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Christopher Luna by Alisha Jucevic for the Columbian

Christopher Luna by Alisha Jucevic for the Columbian
Christopher Luna by Alisha Jucevic for the Columbian

Monday, November 9, 2020

Collages by Christopher Luna November 2020

 I'm so tired of social distancing
For Kelly Schrock
November 8, 2020

Saturday, November 7, 2020

Poetry and Art in Loving Memory of Diane di Prima

Revolutionary poet Diane di Prima is gone, but her work and the positive energy she created and nurtured will live on. I count myself among the poets who consider her a heroic model for how to be a dissident artist and decent, loving human being. 

Diane di Prima and Anne Waldman at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics 
Summer Writing Program, July 1997 (photo by Christopher Luna)

Ten years after I met Diane di Prima at the Naropa Institute, I was thrilled to find her name on my list for the August Postcard Poetry FestHere is the postcard and poem I received from her:

It made me very nervous to write a spontaneous poem to one of my poetic elders. Here is the poem I wrote for her (and the collage postcard I created):  

“Dustbowl Dirge” postcard sent to Diane di Prima, San Francisco, CA August 14, 2007:

EYE CATALYST for Diane di Prima

we are charged with a responsibility

whether we take on the role

            of observer, critic,

            priestess, or shaman


my painter friend is a former Kansas ninja

and the reincarnation of ninth-Century warrior

who smokes to quiet the voices in his head

and understands that to name

may also be to destroy


he brings me finished canvasses

which I am invited to amend according to my liking

and I get nervous, my Sharpie-holding hand trembling

with a sense of obligation

whatever I choose to add

must be right, it must be worthy

must move

must add

rather than take away


we get trashed, laugh

and rub our beards

(mark of our status, for some,

as revolutionary perverts)

we are dangerous

create word bombs

to dismantle capitalism

and undo the hatred in the human heart

while plotting our respective strategies

in the ongoing war against the imagination

A few years later, Erin Dengerink and I collaborated on an artwork based on this poem. She drew the figures in the foreground and cut the holes representing thought bubbles that I filled with collage. I also contributed the lettering featuring a few lines from EYE CATALYST:  

EYE CATALYST for Diane di Prima
by Erin Dengerink and Christopher Luna

EYE CATALYST for Diane di Prima
by Erin Dengerink and Christopher Luna

Here is the postcard and poem I received from Diane di Prima in 2008:

“Poetics of memory” postcard and poem ("Saving Janis") by Christopher Luna sent to Raul Sanchez, Seattle, WA on July 30, 2008 AND Diane di Prima San Francisco , CA on September 5, 2008:



In the photograph

Janis looks like a hippie goddess

open, vulnerable

hair and beads

cascading over her nipples

hands crossed

in front of the flower

of her sex


Frame the fallen queen

and place her portrait

on your bathroom wall.


Rendering each morning

a portal to another time.


If you could you’d wrap your arms around her

whisper sweet words of praise in her ear

and when she closes her eyes to kiss you

hide the half-finished bottle of Southern Comfort

Posted by Christopher Luna with love and respect for Diane di Prima

November 7, 2020

Saturday, October 31, 2020

Collages by Christopher Luna October 2020

He's Building His Own Myth Out of the Clamor: PRETTY DEEP SHIT by Christopher Luna 



Rhapsody in Blue Balls (For Erin Dengerink) by Christopher Luna

Revolution is love SAY YES by Christopher Luna

A taste for fast food by Kelly Schrock and Christopher Luna

Thursday, September 24, 2020

Our visit to Saint John Coltrane Church, August 2015

John Coltrane by Neil Jacobs

Toni Lumbrazo Luna and I were married in 2015, and we decided that our honeymoon would be a California reading tour. We read our poetry in Berkeley, San Francisco, Eureka, and and Monterey. One of the highlights was a featured reading with Julie Rogers, David Meltzer, and saxophonist Zan Stewart at Bird & Beckett Books.

In the following excerpt from the travel poem we wrote during the trip, we visit the Saint John Coltrane Church in San Francisco. I was reminded of our visit when I read the following article on the NPR website:Five Decades On, An Eclectic Church Preaches The Message Of John Coltrane.

