HERE AND NOW
(AGAIN)
 three days on the mountain after two days of climbing we crossed from west to east in a heavy snowstorm, knee deep in half a winter’s accumulation between the trees it was about 2 in the afternoon when we crossed the crest, within two hours we found the clearing where we slept that night under a diamond strewn sky… a bright rising sun woke us under a cloudless blue sky broken only by the thin contrail of a jet flying higher, even, in the cold morning firmament than where we slept coffee over an open fire, and freeze-dried eggs scrambled, frying pan and coffee pot cleaned in the snow, breakfast eaten quickly before the last day’s trek down the mountain, an easy day, each of us, as we spread out along the trail, quiet in our own thoughts, remembering the past months, friends now who we knew, in just a few days, would be gone, unlikely to ever be seen again our last memories - the mountain and the three days we spent together on it (New Mexico, December, 1964)  Leaving in frustration a few minutes ago from a conversation about a serious subject, trying to talk sense to someone buried, like a frightened ostrich, up to their neck in some bumper sticker dogma fed to them by the collection of Facebook gurus that seem intent on erasing any chance of common sense and logic from entering the public consciousness.
Silly me, to think I would find anything else on social media. the complexity of true things the haze shrouding downtown last week was dust blown from the sands of the Sahara Desert… I read that in the newspaper last week, making me think of wind in the Texas panhandle blowing tumbleweeds the size of a Volkswagen bus across the highway, and I think of a dust storm in Utah, so thick as I drive through it that nothing alongside the road can be seen, not even the rocky monuments made famous in the cowboy movies I saw on Saturday afternoons when I was young, and when I was older, the Northwest Frontier, and the dust on the desert between me and the Hindu Kush - far away, all these places, all these dusty storms, yet even so, not so far as the seeming endless Sahara, and I think of the far-travel the dust downtown made to get here, and I think of all that must be carried in that dust, remnants of oasis palms, DNA of Bedouin travelers and their obstreperous camels, all in a mix drifting down the streets of my city and I begin to appreciate the complexities of true things, how more intricate and complicated our world, each piece a part of the whole, the whole a confederation of all the parts, and the relation of each part to all the others, not always seen, like relatives who live far away, never seen even though they in their parts are also you in your parts… such a world we live in; such lives we lead… hard to remember the complexity of all that’s out there when wisdom is found for so many in bumper sticker simplicity and the shallow cleverness of Facebook memes, so that, while all of life and our world and the universe around us seems to grow more and more into a tangle, the forces of the tangle and our fear of it seem to push us more and more into simple-mindedness... ~~~ the truth may be out there, as was said one time, but, god, what a maze there is between it and me
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 kicking the can the loud woman is here, wheeling and dealing “know what I mean” ending every sentence ~~ thought I’d write a short poem about the brightness of the sun but lost it in the glare brilliance non-transferable ~~ cars on Broadway speed past I wave poems at them but no one notices too busy for stray street corner poets too proud to hoist a cardboard sign ~~ the light is red... everyone stops the light is green... everyone goes the sign-slinger dances in the intersection as there is no time for poets no time either for terpsichorean enticements ~~ close enough being sufficient for these latter days endeavors and being exceedingly proud of myself for coming close enough in the spelling of terpsichorean for “spellcheck” to correct it, I rest on my laurels for the day ~~ like kicking a can down the road, not important where you kick it, just the kicking of it perfectly good enough  This piece, written in January, 2013 is a poem of despair regarding the fate of our politics and subsequently, our country. January, 9 years later, it does not seem any better. no end to it so tired of living in a world so full of stupid people fools every day, impossible to live a full life without exposing oneself to them, caves and hermits and mountain tops not appealing to one not yet ready to do without the rest of his kind… politics in general, whatever the current debate… this time, guns - on one side slime people willing to facilitate murder for profit, on the other side hapless liberals who flutter and fritter and wail and moan uselessly about the injustice of rule by the corrupt winners of corrupt games played in the name of poor dead and debased democracy, justice, “the people” - the people, dim, compliant victims of their own thirst for the comfort of lies and well-paid liars, sellers of soap who soft-soap the murder of children --- there will be no change to it, no end to it, no matter how tired I am of it  the promise of a winter day in South Texas the morning fog has lifted and the sun is out, brightly burning from the day every trace of damp ambiguity, the clarity of the morning exposing in sharp colors the world as it has always been behind the veil, like lifting the cover of a veiled woman to expose unexpected beauty like hillsides exposed by leaf-stripped trees, revealing in high branches bird’s nests swaying with morning breezes in the arms their leafless anchors life signs exposed, always present but unseen under the green cover of spring and summer… clarity, clarity, clarity! how we crave it in the muddle of life, how we welcome suggestions of it in our customary states of confusion… clarity in a South Texas morning, seeing the lot of it all the way down to where it ends and to where we see the promise of beginning again that promise, seen in the clear and bright, our daily comfort in the bewilderments that surrounds us  seasons changing around us late getting there, the park closed for the season, so we are alone, mile after mile of rolling hills covered with all the colors of autumn, spread across hill after hill, like a box of Crayolas spilled in the summer by some child, left to melt in the sun when mother called, hardened now in the cold, to multicolored streaks running where summer flow had taken them… an early winter storm follows us, closer behind every time we stop to take in the fragile beauty, its seasonal end approaching, buried in snow on the hills so bright before, the surviving glory of the lost season passing all around and ahead… we leave the parkway to stop for the night and in the morning find our intended route over the mountains blocked by very heavy snow… we take the low route and leave the mountains behind for another day (Blue Ridge Parkway, 2011)  the vault there is no movement in the opaque and enigmatic fog but for the two of us walking, and no sound but the muffled hush of my soft-soled shoes and the clickity clickity of dog’s nails on the sidewalk… the dark mystery of the morning, adrift in dim haze - a vault of old memories stored for years, now released I open myself to the past, not always a good thing for I am a realist about all things including my past, and there is no hiding them from me for I know where the bodies are buried, my own and others the vault opens and in this enshrouded morning shadows linger behind every tree and it seems I know their every name  Maybe I should consider prose I returned to writing poetry a week ago at least that was the intent but so far haven't written a word that wasn't flop-sweat crap written like a high school sophomore sweating out a book report that might impress his English teacher flow like a dam-blocked beaver pond the passion of a backwoods preacher with an ugly wife and herpes no good reason for anything I've written no good reason to read anything I've written masturbation of the creative impulse, a flasher at the playground; a twelve-year-old at a spin-the-bottle strip party you show me yours; I'll show you mine, then a disappointing unveiling, like a Pat Boone rock concert blank verse - but not the good kind, blank like the eyes of a shriveled up old man in an overstuffed chair, drool on his whiskered chin as his lips tremble... maybe I should try a cup of prose  It is hard sick slept all day dreams of when I made things happen sweet it was in my dreams ```` watching the blind cat bounce like a pin ball from wall to wall until she finds her way; soft bounces, her pink nose against the wall, then turn sometimes a turn into a bedroom that goes nowhere, marooned in the dark beyond her personal dark until I find her sitting waiting for the world to make sense again, then I take her where I think she wants to go ~~~~ doctor appointment today, five and a half minutes she will give me new pills and four and a half minutes of advice - I will take the first, ignore the second... young and pretty, what does she know about being old? ~~~~ I find comfort in my regular place, around my regular people why do I ever think I need more ~~~~ I find comfort in thinking of other places, other people, where I can be the mysterious stranger in the back of the room, things I might not ever see before or since people who know even less about me than I know about them ~~~~ it is hard to be happy young or old, it is hard to know the true nature of happiness from temporatry desire ~~~~ it is hard to live in a world where nothing happens unless you make it  I post this sample of my art now and then, just a reminder that scribbling is not the only facet of my amateur's self-delusions.  Catullus was the spearhead of a new poetic movement in the late Roman republic, emphasizing colloquial language and grandeur brightened by realism. He was master of short witty commentary on politics and society. Unfortunately, while we can admire the wit, the personalities and events are a blank to us so there is very little emotional heft to them. Born of a high-class family in, it is thought, 84 B.C. The date of his death is unknown. The poem I selected is from the collection by Penguin Classics titled The Poems of Catullus. Although entangled in prolonged grief severed from the company of the Muses and far from Pieria my brain children still born myself among Stygian eddies the eddies plucking at the pallid foot of a brother who lies under Dardanian soil stretched by the coastland whom none may now hear none touch shuttered from the sight whom I treasured more than life and shall - in elegies of loss plaintive as Procne crying under the shadow of the cypress for lost Itylus, I send, Hortalus, mixed with misery Berenice's Lock - clipped from Callimachus for my might think my promise has slipped like vague wind through my head or was like teh apple unvowed the girl takes from her lover thrusts into her soft bodice and forgets there... till her mother takes her off guard - she is startled, the love-fruit trundles ponderously across the floor and the girl, blushing, stoops gingerly to pick it up  it's a sign this is not a happy chirpy day birds moan from the trees dogs whine and cower cats scowl in aggravation at the world's failure yet again to recognize feline pre-eminence in the order of things trees droop their limbs stars, like cheap plastic jewelry on a dark-hearted whore, do not shine the sun rises, its single bright eye sagging above the horizon's edge like a lay-about drunk preparing for its day's labors, again it seems to say again, and again and again I rise, it says, seeking only the dark relief of night falling sister moon, it calls, stay awhile longer let me sleep... it's not a happy, chirpy day - when birds moan from their trees you know it's not a happy, chirpy day it's a sign On the Coast I've lived on or near the Texas coast most of my life. These are a few pictures from recent years.  season of zombies walking two weeks of cedar fever the highest count of cedar allergens in fifteen years sniffling drippling nose, itchy watery eyes, energy and ambition swirling down the great bottomless sink of Blatzovia-Kaplatz I do not wish to get out of bed I do not wish to do anything but sleep, wrapped tight in my blue blankie of snug, my blue-raggedy, womb-memorized nest of contented murmur for I live in a world of snuffling blindly shuffling zombies... or, at least, seems that way through my own zombie eyes 45th wedding anniversary coming very soon. A celebration will ensue.
