The Unclad Soul

I want to run along the ocean and feel the waves wash over my feet erasing my footprints in the sand I want to skydive and sense myself falling watching the landscape below me seeing everything so clearly so cleanly until I love it all more than ever before I want to play guitar in an old bar and sing on a wooden stage with a drink at my feet making music that turns the crowd toward their dreams until all the hurts in the room melt in tears I want to write beautiful lines and put them in a book where the pages burn with longing and the reader sighs and blinks and walks toward a lost love until all of self is whole again I want to stand on a mountain ridge where the sun spreads light on slow moving cattle below where the Alfalfa smells sweet and the sky is a cloudless blue I want to ride a galloping horse in an open field until the air stings my eyes and I hear the pounding of the horse’s hooves and feel that floating that comes when you’re carried by forces beyond y...

I Want a Cottage by the Ocean I love the city with its array of delights, its offerings of culture, its libraries and theaters, its parks and plazas, its lights and music But I am weary of the city, with its loud presence and its oppressive anonymity, its   hemmed in freeways and the misery of endless construction I want a cottage by the ocean, where the air is clean, where seagulls fly and the aura is gentle; where the sun rises and sets on a clear horizon— a misty shimmering line   low   in the sky that invites dreams, and prompts secrets, and asks me to wonder I want distance from the acrimony in our cities, from the rage and the fury in traffic, from the numbing of noise and nonsense I want to feel things, kisses and love and the holding of hands, long embraces and deep conversations— the joy of connection I want to be close to the earth, to the forces of life; I want to hear the songs o...

On my usual way to lunch to pick up a sandwich at Subway across from the Central Library, I made my way down Canton Street, past the Dog Park at Cesar Chavez Boulevard, around the curve to the intersection at Harwood Street when I saw him. He was a large man with full long greasy hair to his shoulders. I often see him in the area. The First Presbyterian Church's soup kitchen is near that intersection and many days he is sitting or standing along the outside wall. He is always dressed in bulky jeans and a heavy coat and he's always carrying in both hands old plastic sacks full of unidentifiable things. Food perhaps. Or items of clothing. Or maybe just stuff he has found along his daily sidewalk journeys down the lonely streets of the urban city. At the corner of Harwood and Canton (which becomes Young Street) is a small flower garden and fountain just outside the side entrance of the old large First Presbyterian Church. That's where I saw him. Several cars were in front ...