I am very pleased to learn that the church is soldiering on. 

Happy 94th Birthday, John Coltrane.     



No pics allowed at

Saint John Coltrane Church

Sunday Mass

sparsely attended, at first


the energy in the room is palpable

Procession takes place

in a room behind the stage

as we wait


“open your hearts

as we go into



            tears well


                        sit or kneel


                                    and confess


“Praise Him.

That’s alright now.”


some join

some don’t


beautiful tapestries

with likenesses of Trane

and Lady Day

hang throughout the



Miles Davis

draped across

the donation table


as the older cat

w dreads hanging below his knees

blows, my heart cracks open


                        shies away a little


                        when we get to


“one God        one god”


            same old


                        push and pull





                                    desire &



                                    a quiet, more

reasonable voice

from deep within

reminds me

that all humans

struggle for

meaning and



the room awash

in slightly muted

red, gold, green

the drummer

a beatific Buddha

in a blue t-shirt


                                    however the concepts

                                    of sin and evil

                                    are understood

                                    we all seek the same peace


“Thank you,


Thank you,



as the ceremony continues

other musicians arrive

the door is left open

to encourage the folks

walking down Fillmore Street

to enter


a tall guy in

a blue shirt

takes his turn

blowing sax



late Trane



and I feel my heart

fill with that light again


count at least

five sax players

like angels-in-waiting


by the time the sublime melody

to “A Love Supreme” begins

the room is full


“we’re just trying to get a measure of what’s happening”


many passersby

stop to listen from

the doorway for

at least a few minutes


“If you love Truth, give God a hand, please. We call this the sound exorcism. We try to keep it beautiful, but this ain’t no gin joint. If the horn player starts speakin’ in tongues, we understand. When I went to see John Coltrane, he was like a Pentecostal preacher to me. I know we’re gonna have a good time, because the devil’s been busy all week. If you pat your foot, you’re a part of the band. Don’t clear your throat in here unless you’re ready to praise the Lord.”


deacon came up

in the African Orthodox church

part of the “no middle ground” crew

preaches on Revelations

believes we are in

The Last Days


“Saint John Coltrane was a scientist. Will indicates someone’s intention. Will is modal…. You can’t get sidetracked when you’re dealing with willing something into being…. I didn’t even talk about the All. The All, that’s a lot.  You have to be surefooted. You have to move with purpose and authority.”


the importance of sharing information


Abraham-Hicks: The Vortex

Coltrane Speaks

Newlyweds Christopher and Toni Luna in San Clemente for their honeymoon, August 2015 

Friday, September 18, 2020

Collages by Christopher Luna September 2020


 a new reality

For Zoe Weimer


Giving And Giving 
For Coraline Luna

Love yourself 
For Liliana

For Aimee Taylor and Kelly Schrock

For Leah Klass

Wednesday, September 9, 2020

"Atta," Angelo Luna's Birthday Poem for his Father

 Angelo & Christopher Luna, Father's Day 2020


by Angelo Luna

Not a beat poet

but loves the beat, certainly

Smooth jazz

rapid rhythms

the claws that sink in 

when an Invader 

grabs you by the short and curlies 

and tells you to 



Not a a beat poet, no

but described by Ginsberg 

decades before his existence nonetheless

First thought, best thought



a radioactive substance in writing

Internal Radiation Therapy

words healing the country 

from the inside out

While the world burns in 

Trump’s America

Bolsonaro’s Brazil

God’s Earth

he writes his truth, and fights fire 

by sucking the oxygen out of the room

A man who’s quantifiable praise for his ancestors 

quiets crowds 

when it’s spoken out loud

No more fire

There aren’t enough of him

Not quite zen

but buddhist in soul and practice

Does what’s being said need to be said? 

Why are you saying it? 

Does it help anyone? 