If that happens before I post the next blog, I will include additional pictures in it. At this time, I'm putting this on hold. After fooling with this for an hour and a half, I'm prepared to say don't use J C Penny portrait service. Their product is good but damn near impossible to work with other than hanging the prints they give you on a wall. I'll talk to customer service tomorrow to see if they can save themselves. Right now, I'm pissed at them.  red embrace so many lights in the neighborhood… porch lights area lights motion sensor lights the battle of human against night and the dark continues with every downing of the sun thus it was, always so - fire, freedom from the black travelers of night, held at bay at the flickering red edge of the camp fire always waiting for the fire to die… still they wait today those shadow things always there on the black edges of our imagination and still we push them back, from the falling to the rising sun we make our circles and build our fires, wrapping all we love in the fire’s red embrace  in a Mexican courtyard, 1959 a Mexican courtyard under a rhinestone studded sky on a black, border town night… she dances, slowly, like a cat, around the courtyard, pausing before every table to stretch, again, like a cat, perfect in its shadow body, feet barely brushing the dirt floor, compact, sleek, full breasts, dark Indian nipples erect, no burlesque, no go-go dancer, nothing overtly sexual, more like a cat stretching, except she is naked and it is a whorehouse and it has to be about sex, sex as a cat can be like sex, slow and sensual in every step, every smooth, silky step a caress of the night…. 15-year-old boys clutch their tight crotch under the table and wonder if the girls they know could ever be like this  The rest of the poems in this post are from my book, Always to the Light, available, as are all my eBooks, wherever eBooks are sold, including, most prominently, Amazon. There is a dark side to life and a light side. One can choose which life to lead, dark or light. This cover, illustrated by the photo, says to always look to the light, the light being a more rewarding and fun and safer approach than the dark side.  From where I sit from where I sit I cansee past a small grove of winter-bare oak to Interstate-10, east & west routes, the one way to Houston and, through Houston, Louisiana and points east and north beyond the other route, followed westerly 600 miles through hill country and high desert to El Paso and four states beyond, the orange setting sun reflected on Pacific waters... most of the people I see passing are not going so far, most know the futherthest you travel in any direction, the closer you get to home, so why not just stay there, untraveled, but satisfied, right where you and your life belong... myself? I don't know that I've ever been at home so I'm always pulled between leave and stay... today, under a cold, overcast sky, I think I want to stay tomorrow? that's why we have night and day, night a curtain that comes down between old and new, a sign to us as it rises every morning that new things are possible after all what use a curtain if nothing changes between acts  Smile for me it's the lunch side of Sunday brunch & the place is packed, a mixed crowd of church folk in their Sunday best & the just crawled-out-of-bed crowd in shorts & flip-flops, bed-hair flat on one one side, sticking out on the other like a porcupine in heat, & the golfers from the quarry, clip-clop clip-clop-clip in their golf shoes & grandmas and pregnant moms with last year's babies in high chairs, dads in khakis & hard-starched checkered shirts thinking how simple life is at work & that baby again, looking at me from across the room talking talking talking hyper-alert, smiling a big toothless smile for me this swirl of sound & color is like I'm alone, unmoving in the center of a whirlpool of sensation, all moving, sound & color streaming like paint flung in a circle except the baby, talking talking talking smiling a big toothless smile for me  Slow lane it's 10:30, the movie we want to see this week starts at noon, so we have some time to kill meanwhile, I've had my breakfasrt and the multiple coffees needed to set the world back to its proper rotation, and the Sunday morning peasure of both my local paper and the Times, slowly read Dee just out the door for a walk and some window shopping and me, here, with this making me think, as writing a poem always makes me think, this time about how much pleasure there is in these slow Sunday mornings and how happy I am I'm not hung-over as so often I used to be because of the way Sunday mornings always followed the self-abuse of Saturday night  Scattered in the wide night sky scattered in the wide night sky are pinpoints of light bringing star-heat to worlds like our own biological stews pining the universal spark on some and on others, life at its most simple is cradled, protected from the cosmic storms, and on a relative few, creatures who strive and dream like you and I I know this like some people know God, such knowledge a product of longing in the lonely bright for a comanion worthy of our best nature  Here are two short poems by Nanao Sakaki, from the collection, Break the Mirror, published by North Point Press in 1987. Sakaki was a Japanese poet, author of Bellyfulls and leading personality of The Tribe, a loose-knit countercultural group in Japan in the 1960s and 70s. He was born to a large family in Kagoshima Prefecture, and raised by parents who ran an indigo dye-house. After completing compulsory education at age twelve, he worked as an office boy in Kagoshima. He was a draftee radar specialist stationed in Kyushu in the military, and surreptitiously read Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Kropotkin, Marx, and Engels as time allowed. After the war, he went to Tokyo, living in an underpass near Ueno Station. Vinegar With vinegar I clean up windows. I clean up mind's windows. I clean up green forest blue sky, white clouds. I clean up the universe. __________not true__________ Now transparent windows----- Againist the glass Chickadees, robins, jays hit their heads and lose their lives. In charity I pick them up eat them up with friends. Winter Flower Trails After two days snowing A rosy evening glow. You remembrr suddenly The star shining in daytime And flowers blooming her in summer. Star light Snow light And icy thistle field. Staggering with heavy boots You break dry flowers Into small pieces of the sun. Stare here Your footprints Animal tracks Flower trails Shine over the zodiacal light Along the Milky Way.  A found poem, from a story in the New York Times, Front Page, January 14, 2009 Praise God from whom all blessings flow a man on a motorbike pulled along side her asked what seemed an ordinary question "are you going to school?" then he pulled her burqa from her head and sprayed her face with burning acid 17 years old and bravely back in school, she says, "They want us to be stupid things." praise God in all his cruel and hideous forms amen  My younger brother, my older brother, (both deceased) and me Beat down but never backed down I always admired those whip-thin guys who run their lives on instinct who, when disrespected, lay the offender out on the floor, light a cigarette, walk to the bar and order another beer while I'm still lost in internal dialogue... "what did that guy say? "did that guy just call me a punk-ass motherfucker? "he did, he did by God. he did just call me a punk-ass motherfucker. "why would he do that?" I would query myself. "Im a nice guy, plus, I never did anything to him. "well, I don't care. I can't let anyone call me a punk-ass motherfucker! I'm gonna have to take him down!" "where'd he go?" of course, by the time complete my internal dialog and react, he's probably moved on to his next stop, laughing with his friends probably forgot he called anyone a punk-ass motherfucker, and everone else in the bar, disappointed that there wasn't no fighting after all, has turned back to their beer and moved on... and, I'm standing in the middle of the room by myself.. one of those whip-thin instince guys would have swung first and thought about it later and you can see from the scars they swung first when they should have thought about it maybe just a litle bit longer... my older brother was one of those whip-thin guys, gone now for more than fifteen years, beat down, sometimes, but never backed down  This poem is by Mexican novelist, poet, essayiist and translator Jose Emilio Pacheco from his first book City of Memories. The book, published by City Lights in the United States and Ediciones Era in Mexico was winner of the James Asuncion Silva Award for best book of poetry to appear in Spanish from 1990 to 1995. The American edition is a bilingual book, with Spanish and English translation by Cynthia Steele and David Lauer on facing pages. It is a true poet's poem, cast our for whoever might want it. For You Not a bottle at sea nor vampire's flight, more like a torn scrap of paper blowing toward you in the street, the poem. It's one or the other: you trap it or let it go by; read it or throw it in the trasn. The wind blows where it will: putting it in your hand or steering it toward nothingness. It's a miracle that your eyes linerger on a scrap of paper in the street. Do with it what you will.  This pictureis from about ten years ago, taken on a day like this day, the second of the new year, in San Antonio, were the sun is bright and the temperature is in the mid-thirties, reminding me of the pleasure sitting outside on a cold moring, by a fire drinking the morning's first cup of coffee. Pumpkins a little frosty today pumpkins a little frosty this morning and the footbridge across Apache Creek a little slippery with a light rime sheet, dog pulls I slide along behind… it’ll be 60 degrees within two hours of the sun’s rising… colder tonight, warmer again tomorrow morning no wonder we are confused --- cat scurries, no more a friend of the cold than me… dog thinks it’s all just mighty fine I take her off the leash down by the creek and she runs and runs and runs, wide circles in the low cut grass, then stops to jump up to my chest for a scratch behind her ears then runs again and again and again in wide circles in the grass… wet paw prints on my coat where she jumps --- a bird on a bush right outside my window not sure what kind maybe a mocking bird, but feathers so fluffed against the cold it’s hard to say a ball of gray fluff, like the soft lint you pull off the filter in your clothes dryer sharp little beak, tiny, coal-dust eyes, looking in at the warm people on the other side of the glass, especially at me since I am nearest, a black stare before it flexes its fluffed chest and flies --- Sunday morning it is, a time to prepare for a slow day to wind and travel  Photo taken near sunrise, January 1, 2010
Medicated meditation drifting a small boat on calm seas, ripple suggests, but forgotten, lulled by soft tides that rise and fall such a very little bit, day to night, night to day, drifting small boat calm seas day to night night to day drifting a tiny whirlpool of nowhere soon 
