Ken Goodman

Ken Goodman (a celibate monk) isn’t much fun on a date.  He doesn’t smoke or drink, doesn’t eat meat, sugar or dairy…what does he do?

He makes ecstatic meditation & poetry creation.

Odessa 1920

My grandma got out of Odessa
hiding in the hay—
of a wagon into which

soldiers stabbed
                        pitchforks in—
again & again...

when I sneezed in September
she told me with a grin:
“That’s why you have hay fever,
from the fear I felt when they—
stuck pitchforks in the hay.”

in the equipoise

No way to wander away
                  from self-meditative glow:
home sweet home where path/arrival has no
where to go : mating unseen & beholding in
the equipoise—
where secret mantra silence inner-hears
noise or no noise,
unconfused by senseshell-relative centrality:
experienced directly clear
          through all diversity...
all at once (never elsewhere) I AM identity:
in the equipoise of [your] egoless deity,
immune to post & pre : blissful wisdom
letting thoughts calm voluntarily, witnessing
lifetimelessness where eyes can’t look to see:
in the equipoise of dawn-fresh & horizon-free:
GodLove kicking lazy out of AH
in the equipoise of mindcloud/GodSky centrally;
in the equipoise of wisdom-eye unliddedly;
in the equipoise of Constant mating Presently:
in the equipoise of I AM
                          no known name can be.

when I stood in Emily Dickinson’s bedroom…

You who
        breathe in my Address
eyeing my white writing dress—
beat-beat of your heart is Loud
but I may make your skin a Shroud
for stepping sole in my bedroom &
gazing out my Glass—
I could harden your heart to Tomb,
& can do it fast.
Lots of folks fall in love with me
now that I’m safely dead—
what makes you think I would have let
you backslide in my bed?
Writing poetry was my
                                Luminous Innerwear—
no suitor in some bodysuit
                             could possibly compare.
it to me
to feel…doubt…
moments after you:
                       Walk Out!

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