They may be mantras to some

but it’s better thought of as a scientific method

dissect every interaction

future and past

and see which parts were necessary

Make yourself the best you can be

I write inhibited


still coming into my own and learning from my betters

He teaches as a delimiter

not a time bomb

Not a beat poet, definitively, 

but heavily influenced

and proud of it. 



visionary works 

clutter file cabinets, real and digital. 

Ginsberg watches him from another life

passing by on the street every chance he gets

without knowing it

I like to think that if reincarnation is 

the way things go 

that good ol’ Allen 

is younger than my father

Maybe he’s a student

a fellow teacher

a preteen he makes a collage for.

Maybe he’s me, though I doubt it

I have other elders to follow

Stoic principles prepare us for loss

and I’ll spend my time in study preparing for his, most

Regardless of the sum of my works

or the product of his

I don’t know what real life will do when he’s gone. 

A crack in an invisible wall

that only suffers when a truly great person leaves

There’s only so many it can take

I often wonder if his 

will be the last

He betters himself

works with his son to live longer

even though it hurts 

and sometimes isn’t as entertaining as others

He doesn’t want to see that wall crack either

he wants to surpass legacies

become one of those elders

No, that’s incorrect. Forgive my candidness, 

but that’s what 


He would be happy leaving a mark on a closed

small circle

I want to see his name in essays 

50 years from now

Either way

I’ll be proud. 

He deserves it.

    Allen Ginsberg and Christopher Luna in 1994 

Thursday, August 13, 2020

Warrior-Goddess Jane Revolves Alluringly in the Cosmos of Our Dreams: For John Hall, who asked why I had put Barbarella on my book cover


Warrior-Goddess Jane Revolves Alluringly

in the Cosmos of Our Dreams

For John Hall, who asked why I had

put Barbarella on my book cover


she is

like he

—as it turns out—a

extraordinarily multifaceted


both sex object

and warrior queen

goddess in the flesh


even at 82



as a woman

of a certain age


a fire in her

that a lifetime

of dealing with


& sexist underestimation

failed to quench


pure perfection

ideal of womanhood

turning over & over

& over in the void


arousing us

to change

stimulating us

to become

better men


Saturday, July 4, 2020

Celebrate Like You're Running Out of Time, a Birthday Poem for Greg Luna (restored, with Angelo's photographs of the hawk that visited)

Sarah Wood with her painting of the hawk that visited us (see below)

Celebrate Like You’re Running Out of Time

A Birthday Poem for Greg Luna

Dedicated also to Angelo Luna,

Toni Lumbrazo Luna,

& Lin-Manuel Miranda


 separated from his love

Angelo studies stoicism

obsesses over stats

keeping an eye on the latest

from the WHO & the CDC

to tell him where his head is at

perhaps his studies will lead him

to develop the NYC grit

his mother denied him

when she tore us from our home state

so that she could spend her days hiding

all I know is I admire him

I must respect his wishes

regarding our time outside the house

he’s keeping us all safe

and in return I enjoy

the gift of time with him


it’s all we have in the end



 lockdown inevitably changes one’s perspective:

I now realize that I suffer from




                             all of which are illusion

                             and a colossal waste of my

                             limited time on this earth


or that I spend too many moments

worrying about bullshit


being isolated

from family & friends


(since late 2001)


has forced me to reconsider

my concept of both freedom & independence


the world burns

and an evil thug

has his rich knee

on the neck of

our democracy 


on this day when independence from monarchy

is reduced to a mindless, heartless, nutrition-free

cartoon of patriotism


I marvel at you

my brother

an anomaly

in our contentious family:

a truly peaceful person

and the only one able to

broker peace

when shit goes down


wish I had an ounce of your ease

to soothe my troubled mind

it is as if the spirit of our grandfather

his tranquility          the quiet power

          of his equanimity

had leapt into you

so that you might embody

the harmony

this energy affords


                             I love you for it 


yesterday as we watched Hamilton

crying & laughing & experiencing

a resurgence in our love for the republic


a hawk appeared suddenly on our back fence

& everything froze—you should have seen it


yellow & red & ferocious        majestic


& completely indifferent to our petty worries


we caught a brief glimpse of true freedom & realized


how lucky we are to be alive right now

Photos by Angelo Luna