In the time of emergence an old Navajo chant speaks of the "time of emergence" and I think of the all-there-is emerging, not a product created by the hand of a god, but a creation that emerges from the mind of the all-mother/all-father, creation, not as a single event, a job of work, complete over the course of a week of seven god-days, but a continuing process of never-ending creation, a creation-flow, an emergency of ever-deepening truth, like the night emerges and from the night a day emerges and from the day, a night, like the sea emerges from the deep, breaks on shores far from where its water essence begins, then returns to the deep that sent it, and back again to the same or different shores, far-traveled, enriched by its journey; like rain on cut hay left in the field overnight, the fire of creation processing within, its must odor rising again with the fallen rain to become a cloud, drifting over continents, over prairies and mountains and cities and great forests, across the oceans, bringing the musty smell of wet hay with new-falling rain around the world and back again to mowed fields where it began, in a moment of passion emerged from one of us to another, then the continued emergence through a life of ins and outs, comes and goes, contributing as we come and go, our own passions to the universe we are part of again, flowing through our time until our end and in a moment of death-ecstasy, souls singing as we join the all-there-is from whence we came our part of the great emergence complete, until we, like the sea return again to new and different shores, enriched by our time drifting in the creator's emerging conscious Chaos management "I am not afraid of chaos because chaos is the womb of light and life. What I don't like is mis-management of chaos." - Franketienne, Haitian author, poet, playwright, painter there are patterns to the univese, from the orbits of galaxies to the circling of the tiniest electron around its mother neutron anchor to the greening and falling of leaves to the daily commute of bankers and painters and donut makers to the soft sleep of babies and the long, dry nights of old and time-worn men, all circling all circling, each circle a world within itself, inter-acting with its fellows in shadows of confusion, like looking at the color patterns of gumballs encased in glass, patterns seen only through a one-eyed squint from some great distance, the further away clear becomes the organization, red upon green next to blue under yellow, each placed in a structured chaos, like the universe in all its chaotic glory, structured truth we can never get distanced enough to see, an incubator spewing chaos, indestructible unalterable manageable only through the indirection of unseen hands that must never fumble or chaos will solidify and all the circles will stop their spinning and fall to the lethargy of inertia stilled and all that is will, like Lot's wife, turn to salt crumbling on a silent palin in the steady wind of never-again...  The poems in this post come from New Days & New Ways, my most recent, and probably last, book of poems, specifically from the 6th and last chapter in the book,"Out There," an attempt to close the book in a more philosophical vein. I don't expect to ever again do the work involved in putting a book together and putting it out there for people to read.  Bang I believe we are all children of the big bang and that nothing truly new has been added to the mix since... and while I don't know what came before the bang, I'm guessing we'll figure it out before the end... multible bangs, maybe; bangs within bangs, bangs bouncing off bangs like a six bank corner pocket hustle; perpetual bang, one bang banging another like steel balls hung from strings banging one after the other in a row in a forever and ever progression; bangs banging out there, banging in somewhere else - that's one to imagine, creation in reverse, the Garden of Eden returning to uplowed field... or it could be a single, once-and-only bang - that would make us really something, us and all the universe we know, or don't, our stars, the only stars anywhere you and me, the only us anywhere... somehow, I just don't feel that special Starburst Born again, and again and again and again I know many people who proudly proclaim to have been born again, under-achievers I call them since, not satisfied with being only twice-born, I have been born again; and again and again again for I am a being of universal elements and thus, certain to be born again as I have been born before uncountable times, uncountable times, for the parts that make me as old at the universe itself and so must be all the things I have been, things near to home and faraway - lost in the vast unknown regions where stardust still drifts - vastly traveled are my parts, so vastly traveled I must be as well , so varied and old and well-traveled look around you at the vast everything-ness that we are, have been, and will be a part of ... consider how marvelous I am, and you as well sometimes I think of the me that was a daffodil, and how beautiful I was, much more beautiful than I am now, though rooted and consequently less curious than the proto-cat I was, roaming with early felines, newly crearted to hunt that was the me, that was the deer, or the beaver, or the small mouse hidden in high grasses, or the grass I might have been, or the wiggling worm that fertilized the grass-of-me with my worm droppings... so many places I have been so many beings I have been, so more than the twice the pentacoltals brag of , and so much more than twice-born I will be in the millennia ahead, so much more to be, so much longer to be them I can imagine how jealous must be those who consider themselves to be only twice-being Explosion at the Campbell Soup Factory   Discovery the serenity of the moment before the particle of a second when the universe stops to inhale before breathing again with a gasp of stars shaken and stirred in their orbits the idea, the thought complete, all pieces floating in confusion slide through the chaos to find their place together... and you know, you finally know how your life fits in the greater, pulsating, ocean of creatures both like and unlike yourself the greater theme is finally yours to know... now it is only to not forget again  This poem is by Marilyn Hacker, from her book, Winter Poems, published by W W Nortorn in 1994. letter on June 15 I didn't want a crowd. I didn't want writers backbiting in a restaurant. Last night's leftover duck, some chilled Sancerre (you've called fresh-tasting) beckoned to me more. I crossed the Pont Sully, into an eight- forty sunset, toward home, and whom I'd meet. In the letter that I didn't write, I tell you, I was meeting you tonight. You in an envelope; you in the braille of postmarks footnoting the morning mail. You, bracked from life with someone else though part of every page is what she tells you; not my morning clarity of bells to matins, phoned links to life with someone else. I met you here as if geography wee all that separated you from me though hand to hand and lovely mouth to mouth magnetic norh and doubly polar south are on lost maps, the trails are overgrown. It's warm, it's almost dark, it's half past ten. "I can't imagne Paris without you" was the tearjerker on the radio when I begana to cry in Julie's car under the Nashville skyline where you were the bottom line. By the time we got to Phoenix (with bald tires and gluey hot seatcovers) I was already half way back to Paris without you. In time, with luck, anyone can imagine needing less than all this food, these books, these clothes: excel uholstry, distraction dead wood, bloat. You're what I had to learn to do without. I did. But there you are, no farther than the whirring of the small electric fan we bought that summer when you had night sweats, then a sore back, then just a cold, then doubts that you'd blot out with morning lust against my chest, my cunt my mouth, as evdence that you were present. Later, you'd deny what you'll admit to now: the late Julythree-quarter moon on shuttered bars, the meat and vegetables, the dim glow when you lit a candle in the chapel after Mass. An ancient park attendant clears the grass of kids who where imagined jouissance when we conceived and miscarried out chance. We each have whispered, written, other names.s There are more dead for whom to light small flames. Down on the street, waiters crank up the awniing of the cafe en face. Tomorrow morning I'll be no farther and no closer than your walk down to the post office with Jan along a storm -pocked tertiary road. Word-children, we will send eac other words that measure disances we have to keep defining. When I lay me down to sleep you stack up your day's work sheets on the porch table, light up, lean back. Two silver birch trees for a twilit arch above your head. I't hours before you're going to bed. True Romance   Inside/outside it's all a circle, these lives we lead, everything goes, and in its time, comes again like this bright and beautiful morning, sky clear, the light blue of bright yellow sunshine and yellow-laced shadows... i've been here before and, with luck, be here again - and again and again, knowing even as I luxuriate in this cold bright, that dark will come again, welcoming that dark, for bright is not bright without it, as day is not day without the brackets of night, as people who live in the dry desert, how they welcome the rain, people who live under a forever cloudless sky, how they marvel at a cloud's slow passing... and as I think of my circular life, I think of my dog, lovely, sweet Reba, for whom every minute is the only minute, like all dogs, living in the moment, every minute a lifetime, sixty life times in an hour, how disconcerting, how wonderful to be so inflicted by nature, so blessed to live like that, to live outside the circle of time, to live in the constant changing forever strange and forever new and I wonder if I could ever be dog enough to live a life of so many lives  A cold, fishhook moon a cold, fishhook moon floating in a black, star-specked sky... the universal pool of all overhead as I walk the path down hill in the goose-bump cold of this post-midnight, pre-dawn morning... I wander in the star-lit dark, searching, as I sometimes do in the night while others sleep, searching for the answers that even in these late years elude me, searching through the mysteries of night whether full-moon light or dim, no-moon dark for the the whys and ways and whats of a day in the life of the one among millions that is me - carbon-cluster me, assuming, with the arrogance of my kind, that there are answers that are mine to know  Anthropocene that's what they are now calling "The Age of Man" meaning, I'm not sure, either the time humans began to occupy the earth as masters, or the period beginning earlier, when man existed primarily as small, sampering jungle and prairie prey... but I'm pretty sure "the age of man," hower defined, came after the "age of dinosaurs," about which I'm not sure were they reptiles or mamalian cousins of man that just happened to lay eggs, or, as I've begun to hear, somehow related to chickens and I'm not sure if chickens are reptiles or mammals with wings, or something else, along with turkeys and hawks and eagles and red,red rohins, and even carrion eating vulture... but I am delighted that there is a chance that the "age of man" followed the "age of chickens" and, considering how stupid chickens are, whether the "age of man" would have ever come about if we had been competing for an age of our own with something smarter, a dog, or maybe a pig, leaving us, had it been thus, scrathing fleas and sleeping a slop pen in the "age of dog and pig" and putting all that ancient history aside, I can't help but wonder whose age the next will he... considering our record so far during my particular part in the "age of man", tkhe "age of ash and cinder" might seem a fair prospect for the next age. or, maybe a better scenario, like the "age of cockroach" (think of that the next time you squash a cockroach with your pointy-toed cowboy boot, it might be your heirs you are suashing, and heaven forbid they have a long genetic memory - plan for the future, that's what you have to do when you're responsible for a whole age) ----- meanwhile, across the way, a herd of deer graze across a broad pasture, except not bunched like a herd, but scattered individually across the field, as if each deer, walking his on way,, decided on its own to stop for a bite of pasture grass, solitary deer each at its own meal, not Texas deer, too much alone, New York deer, maybe, commuters at a quick-stop pasture, adapting to the "age of man" and my cockroach mean mood is lifted... maybe there's a chance for an "age of deer", a return to golden fields and forests, a return to the "age of first nature" - befor the jealous god split timel and brought the misery of ages to humans and all the other creatures alike or maybe, if I believe that hard enough it will make, at least, a better day  Who will be the poet then?
