shower of the

soul

but she listens

to me less

than i

listen to her

she makes

a couple plates

of food

crackers

avocado

sardines

humus

olives

and we eat

in the back

the stick garden

budding out

the sun

clicking its teeth

the air

fresh

and clean

* * *

a word

nazi

attacked me

today

the word

nazis want

to control

speech

and by controlling

speech

control thoughts

and by

controlling thoughts

control behavior

and by

controlling behavior

control people

completely

the word nazis

do not care

if i say

fuck

fuck fuck fuck fuck

fuck

they do not care

they do not even care

if i do

fuck

they promote the

illusion

of tolerance

and when it comes to

fucking

and me

someone somewhere

will need

some tolerance

the word nazis

do not care

if i say

cunt

well in america

cunt

is worse

than fuck

and though

they might

not like me saying

cunt cunt cunt cunt

cunt

they would promote

the illusion of

tolerance

but would not

invite me

to their

dinner

parties

henry millers

great line

when i fuck

a cunt

it stays

fucked

is no longer

invited to

dinner parties

either

nigger

is another

word

if you are

black

you can say

nigger

as much as you

like

young black males

seem unable

to communicate

without it

sup nigger

but if you are

white

nigger nigger nigger

will get you

shot

stabbed

beaten

and raked

through the news

there is no illusion

of tolerance

there is no

tolerance

there is no

equality

even mark

twain cannot say

nigger

anymore

jim is now

a slave

which is worse

because it has

no style

and style is the

hope

of the unfortunate

only a nigger

can say

nigger

only a fag

can say

fag

only a whatever

can say

whatever

what ever

(insert your

favorite

politically

incorrect

term here)

(insert your

favorite

profanity

here)

thank you

but the word

nazis

do not care

if i

say these

words

as art

as part of my

poetry

fuck

cunt

nigger

shit shit shit

etc

but if i

say

i am sad

i am poor

i am lonely

there is no

illusion of

tolerance

there is no

tolerance

the word nazi

jumps down

my throat

as if he or she

could push the

words back

to the source

back to another

reality

the word nazis

want me

to say i

am

happy

i am rich

i am surrounded

by love

those lying

fuckers

the secret is

that affirmations

are a

lie

and blowing

sunshine up my

ass

wont make me

happy or wealthy

or loved

but if you

use a breath mint

you can

try

so if i

want to convey

any honest

emotion

or condition

i have to

say

i am fucking sad

i am nigger shit

poor

i am goddamn

motha

fucking son of a

cunty bitch

lonely

(you wonder

why

i swear)

and maybe

just maybe

my

tears

can pass

uncensored

* * *

i thought

i would write

tonight

i got into bed

like i like

and sat

up with pen

and paper and

light

but didnt

write

nothing

presented itself

to the paper

nothing

stimulated

the pen

and my pen

needs

stimulating

these days

or nights

once in a dream

i saw

nijinsky dance

he was young

and

i was younger

he was the

dance

itself

that night

i did see

baryshnikov dance

afternoon

of the faun

when he was

young

and i

was younger

and he was

himself

light

a poem may

remain

on the page

longer than

the paper itself

lived

a dance

leaps off the

stage

of life

and only

air

remains

only twinkle

when the star

is dead

some would say

my poems are

air

hot air

farting actually

but a rose

by any other

smell

would still have

thorns

maurice

would make quite

a faun

tangled in bramble

munching roses

his naked

form would

stimulate

pens for

decades

one leap

would live

longer

than any

poem

i could write

one step

would live

longer

than anything

that

arose

from my paper

tonight

* * *

i could sit

on the chair if

it werent

piled with junk

i could eat

at the table if

it werent

piled with junk

i could walk

out of this

life

like an angel

my feet bare

ly touching

the floor

if it werent

piled

like a new york

barge

with junk

but it is

i am a

junkie

and this this

this life is my

dump

what a dump

jeanne comes to

casa la reina

to bring me

a book

walking in the

front door with

a shout

a newspaper

that was lying

in the street

and a coupon

for razors

maybe this is

a hint

to make a clean

start

or a messy

finish

she looks

for a place

to sit

she is not

the buddha

who could sit

anywhere and

did

on a corpse

on a cloud

on a candy machine

i move

three mountains

of

miscellaneous

papers

books

boxes

a small forest

of clutter

all important

in the scheme of

things

the scheme

of things

from the end

of the couch

so she can

settle

and from across

the room across

the universe

of my life across

the stupas

of trash

she looks

at me

with a smile

* * *

it is cold

casa la reina

is cold

and i

am colder

an electric

heater is bare

ly an orange

light bulb and

a prayer

and i

have never been

a praying man

i

have never been

a praying mantis

i

have never been

a praying

abolitionist

there is nothing

worse

than a cold

praying

abolitionist

someone

who wants to

change

the world

but hasnt the

sense

to light

a fire

expects

the fire

to light

itself

expects

the world

at some point

by some means

to change

itself

in

the fireplace

i light

a fire

using early

drafts of my

poems

it might be

kinder

to the world

to use

final drafts

but they

dont burn

the fire

gone from the

soul