say that a poem is not the word spoken or the word printed in some proscribed form designated as poetic by tradition or fashion of the time; go instead to the image the words, however presented, are meant to provoke and find the poetry directly in the vision, images in the air of real space and time, transmitted through your senses to that part of your mind that dwells among the visual cues and clues of the world, the de-randomized pieces that combine to for a picture that means an emotion, visions that fire chemial reactions that push eletronic jabs to our frontal cortex to createl a contex within which emotions form, think of poetry as transcending words, internal visions of the poet going directly to an external vision to be seen and shared... (the most beatiful poem I've ever experienced, a French short film of horses, a herd of horses running through fields of high grass, the beauty of their flesh and their muscled bodies, and the sweat blown from their nostrils, and the steam, too, from their mouths and nostrils, the internal heatof their great bodies under great exertion blown into cold air, and the colors of their coats and the grace of their great running leaps over high grass and shallow waterways - the most beautiful poetry I've ever experienced and not a word was spoken - no words written or spoken could match the image direct) think of poetry as visions transmitted through some visual media, like the screen of your local cinema, or think of future poetry, transmitted directly into your dreams... think of the day when dreams are the ultimate poetry and poets the ultimate dream-makers... who will be the poets then  I will be using a number of pieces in this post that I didn't include in my book, Places and Spaces, because they didn't fit with the plan I had for the book. beginning with this one, from our first visit to Durango. We've been back many times, as recently as a month and a half ago. Animas in the A.M. 5 a.m. walking main street downtown dog impervious to the cold not me across the railroad tracks past the hotel slick sidewalk alongside the Animas River snow deep on both sides river iced at the bank solitary duck climbs frost-glistened rock mid-stream slips scrambles honks no other sound but the rustle of the river as it eddies and curls and slides over rocks across the river five deer gather in a clearing graze silent as the morning a car crosses the bridge at the end of the block lights reflecting on snow all around tires crunching froze-crisp ice shell on the road and the deer flipping their tails flee high-leaping (Durango, Colorado, 1997)  Cold truths of life and death in black and white atop a rise a mound of earth an ancient burial mound looking out over a snowed-over field white field black skeleton of a winterized tree thin black line of a frozen creek five black horses led by a white horse ghost against the snow legs lifted high above the snow crossing (Colorado, February, 2008)  A cemetery a cemetery on a low mound between the highway and the Rio Grande the humble markers of poor people from the cluster of casitas I passed a quarter mile back, small houses of native stone, like the more elaborate markers, the ones not of rotting wood, crosses, bowing toward the ground, native flowers gather at the base of some, stone or wood, nothing, stone or wood or flowers, around the indentations that mark the oldest graves, the unmarked, the never marked, those of transient markers no match for the inevitable decline of time that leaves these shallow dimples over a grave in which nothing but a few scattered bones remain, poor people, cowboys and shepherds who lived and died, then faded to nothing beneath dry badland sand… (Hwy. 170 between Terlingua and Presidio, May, 2003)  Come the resurrection the path down and back is steep and arduous, especially for older people, though benches along the way provide a place to stop and rest, a moment to breathe thin air and listen to the wind passing between the canyon walls, the stubby trees restless in response birds call along the way but go silent among the ruins, homage to the ghosts who patrol the bare adobe rooms, guarding the ancient walls until those who left return again, pull from storehouses the grain and seed they left behind for this very day of resurrection we are silent visitors, with the birds, waiting for the tread of soft footsteps so long absent from their home (Mesa Verde, 1979)  Continental divide snow field backed up by pine 7 years old, the first time he’s seen this much snow, out of the car pushing through hip-deep snow... first snowball, hits me on the chest, I return fire, snow battle ensues until we collapse laughing in the snow… shadows pass in forest silence, behind the thick pines, deer, giving no apparent notice to the strangers and their loud, unfamiliar games in the virgin snow… fresh storm coming, first flakes fall, fat wet flakes hitting with a splat on our coats, the windshield... time to get off the mountain (Colorado, late October, 1990)  Dust to dust to dust wind howling outside the car sand popping against our windows like tiny fingers tapping, blowing across the highway thick as a mid-winter fog on a Gulf coast morning tumbleweeds fly in front of us and behind like prickly missiles shot from a silo somewhere in Iowa or Kansas a big one, the size of a small car, rushing at us broadside, tossed airborne, right over the top of us, one side to the other… (Texas Panhandle, March 1981)  From 2014, not a travel poem, though the picture is, from 1967 while studying Russian at Indiana University for the Air Force. King of the serial heroes breakfast downtown again, my favorite place for breakfast, the best $40 breakfast in town… and why am I telling you this? because I have to tell you something I suppose and until I have something interesting to tell you my breakfast plans will have to do… the restaurant at the Pearl, about a block and a half from my coffeehouse, so I’d be going that way even if I wasn’t going there for breakfast 7 o’clock now, meeting Dee at the restaurant at 8:30, which means I’ll be leaving here about 8 o’clock - here being my regular breakfast haunt where I just had coffee and toast this morning, with a turkey sausage patty for the dog (here being were I am every morning - here for a symbolic cup of coffee so the servers won't feel disrespected by my absence and so they won't call the sheriff to investigate the possibility of foul play having befallen me) but still niceties aside, I must leave room for the coddled eggs… then, going downtown on the interstate on a misty-slick road, commuter clogged, half the traffic intimidated by the wet road, driving 50 miles an hour, and the other half hitting 85, on the theory that slick roads won’t be a problem if you drive fast enough to fly above them see, there, I finally got to the exciting part, will I make it downtown or will I die in a wet, dripping and twisted wreck half-way there? it’s a real drama this poem a cliff-hanger, just like when Zorro rides his horse off a cliff into a deep, dark ravine you have to come back next Saturday to see how he survived, "how", not "if" because we know he did survive just don’t know how, Saturday afternoon movie serial heroes, like God himself, moving in mysterious ways to always beat the odds, survive for a second, third, fourth, fifth, etc. coming… I am the hero of all my stories, as you well might know, so expect a dramatic, bloody car crash, from which I will crawl, unhurt, to continue my Wednesday morning quest for my $40 breakfast King of the Serial Heroes - that’s me  another travel poem not included in the travel book, "Places and Spaces" Musical mystery tour he and I, father and son quality time together driving through the mountains and deserts and vistas of the American Southwest, me celebrating my first retirement, he celebrating the end of another year of high school at fifteen, a musician himself, he had an advanced and eclectic taste in music, so that by our fourth day I was introduced to musicians new to me that are still among my favorites more than 20 years later, listening to Bella Fleck and his Flecktones as we pass through Santa Fe, Dave Matthews while visiting Red Rocks, near holy site to Chris, where Dave and his band played in their early days, about to get too big for such small venues, imagining the band’s improvisations echoing off the rocks, Denver’s tall buildings on the horizon, and over and over as we passed through state after state, a Willie and Lobo CD, two guys with about a half-dozen modern and exotic string instruments, a mix of musical styles and themes from the Moors and the Spanish, intricate compositions from all the different strains of Spanish musical influences with a little modern jazz mixed in, thinking how amazing and wonderful it would be to watch them play… somewhere in Arizona, a small town whose main and near only street followed along railroad tracks from city-start to city-end, a rusty town, everything rusty red, a mining town, the red dust of its mines the only thing left of the towns reason to be… a night in a motel beside the highway, brought awake several times though the long night by trains passing, their lonely whistle moaning at every crossing, up early for breakfast and coffee at a café beside the tracks, sausage and eggs and a flyer on the cashier’s counter, Willie and Lobo, never knowing they would be there, we missed them by just two days… I didn’t tell Chris how close we had come, but I still have the CD and play it often (Somewhere in Arizona, 1998)  The next poem is by Frank O'Hara, taken from his book, Meditations in an Emergency. The book was published by Grove Press in 1957. O'Hara was born in Baltimore in 1926 and grew up in New England. From 1951, he worked in New York, first for Art News and for the Museum of Modern Art as assistant curator. He was killed in an auto pedestrian accident in 1966 at the ate of 40. He wrote of postwar art and of his experiences as a gay man. Radio Why do you play such dreary music on Saturday afternoon, when tired mortally tired I long for a little reminder of immortal energy?4 All week long while I trudge fatiguingly from desk to desk in the museum you spill your miracles of Grieg and Honegger on shut-ins. Am I not shut in too, and after a week of work don't I deserve Prokofieff? Well, I have my beautiful de Kooning to aspire to I think it has an orange bed in it, more than the ear can hold. (note: I nod in agreement with the thrust of this poem. My local classics station seems to define worthy to air as anything written over 300 years ago. I long to hear some music from the great scores in cinema, the popular opera of our time.  Gravity’s gold Bella and I, her golden fur blazing like the bright of a second sun shining, and me, devote disciple of the church of intermittent napping, sit together on a park bench in the central plaza crawling with people seeming all tourists, the only likely resident habitues, the aged hippies sitting behind us strumming guitars, talking about everything from starships to moon shadows on the plaza in dim early morning…. the tourists who pass, old couples, pretty girls with accents, all stop to talk to Bella, to stroke her head, as if she were, indeed, the sun with the sun’s gravity, pulling them to her orbit… while she, usually so distant and unwelcoming to anyone who is not me, more like a cold far star than the warm draw of an afternoon sun, basks in the attention… doesn’t want to leave when I get tired of sitting (Santa Fe, 2013)  A flight to Kabul from Peshawar, Easter week, 1969 Moonscape mountains high and bare our small DC-3 struggles as highest peaks pass below within arm’s reach, it seems, from my window seat life below if there is such must be harsh and hard with hard people harsh and unforgiving to those who intrude without invitation... not to be messed with as centuries of armies and great generals have learned - from Alexander to even now ourselves ruing the lesson - if you decide you must fight here make sure first you have the merciless moonscape mountains on your side (Flying over the Hindu Kush, April, 1969)  This poem is by Andrew W. Greeley, taken from his book, The Sense of Love, published by the Ashland Poetry Press of Ashland College in 1992. Greeley, a priest ordained in the diocese of Chicago nearly four decades ago, has been a noted scholar for many years (a professor of social science at the University of Chicago and the author of scores of books in sociology) and has been a constant best-selling fiction writer. A Conclave Sonnet (For Grace Ann) Our great glacier-melted lake turns most fair When, troubled, it gropes for uncertain calm A Like a girl combing wet and tangle hair, Rain swept and twisted by a manic storm. Hair-line traced, fragile vase more lively made, Lightly marked by steel-pointed sorrow's knife, Ready still for flowers too long delayed To grace subtle lines in the bloom of life. Children do not mourn for the lost half day When the noon sky lifts after summer rain But praise the blue with an afternoon of mirth... Hope broken, shattered, stomped on, then reborn: First life lost, it was said, then found again... Seeing death as the vespers of rebirth.  Remembering the caves
so it’s like this, we preserve memories in our brain and when our brain dies so die the memories but there are also memories that reside in our genes that do not die with us but are passed on to our offspring, memories encoded in genes that are part of the inheritance just as are the rest of the genetic mix that makes us generational memories, passed on and passed on so that some part of us remembers the cave, remembers the man-things, the almost-us Neanderthals who we remember as we remember so many other fantastical things beyond our experience, things we explain through tall tales and myths and fairy stories… and beyond that, it is said, all living things animal and plant have these genetic memories just as all living things have a consciousness, the whooping cranes in their winter marsh home, finding this refuge every year not though some trick of navigation, but because they remember it, generations of genetic memory remembering its comforts and where it is and how to get there and also the forests and the prairie grasses and the sunflower who turns its face to the sun before the sun rises, knowing from generations that it will rise and that it will rise in the east and generations of warm sun memory tell it when it is time to turn… science learning from myth, myth suggesting new science, and with each new thing we learn, new mysteries, all knowledge an accumulation of ignorance addressed,, universal consciousness, memories from all becoming part of all… where have we heard that before… ``` this the state of knowledge expanding today theory always questing to be challenged, questing to be debunked what does a poet know of this and what advice can such a dabbler provide not much only enough to consider one suggestion - maybe we should all talk to our petunias today though we know they will not talk back, science tells us there is a good chance they will hear and warm themselves in the genetic memory of kind words spoken by those who in the far past knew them better than we Poems and stories in this post will come from my book, Always to the Light, and later poems never collected or published in a book, as well as from other poets I haven't selected yet.  Listening to Mussorgsky Listening to Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition” From the speaker overhead just as I start to write my poem, Wondering how my little hiccup of a poem can imagine a place for itself In the same world as the great gates of Kiev, Having second thoughts, in fact, about writing anything today, Deciding in the end, to be true to my philosophy that the value of art is in its doing, Not its product, that product being merely an artist’s footprint, Sign to the tracker that the artist was there, Valuable to collectors of fine footprints but as irrelevant to the artist’s nature As the remains of a grand banquet laid out on a cluttered table, Evidence of a feast, but not the feast itself… So, hear me, dear reader, I am afraid this poem will never mean as much to you As it did to me in its making It was a great pleasure for me And I’m sorry I can leave only the bones for you  Poesis interruptus I stopped off at my friendly Gas-grocery-beer-cigarettes convenience for money After my usual morning coffee and newspaper read At my usual table At my usual diner With the usual Sunday morning dueling church folk To the behind and either side of me, Including an extra place or two Filled by the twice-a-year Christians Who, it seems, get all the saving they need on Christmas and Easter, Securing all other Sunday mornings for sleeping late or golf… Discovering After my third cup that I had no cash but for four pennies, three dimes, two quarters And a Canadian coin I’ve trying to get rid of since our trip to Vancouver two years ago, Leaving me to pay my $1.94 tab with my debit card ```````````` It is at this point in the story that the poet is interrupted By life outside the poem – poesis interruptus – and the question is four hours later As to whether he can get it up again to finish what he had most ardently begun… At first you might think that returning to the earlier story half-finished Is a process of separating the wheat of earlier inspiration From the chaff of the humdrum interim… But that’s not the case because, with proper poetic recognition, All could be one and each could be the other with no separation necessary or possible Integration is needed instead, finding the wheat in the essence of all chaff And the chaff that infiltrates all wheat – Like the small shopping center by the gas-grocery-beer -cigarette store Where I stopped to use the ATM machine, Anchored by a large vacant $1 store Close up to the “X-treme Impact Church” Next to “Alive MMA – Brazilian Jiu Jitsu” Adjacent to the “Gathering of Grace Church” Neighbor to “Fantasy Nails and Tan” Snuggled up tightly to “Tattoos and Piercings” Sharing a common wall with “Gin’s Chinese Restaurant” It is all, in this world, like the shopping center, All the disparate bits and pieces, All the wheats and chaffs of everyday urban life Swirled together by the Mix Master of everyday living, Making the single and complete Here and now of this particular and unique Easter Sunday morning, Another party to which I am not invited because I will pay the price of admission – Separation of sinners from the saved, rather than embracing unity of all mankind, Some sinner in every saint And a bit of saint in every sinner Wheat from chaff, I am one and I am both And cannot separate my own self from the other Or either from You  Happy Confederate Heroes Day the biggest problem with being a non-believer is I miss all the best holidays... Christmas and everybody tra-la-la-laling all over town and I'm in a funk because every place I like to go is overcome with manic Christmas fanatics driving me crazy with their lousy Christmas spirit and I know after six months of this the day will finally come and everything I like to do will be impossible for twenty-four hours because everything will be closed so people can go tra-la-la-ling at home with their tra-la-la kids and if I see that damn scrooge or that yellow brick road or that stupid angel getting his wings one more time I might just get medieval with my TV and right before that there is Thanksgiving which requires me to eat turkey for three weeks and I don't even like turkey... and next, just as that dumbass angel finally gets his wings we jump into Easter and the whole cascarones breaking confetti-filled eggs on my head thing, leaving me with a headache for two days and a week and a half of pulling paper bits from my hair... those are the big ones, except for the 4th of July which would be great if it was the 4th of October or something like that instead of right in the middle of the hottest part of summer when I'm supposed to eat bar-b-que in the park, outside and watch fireworks and listen to the symphony, with help from the canons at Fort Sam Houston, play the 1812 overture outside outside outside outside everything outside and who the hell wants to be outside when it's 114 degrees in the shade and there's damn little of that that doesn't leave me with anything but Confederate Heroes Day which causes family issues with one great grandpappy on one side and the other great grandpappy on the other and the minute we start talking about it we have to fight the whole frigging war all over again who needs it! (NOTE: Confederate Heroes Day dropped in Texas as a state employee holiday about 20 years ago in favor of LBJ's birthday.)  The catch of the day Is not the fish we catch Or the one that got away The catch of the day is the time we stay and the walking home together Eastern sky the eastern sky red like an angry rose by any other hue would it sweet so smell end of days of 2012 approaching a new year’s ending beginning in two days and I have no reflex for an old year a new year an in-between year a sky red as an angry rose the hue so sweet no reflex to measure the new number the old just a day you know like any other day no reflex for seeing new what I’ve seen before or new days or old days or roses angry red no matter how sweet hue the smell it’s just another damn day in another damn year just another damn moment just another damn angry hue and I have no reflex to understand or to teach it must another momentary rose angry then gone like me hasta la vista huesome rose On the South Texas Coast  This poem is by Carol Coffee Reposa. It is taken from her book Underground Musicians, published by Lamar University Press in 2013. This is Reposa's fourth book of poetry. A professor emeritus of English at San Antonio College, she has received three Fulbright-Hay Fellowships, along with three Pushcart Prize nominations. Los Amantes de Sumpa First she died And then he died Ten thousand years ago. She was twenty. He was twenty-five. Both were well off for their time. Mourners laid him next to her, Placed his arm around her waist, His leg across her thigh. This man and woman Could have watched The sun come up each day In bursts of red and gold Or listened for the early morning birdsong While they thatched their roof. Perhaps they married Had a feast She might have borne a child. I look at the tangled bones His skull crushed From centuries of earth Hollows of his eyes Filled long ago with bright desire What remains of him still turned tdo her It doesn't matter When they died Or why, or how All that counts this afternoon Or any other Is his arm around her waist, His leg across her thigh.  Written today, if written tomorrow perhaps entirely different. Too long, too personal, written in poetry form only because that is the form most natural to me, like breathing Taking stock A picture from 50 years past, Me, In the tiny trailer I lived in While returning to university After military service A pen in my shirt pocket, always, Even today a pen in my shirt pocket, A jacket, part of an Afghan soldier’s uniform, Received in a trade with one of the soldiers Who guarded our compound, that I wore that day Even though it was a little too small for me Years passed since then Long ago, those days when the end of life Was a dim dot, a spec, far away, Far enough to easily forget it was there Years passed since then And today the tiny dot Is a black pit I stand at the edge of There is no forgetting the dark At my feet Years passed And I feel a need to take stock… Born and raised In a small South Texas town near the border, High intelligence creating high expectations around me I lacked the will to meet, A disappointment, even to myself Leaving that town at eighteen, Finding opportunity to grow closer To the me others expected me to be, But, still floating on a dead sea, I lingered behind Until military service, I fought the call, but gave in to the inevitable, And, once in, achieving rank early Despite being mediocre at my job at best, The beneficiary of expectations, those who led me Seeing in me a future leader Then, military service complete, University degree in hand, The beginning of a career that fit me As if made for me, Ambition discovered, power and influence, And though temporary as such power always is, I liked it and took advantage of it To do things that, on the scale of my life, Seemed great things But the great things that gave me such pride Passed, like the power that created them, The accomplishments that seemed so large, Eroded to doodlebug dust like the power That created and sustained them A second life then as a poet, Twisting stories of my life into A form of poetry mostly known To be unknown, a blip, then forgotten And then a third life as an artist, A talent-free artist, creating art No more memorable than the poetry And now the pit lies deep and dark Before me and, leaving all that past Behind me, my stock, my portfolio, Is simply this, a wife who loves me And a son in whom I have as much pride As anything in my passing powerful past That’s all… And it turns out, It’s enough  Old homes left behind taking a little trip in a couple hours a two-hour drive to the coast, to Corpus Christi first, the city where I lived for fifteen years before ambition drew me to the hills twenty years ago I'll see if any old haunts remain - it seems every time I visit, a few more are gone, the old city slipping away, a whole new city grown up on the south side where grain and cotton were the only cash crops before… I’ll wander around downtown, called now in my hotel brochure “The downtown entertainment district” (Which it was some years ago, until the folks at the old folks' home complained about the noise - we’ll see, I guess, maybe all the old folks died or have become accustomed to noise with their oatmeal) breakfast tomorrow morning at the top of the Omni, the bay and bayfront laid out, the water rippling in early morning tide, shinning orange and red under the rising sun, the lights of the shipyards tiny pin holes through dim early morning on the other side of the bay… --- taking the long way home tomorrow, across the bay bridge to North Padre and Mustang Island, stopping for pictures of the beach and the fishing boats in Port Aransas, then the ferry across the ship channel, back to the mainland, first Aransas Pass, then down the coast to the little cities that lap the water's edge, Ingleside by the Bay, Rockport, Fulton, with lunch at Charlotte Plummer’s, pictures along the way if I can find anything I haven't snapped before after lunch, west to the flat highways of the coastal plains, plowed fields on either side, fields settled in for winter, awaiting early grain, and the wind farms, new, spread along the coast, facing southeast to catch the constant gulf winds, winds converted to electricity, the sustenance that feeds our civilization, then, pasture and old oaks spreading wide across low hills that grow over the miles to the curves and up and down highways of hill country highways, just past my home in my little divide between rolling ridges and the creek that runs alongside it… home at the end of day, old homes left behind again  Ride the tiger early clouds turned to wide-open sky as the sun rising burns away the night cramps of dead memories and lost dreams a new day, old swept away in the dark processing of midnight shadows and the sighs of slow-hobo winds the old day surrenders its night, back broken by the crack of an orange horizon, the bright new tiger stretches, gathers together the hours of its dominion, metes them out to us with the lick of her red tongue, sharp extension of bright claws… ~~~ welcome… ride the tiger as you must, until the next dark sends her slinking back to her shadow den  Here are three short poems from my library. The poems are by Eric Greinke, taken from his book Wild Strawberries, published in 2008 by Presa Press. Greinke is the author of several book, including poetry, fiction and non-fiction. He has a Master's degree in Social Work and has twenty-five years experience working with disturbed and disabled children. He has also taught creative writing in an alternate high school and has worked in the Michigan Poets in The Schools program. Dust Obnoxious cosmetics Drip from the face Of the Statue of Liberty. Diamonds gleam From teh President's teeth. Old dogs argue Over the skulls Of rock stars and senators. A battalion of metal roaches Dances around the captured flag. In the middle Of a moonless night Old men remember the Third Reich. Alarms ring in gladiolas, Cueballing yet another Spring. Northern lights A roar of jeweled leaves Titillates the dark northern sky Celebration above the trees Aurora flares Sun spots dance the edge Owl turns to small sound Marten clings To a a red pine branch Outside my sleepy head Liquid Wild ducks Scoot a landing On blue eyes  Usual suspects the old guys are here and the tattooed fat lady is here and the always neat and clean homeless guy with his tightly wrapped foam bedroll, heavy-looking backpack and professorial look with little half-lens glasses as he spends the day reading in the air-conditioned cool, and the mama with her little blond girl trailing behind, baby-doll in one hand and pink little purse in the other, and little plastic dangly bracelets on both wrists that she shakes as she passes, and the young mother with two little girls, heading double-time for the bathroom, passing a new guy, a long, white-haired Sam Elliot looking guy in short pants reading "Guns and Ammo" magazine, and a couple of medical student regulars, and the short-haired cowboy guy with the bad arm, and the two gay guys that show up a couple times a week (and, OK, maybe they're not gay, but they sure are sharp dressers) and the middle-aged woman, a mid-life student who always looks like she's mad at me because I always get here first and take the table by the door next to an electric plug where she'd like to be, and the dorky-looking guy and his dorky-looking wife who come in and stare at each other and never say a word the whole time they're here, and the old guy with thick glasses and a magnifying glass who writes tiny numbers in columns in a spiral notebook, eyes inches from the page, and the table of law students, arguing with each other like it was a Supreme Court appearance, and the Asian guy reading Shopenheimer haiku and the girl with long auburn hair and acne scared cheeks, a cheeky girl with a constant air of amused observation, and I'm thinking if she was 50 years older she might share the joke with me, assuming it's not me that's the joke, of course, a possibility I do not discount... all the familiar faces in all the familiar places on a mostly typical Thursday...  Campfires around campfires beings not so unlike us as we imagine, told stories of the trials and victories of the day, shared news of the hunt with their clan brothers and cousins many stories reached into the hearts of those who heard them and were told again on other nights around other campfires, passed on through generations and geography… traditions were born, expressed in all the many languages of man… and we who call ourselves poets bear the weight of that tradition with every word we write, a burden, but not heavy, light instead and full of promise an invitation to join kindred souls, to retell the old stories and sometimes our own new story, so well told its telling sets a new spark rising in the dark night, passing from our own campfire to others brightly burning, we will never see… keeping aglow the ancient embers… it is our job, undertaken with the humility of those who understand their place in a long and vibrant history… it is our joy, however well or poorly we do it Diorama morning north wind blows hard against me, cold hand on the nape of my neck, trickles under my coat down my back clear blue sky sharp as a diamond’s cutting edge bright sun like broken glass falling long night’s sleep, waking to a five-year old’s diorama world, construction paper city construction paper world bright colors sharp corners Finishing this post with a reading from my book, Always to the Light, available as always wherever eBooks are sold.  Setting out in a couple days for a two week trip to a couple of my favorite cities to visit, Santa Fe, New Mexico and Durango, Colorado. It's a function of age. When young, we chase new experience. As we get older (and maybe I'm just speaking for myself) we begin to value more the old experiences and the old places, memories like ghosts of the past, that were dear to us before. Always in the back of our minds that each return might be the last and thus are doubly valued. So I will do in each place what satisfies me best, sitting, smelling new air, seeing and sometimes meeting new people. I'm easy, that's all it takes for me. I'll try to document the trip with photos and stories, probably not not new ones, for it's the downside of frequently visiting favored places. Not so much changes.  Except for necessary but boring introductory stuff like this, most of the text in this post will come from, Places and Spaces, my book of travel poems. Beginning, as it almost always does when traveling west, the 550 miles to El Paso. We will extend that Monday by an extra 50 miles to Los Cruces, New Mexico for our first over night stop. So many times I've written of that first long day, I'll just pick one from the book. This story begin as a short trip to Silver City in New Mexico, Silver City being promoted on the highway as an arts city. Not so true, though was, at least, a very good coffee shop. Disappointed otherwise in Silver City, the trip ended up being a large arc across the state and home again. A drive in the country 558 miles and one time zone - San Antonio to El Paso a long day's drive in the country, stone-wrapped hills to the long-stretched fingers of pink Chihuahua Desert blue sky, blue on blue on deep ocean blue sky, to jagged clouds dark and sharply racing And little towns along the way, Segovia, Sonora, Saragosa, Sierra Blanca, Allamoore, Belmora, and Van Horn, all pass the miles and hours and skies and hills and deserts and all the little towns pass quickly on the ridge, a line of dead trees, oak blight killing scrub oak all around remind me of a picture I once saw of a lone tree, bare and burned, among the ruins of Hiroshima these trees like that, bare limbs black reaching up, grasping at the sky in the pasture below, a mare and her foal eat grass generous and green The roadway, blasted through stony hills, in the rock walls on either side layers of geologic time... there, near the top, a woman and a man passed, nearly human, and down here, by my feet a fish struggled, crawled awkwardly from the sea A large buck lying half in the grass, half on the road, muscle and blood and bone and heart against metal and plastic, old times of open graze and new times of death on black tar He, the buck, loser in a clash of kinds... A diversion, a small back road to Fort Lancaster ruins, a narrow two-lane, high mesas on either side a bird, zippity-flash crosses the road skinny little legs pumping, thin neck and head high and proud, sharp, like an arrow passing, and fast, no coyote, no can catch little paisano A cloud billows up from the Chisos Basin like a white rose opening to the sun, cane fields afire in Mexico, black smoke billowing, trucks move in behind the fire with cutters to harvest the cane to sweeten your coffee... Approaching El Paso... a roots CD mix my son made for me - Bela Fleck, Loudon Wainwright III, and a woman I don't know that I could and did listen to for hours The city long since outgrown its little desert-slash of river green, built now on wastelands and its connecting ribbon of interstate 10 at 5 p.m. a raceway of drivers from two countries and three states hurrying be home first, before the wasteland shits and home falls between the cracks North 30 miles to Los Cruces, west 59 miles to Demings, 54 miles north again to Silver City, an easy day's drive, two to two and a half hours, not counting the 30 minutes to find my hotel after my GPS confidently and with great precision deposits me on top of a mountain five miles from the city green desert all the way, a rainy year disguising the stone-hard truth below the green smudge of mountains against the horizon, left and right, front and rear, New Mexico, a state of mountains and deserts and neither ever very far from wherever you might be In the city - an arts and old downtown district are well-preserved and surprisingly populated for a Tuesday afternoon, students from the university and other interesting people crowd the sidewalk and busy street, two good bookstores and the best coffeehouse since San Antonio, strong WIFI signal, coffee with a kick, all very nice, but the main attraction to me for coming was I had never been there before, a moot issue now since I am here, so, with the new day, a decision... The national forest and the Catwalk and the Gila Monument Indian ruins are north - should I go north then return here at the end of the day or should I take and extra day and continue further north to loop around Albuquerque, passing through along the way, not just one, but two mountain ranges and forests... As a creature subject to the allure of tasty food, it will probably depend on how good breakfast is here this morning three horses crossing a green pasture, grass high, up to their knees, crossing single file, one after the other, like carousel horses with somewhere to go Chasing down a dirt road, pulling a cloud of grey dust behind, looking for a red iron bridge I saw from the highway Never found it, instead of the bridge, a rabbit on the side of the road not one of your cute little bunnies, but a big, male hare, three feet tall, two feet, not counting his ears standing proud and pink and scissor sharp, starts to run when I drive up, but stops as I stop, watches as I ease the car forward, reaching for my camera, poses as I snap off a couple of pictures  Dissatisfied so far with my drive, not having found the mountains and forest experience I came for, I decide to take a loop that will lead me right through the middle of the Gila Mountains and National Forest Hwy 159 off 180 - a twisty-turnsy , upsy-downsy road, but well maintained, a two-lane black top But after three miles it turns to one-lane and becomes ever more twisty-turnsy, upsy-downsy Eight miles in I come to the lost little village of Mogollon - originally a mining town, now I think it must be, the boarded up entrance to the mine visible on the side of the road Federal Witness Protection's prime hide out it seems, for persons wanted by the "Mob" and other forces of evil 10 to 12 structures including an old rock museum and several well-maintained houses lining the road, nice rustic houses, beautiful gardens A very strange place, a nice place if you want to get away from it all  A one-lane bridge seperates Mogollon from the National Forest. The paved road and a Forest Service dirt and rock road begins, very rough. Unsure as to how far the dirt road goes before returning to asphalt, for none of this is on my map, I have to decide, should I go forward or should I turn back. Should I see what comes next, which might be worth the whole trip or should I avoid what might be not so good. Disinclined by nature to ever back up, I press forward. The road travels along the bottom of a deep canyon alongside a dry creek. And it is about that time that it begins to rain and I become aware of a large, very black cloud hovering overhead. I know from experience what happens when hillsides and dry creeks and heavy rain come together, I am relieved when the road starts to rise, leaving the canyon and the dry creek behind. The higher I climb, the heavier the rain falls, and the slushier and slipperier the road becomes. Finally after an hour of twisting and turning and climbing and sloshing and slipping, the rain stops and the sun comes out and I can see the great gush of muddy water rushing down the hillside, building new channels as it races from the top to the dry creek below that I am no longer driving alongside. Thoughts of mudslides intrude for a moment, until I decide that I'm high enough to slide down the mountain on top of the mud and not beneath it. Setting aside mudslides and all other hesitations - it is not further back than forward - I come to a break in the trees and look out and see that I am on a high ridge, above the clouds, churning white and billowy below. Going down now, still on the dirt-rocky-rough road, a herd of deer cross the road in front of me. a very large buck and 25 to 30 doe and fawns, fluty white and brown stub-tails flicking as they run, all together, as a group coming down the mountain in great bounds, then back up the other side of the road, like winged creatures who through fate or folly lost their wings but still try to fly, almost succeeding with each great leap passing trough a burned out portion of the forest, pine and aspen, tall and limbless, black as the coal they have become, while they reach for the sky I stop and listen to the wind, all around deep-forest quiet but for the wind through these poor, standing-dead ghost whispers.....  Writing today from Santa Fe, I update current journey to yesterday. Our original plan was to do over six hundred miles on the first day of travel. After five hours of driving, we decided our initial plan was too ambitious, so, instead of going on to Los Cruces as planned we spent the night in Van Horn, a couple hundred miles from our original plan. But it was an enjoyable stop, spending the night at a hotel where we have stayed often in the past, the El Capitan, one of a number of hotels an architect rescued from ruin and restored to their former glory in the 1930's. There are three in Texas. We have stayed at two, the El Capitan. an old cattle and oil baron hangout, and the Gage in Marathon, a traditional railroad hotel. The third is in Marfa, the largest, where we have not stayed. Up early yester day and did the four hundred and something miles to Santa Fe where it's 33 degrees and sunny with a fierce north wind. Today will be spend walking around the plaza and watching other tourists discover the city. Tomorrow we will be off to Durango, Colorado, where we will spend three days before heading home, with a night on the way in Albuquerque and another night in Van Horn. Folllowing a very busy day in Santa Fe... I return to the past and a trip we made to Denver, Colorado. My wife and I have different travel preferences. I like to drive, she prefers to fly. So I usually head out a couple of days before her and we meet at our agreed destination. My dog, Reba, and I traveled 35 states together before she died, and she was with me on this one, riding along in the back, or, if she thought I needed help, alongside me in the front seat. She was a good travel companion Since the first day of any trip west involves the many miles need to get out of the state, I start, from the book, on the second day. A quiet Sunday morning, just like in the movies. Another 500 miles and I'm getting started a little later than I'd like. But there's plenty of time. after about 40 miles I look behind, a long straight road, gradually rising The wind is blowing hard again and, like most of yesterday, it's blowing hard against me. little twisters cross brown fields on both sides of the highway, throwing up clouds of dust that move with the wind, but one, a smaller one, forms a perfect funnel about 5 feet across, keeping its shape for a hunded feet or more above the ground a tumbleweed the size of a beach ball blows in front of me, seems to pace the car for several seconds, then crosses the road Green fields, perfect circles, planted to fit the path of the irrigation sprinklers that circle, circle, circle, spraying their water like a merry-go-round whose horses spit as they past The perfect circles of irrigated green are laid across the landscape of dry and dusty brown, the part that lives or dies dependinhg on the rain. Passing through the little derelict towns that break the tedium of grey highway behind and ahead, with brown fields on either side. The fate off small rural towns in America, death and decay as agriculture becomes too big for little family farmers and ranchers and the little towns that sustained them. One little wide spot in the road, I don't remember the name, had fifteen structures visible from the highway. All were abandoned, collapsing hulks. Nothing left of the town but the sign on the highway. As I pass through Las Vegas, New Mexico, I see the first snow-topped mountains making the bowl that holds Santa Fe to the west. further north, as we cross into Colorado, the winter grass is almost white, the almost white of sand on gulf beaches, the white broken here and there by red barns like red umbrellas on a vast beach that has no sea Just past Pueblo, I turn on the radio and hear my first news of the severe winter storm that's on the way as I approach Colorado Springs, I see black storm clouds pouring over the mountain crests I enter the front of the storm, rain, sleet, snow, and fog, all at once in alternating bursts traffic slows down and I fall in line, an inexperienced driver in snow, I am pleased with the slow-down Traffic conditions improve slightly and I begin the long, slow crawl through Denver, find my hotel, register, walk Reba in the rain.  I abandoned this post about half way through our most recent journey, after days of driving 500 to 600 miles a day, too exhausted to even take my laptop out of it's bag. Home now, I'm tying to get back in the flow, having learned a couple of lessons. First, travel is much easier for the young than for the old. Second, going back too often to those places once held dear, means that those places become as worn and uninteresting as those who held them dear. This is our last trip, we decided, is our last to Santa Fe and Durango. Next time, we go north and east. Third, COVID has been a disaster for for service industries, especially for hotels and restaurants. Hotels are bad, but worse for me was restaurants. I am a traveler who enjoys new eating places and new food. We discovered in the last week and a half that restaurants, when you can find one open is understaffed, with limited menus, the food haphazardly prepared. This disappointment applied to several place where we dined often in the past and were looking forward to dining again. The exception was a Mexican restaurant in Cuba, New Mexico. El Bruno's easy to miss and not promising from the highway, but offering friendly and eager servers and the best Mexican food I remember ever eating, including both New Mexican style and TexMex. We had stopped there before and made a point of taking the route through Cuba that would give us a chance to stop again. El Bruno's was the sole exception to disappointment elsewhere. Setting aside our most recent, mostly disappointing, journey, this next story from Places and Spaces is about a trip East, aiming for a drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It was a long drive for me and my dog, Reba, with a side stop in Columbus, Ohio to pick up Dee at the airport there before continuing on together. The trip, going and coming back in late autumn, is mainly through the southern states, so I titled the story, On the Cusp of Confederate Winter. The first day is 545 miles through Dallas and East Texas to Little Rock, Arkansas, A lot of traffic on I-35, the first shovel of asphalt "Ike we Like" laid out in 1950-someting, but otherwise mostly boring. a pick-up puling a horse trailer, alone in the back, one horse, a palomino, golden mane and tail and eyelashes flaring in the wind a hawk slips slowly from the air to land on a fence post, watches, sees all with yellow eyes that view all that moves as potential prey Through Dallas where snotty right-wingers go to get even snottier, whiter and even more right wing. exurbs follow I-30 to the northeast, a paved-over world, the only grass that survives struggles in the cracks in the concrete After Waxahachie... I like Waxahachie because the name makes my mouth feel good and the only reason to say it is when you're passing through it.. orange sky like mist through a forest of orange leaves Then Texarkana, where a line down the the middle of the downtown street divides one state from the other. lakes and small ponds and waterfowl, a crane passes over the road, low, long neck outstretched, wings spread like a dark shadow against a nearly dark sky red sky in my rearview, the road like a tunnel through the dark, tall thick forest on either side Unlike a previous night in Little Rock years ago, in the only hotel I could find, a dark and dingy, a sleazy, rundown dump in a slummy-looking neighborhood where, if I was the kind to carry a handgun, I would have slept with it under my pillow. This night, a clear, bug-free night in a well-lit neighborhood. Reba quickly asleep on her little bed in the corner. Eleven hours on the road, I would join her but for the woman singing badly in the next room over. The second day, Nashville, bringing the trip's total so far to 940 miles. I wanted to write about the forest, the colors, yellow and gold, and the red-brown color the Crayola people used to call Indian Red or Indian Brown and in the middle of all that gold and yellow and red-brown Indian whatever, some low bush that's scattered among the trees like little fires burning in the woods and I wanted to write about the flock of ducks that flew over in perfect V formation, near enough to the ground that each duck could be seen and counted as an individual, close enough to the ground that I could hear the flapping of their wings and the mutter-quacks among the rank and I wanted to write about the hills, reminding me of the hill country at home, but soft hills, none of the hard face of caliche and cactus and mesquite, just soft, soft forested hills, trunks climbing close together and I wanted to write about the sun in the morning and how it lit the colors of the trees and covered the sky from mid-afternoon, bring shadow and mystery and darker colors of the night But for two days, through two states, I have been unable to find a national newspaper. Leaving Nashville behind... the colors now are mostly shades of red and brown on a hill surrounded on four sides by forest a horse enjoys a pasture all his own in a dell, green as spring, a small church, white clapboard with a white, wooden steeple rising twice the church's height on a hill behind the church, rows of tombstones in rank and file, climbing he hillside like steps to an afterlife that, if we are all lucky, will look exactly like this little green dell with its little white church Losing an hour and running an hour behind... I stop at a park just across the state line so Reba can walk and pee just across the highway three cows line a ridge, dark cutouts against the sky Climbing now... the road rises in front of me bordered, as always, by red and brown forests at the top. a silver-dollar moon on a pale blue sky Skipping ahead, we enter Virginia. a white house on a hill, surrounded by leaf-bare trees, and behind them, mountains showing bits and pieces through the fog on the road, short, thick-foliaged pines stand crowded side by side, like spectators standing shoulder to shoulder watching a passing parade or, I think of the hundred of clay soldiers lined in rank after rank buried with their Chinese emperor and on the road, fog drifts between the trees, and in the shifting fog, the soldiers seem to move, gray-coated soldiers coming alive while their rebel cause lies in bloody dust This post is already too long and would be even much longer if I continue with the last half of this story which took us down the Blue Ridge Parkway and several Southern states as we drove home.  And, in the end, well done
there is pleasure in travel but comfort in routine and the everyday so I'm back second table from the rear, by the window, back to the river, looking out on the corner of Martin and Soledad, San Antonio, Texas life in the slow lane, looking for a poem in all the old familiar places I've been sentenced to a 30-day term in Facebook jail, so, having nothing else to do, this could turn out to be a long post. My offense this time was calling a dumbass a dumbass. Of course I called the dumbass a dumbass a number of times, determined by the Facebook Bot who rules us all, to be "bullying." My defense - reiteration is necessary when trying to communicate with the stupid, as in this case. But the real dumbass is Facebook with their censorship by computerized keyword. All of my previous incidents of being blocked would have been recognized by any mentally competent human being as satire or parody. Facebook's little program doesn't allow any such humor or plain old human review. And perhaps that's the scariest part of it, censoship by computer, worse than "1984" which at least had human oppressors who could be overthrown, censorship beamed from the sky, untouched human hands, even the oppressors oppressed along with the rest of us. Computer systems enforcing self-fulling prophesies. Which is my second source of peevishness, there being no recourse to such misplaced censorship. The big Facebook in the sky says what it says and no questioning is allowed or acknowledged. Which leads me to this... Pimple-brained, nut-cake, nitwitted, thieving, sourball licking, witch-sucking, loony politic other guys hark! the blue open sky, the trees, the gentle -falling leaves the sparrows hip-hopping branch to branch the church-clothed-clot-herd folk walking bible in hand, childen skip skipping so Sunday School prayers now I sit me down to eat and if I choke before I swallow Heimlich me quick and don't you tarry cause I'd rather walk than be carried on a stretcher on this autumn-bright autumn Sunday morn in the southern provinces of you esse way but politics swallows my brain today, but trying to walk lightly slightly brightly around the subject because I hate political poison poems and I know if I get to talking about all those pimple-brained nut-caked nitwitted thieving sourball-licking witch-sucking lunatic political other guys I'll never stop but hark!! I say to myself it is a beautiful open-sky Sunday autumn day that shouldn't be spoiled by such thinking about writing about reading about downtown downers as politi-chips and unsalted pretzel brains look to the sky instead, to the birds, to the trees and the leaves drop-dropping to the ground of many colors it is Sunday after all let us pray-prey on happy happy day-thoughts and be joyful to the sun and the mountains and rivers and hills and streams - all legal now and tax deductible in London and surround environs from Sherwood flats to Sherwood meadows to Sherwood forest where the King's deer now roam safe & unhooded hark! hark! hark! goddamn it I said hark!  I wanted to write something outrageous today but it's still too close to the election and my outrage gauge is hung on empty so I thought I'd write something serious instead, a serious consideration of the nation's and the world's condition, but that only ignites panic attacks and howling hysterical laughter then I was thinking I'd write about sex, but I'm getting kind of old and my memory isn't as good as it used to be, not so stiffly resistant to the lassitude of time so maybe I could write about love, no one's ever too old for love they say, but that's the problem, poets young and old have been writing about love for ten thousand years, longer than that if you believe the drawings on the walls in the caves of Poontanghia, so how could I possibly compete, what new is there to be said about love, except that I caught it and, unlike a three-day cold, it has stayed with me, fevers morning and nights for 47 years, resistant through the liquid flow of time to all natural or super-natual events that might deny and discourage it or I could write about my lover's legs and the amazing way they join at the hip, but I don't want to get too graphic this morning because that would be outrageous in this august company and I'm completely out of outrage since the last election Selling my jams and jellies  Naked rolling, parts rubbing a slow Sunday afternoon and we were trying to decide what to do and I suggested we get naked and roll around on the grass in the backyard, rubbing body parts togedther fiercely but there's a chill in the air, probably too much chill to be rolling around outside naked no matter how fiercely we rubbed ourselves together so I was thinking, well, we could go down to the art museum and take a look at the impressionist exhibitin, settle down naked in front of the Monet and give him a real impression, rolling around on the carpet rubbing body parts together impressionistically - that might make the old guy forget all about water lilies... but they have these guards down there that follow us around from room to room and I don't know why, except maybe they can read minds and don't abide with people rubbing naked parts together in front of their Monet - maybe if we moved over in front of the Duchamp, he did a lot of his own naked rubbing-around, as I understand it, and what's that nude going to do after decending the staircase but some parts-rubbing cause why else go downstairs naked as a jaybird if there weren't some parts-rubbing intentions... but the guards are guardedly attentive so the museum is out and I was thinking we might take a drive in the hill country - the way the leaves are changing in our backyard, there must be piles of red and orange and yellow and gold lying on the ground under some of those big hill country oak trees, ripe for some good old rustic naked parts-rubbng and rolling around, but it is even colder in the hills than it is here so there's the chill factor to consider, plus all those rattlesnakes who love to hide in leaf piles on these chilly days, or maybe up in the oak trees to sleep through the winter - and I think they might now welcome people waking them up, rolling around naked in the leaves, rubbing parts together with sylvan abandon, despite the fact it was a snake in a tree that started all this naked rolling about and parts-rubbing in the first place... or we might just do what we always do on lazy Sunday afternoons, could just take a Sunday afternoon nap you, in the easy chair and me on the couch just like we always do Santa Fe Afternoon  Here are two poems by my poet friend Gary Blankenship, taken from his book The Poetic States, and a drop of sunshine. His book is a collection of short poems inspired by each of the fifty states and Washington D.C. The two poems I selected to use here are, first, Texas, my home state, and second, New Mexico, which, since my first visit in 1963, has held in my mind as the place I ought to be. Texas Larger than a Breadbox You are too huge to be captured in verse written by a minor poet who knows it takes two days to cross you no matter where the start. And you raised two modern presidents - one mostly good, the other a bit less, though they both seemed all to fond of guerilla wars that couldn't be won. Nothing more needs to be mentioned in a short poem, but Dick's Riverwalk, the perfect place for tequila shots and buckets of boiled crawdads as we forget which war explodes now and the humidity blowing in from the Gulf. New Mexico Trinity's Hour A new sun bloomed out of the desert defying Sol to roast white powder glazed like broken pottery in a kiln The light separated from the dark to illuminate playas taauarned to stream, clouds the sudden color of hell, gypsum dunes and salt flats It shone on chaparral forest, creatures that crawled, burrowed and fell from the sky, seeds and fish awaiting spring, beasts that hunted beasts and those that hid from the hunters It lit a sheepherder in his hogan, Alamogordo, Carlsbad, old Santa Fe, lovers eloping from Las Cruces, jingle dancer waking in her pueblo. truth and it's consequences, the blood of a Spanish Crist Its flash found a vendor on Honshu, pineapple farmer on Oahu, ballet dancer in Stalingrad, soldier dying in a Pacific jungle, rabbinical student at the Wailing Wall, man of independence as time shifts to five minures before the last midnight It l A good way to start, is all I'm saying  Rules suck - a libertarian manifesto rules suck, that's my conviction except for those that protect me from bank robbers and serial killers and international assassins and incompetent motor vehicle operators and rogue cops and Islamic terrorists and Communist terrorists and Lutheran terrorists and Mormon terrorists and Zen terrorists And People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals terrorists and Pat Boone fan club terriorists and illegal Mexican aliens who want to behead people and smuggle drugs and steal my job picking grapes for 89 cents an hour and cemetery plot salesmen and term life insurance salesmen and poison spinach... wait, I don't eat spinach, poisoned or otherwise, so that rule sucks too, but the rule that protects me from poison peas and corn, and poison pork chops - that's another story and the rule that says my employer has to pay me when I work and that my landlord has to fix my plumbing when it leaks and that I can take my AK-47 to church to protect myself against international assassins and terrorists and devil worshipers and homosexual hippies from Harvard Square and California surfer boys and Lebanese switchboard operators and gangsta' rappers and Chinese tongs and those damn Mexican narco-terrorists and other nasty nabobs of nefarious negativity it's just the wa it is rules suck, that's my conviction mostly Twit about town 30 degrees bright sun squirrels shivering in the trees and that's the weather report for this morning but I have more important things on my mind - the whole naming thing, my insistence on assigning naming rights to creators so, for example, I drive a RAV 4, so named by the Toyota automobile company, so named, I'm guessing, by the creator of the company, Charlie Toyota this principle is the source of my right to name these little thing I write "Poems" and I don't care what anyone else thinks or wants to call them, just like Charlie Toyota doesn't care many think he should have named his company Oldsmobile or Tinkerpot or Btristlebull; or Upyourass or anything else I drive a Toyota because Charlie says so and I write poems beause I say so and it raises the question of how a lion came to be called a lion and a snail a snail and a jackrabbit a jackrabbit and me a man and you a woman if you are one and if you're not, I'm not saying anythng about the depths of your masculinity, just saying that, for example, if you're a woman how did you come to be called that... assuming I'm correct that the creator gets to name his creations, then God the creator must have named me man and you woman, if you... ectetera etcetera but wait! Genesis says God delegated naming rights to Adam, who, presumably, named himself, and, face it, Adam doesn't seem to have been the smartest dude in the garden, even though, disregarding Eve's sometimes bossy tendencies. he's the only dude in the garden... he's basically dumb as the thing he sits on and later called "rock" which is probably a good thing, since if Adam had any brains he might have also have had a sense of humor, a frequent affliction of those witih brains, and the whole naming thing could have turned into a joke, like the Abbot and Costello who's on first bit and, who knows, I might now be known as the Twit of the Hour or the Twit about Town, or in some cases Da Twit, and who knows, my gosh, what you might be today if Adam had a sense of humor Shadrach In The Fiery Pit 
 Zulabulaland 9 a.m. and I heading for my new coffee house, den of ocassional creations of a poetic nature, one of those Presbotarianist places where you get a blessing with each cup of coffee and an invitation to donate to their mission in Zulabuland, with nice art on the walls and old furnitue and chairs upon which a person of my substantial substance can find adventure in intermittent creaks and groans and I was driving to this place of ocassional poetic creation when two yuppie-puppie vans raced right through a red light in front of me and if I hadn't slowed down two blocks earlier to get a better look at a house I'm going to buy after I win the lottery tonight, they would have creamed me as we used to say, havng nothing to do with cows or milking machines, or haystacks, or sylvan pastures of green, just plain run right over me, leaving me in a bloody twist of metal and flesh formerly known as me, pretty bad for the flesh formerly known as me but not so bad for the wife of the flesh formerly known as me, said flesh worth more in such mangled and dead condition than unmangled and alive, making it possible for her to move into that house I was looking at without counting on lottery winnings... such are the economics of life and death ````` another sign of the craziness all about, these yuppie-puppie moms in their yuppie-puppie vans driving like Bonnie and Clyde running from the poooooolice after a bank job - I'm telling you there is no safe place for us sane people when yuppie-puppie moms are driving their yuppie-puppie vans through yiuppie-puppie neighborhoods, like Steve McQueen chasing bad guys through the hills of San Franisco... too damn many people seeing too many movies they're not psychologically prepared for is what I think is going on  This piece is by Stephen Dunn from his book, Different Hours. Dunn is the author of ten previous collections of poetry, in addition to this book which won the Pulitzer Prize in 2000. The Reverse Side The reverse side also has a reverse side. - A Japanese proverb It's why when we speak a truth some of us instantly feel foolish as if a deck inside us has been shuffled and there it is - the opposite of what we said. And perhaps why we as we fall in love we're already falling out of it. It's why the terrified and the simple latch onto one story, just one version of the great mystery. Image & afterimage, oh even the open-minded yearn for a fiction to rein tings in - the snapshot, the lie of a frame. How do we not go crazy, we who have found outselves compelled to live with the circle, the ellipsis, the word not yet written. new board Double Trouble   As I mentioned before, I quit writing poetry several months ago. Most of the poems I've posted here and elsewhere for the past several weeks, came from this book, Goes Around Comes Around, my third book, second eBook. I've provided my own covers for all of my eBooks except this one. In this case, the cover is from a photo by Thomas Costales, an amatuer photographer I met at a book store. Thomas, suffering from insomnia, has created a wonderful collection of night photos such as this one. He also created a very good collection of portraits. I used both his night picures and his portraits in the old Here and Now. I haven't had any contact with Thomas in years. I hope he's still taking his pictures. As I've been reading the poems from Goes Around Comes Around that I haven't read in years, I'm impressed by my own work. The poems are loose and unpretentious and, often, humerous. It seems to me my work in later books tightened up and lost the free flow that I maintained in this book, as if I became to regard my self too seriously, losing the spontainity that made the poems here so pleasing to me. My recent problem, and the reason I no longer write poetry, is I've lost the words and the free spirit. As an old man, 77 going on 78, I'm facing the problem of losing the right word. Most of my readers are writers as well, and I'm sure they know what I'm talking about. There are the "right words" in a poem, usually a familiar word that just won't come to mind, requiring substitution of that word with a second or third choice that flattens the poem and drains the fun of writing it. So that's the reason you're seeing only old poems from me, old poems or new poems that end up as prose. For example, a friend of mine died died last year, a friend of 60 years who I met in 1965 in Air Force basic training. We completed basic traing then went together to almost a year of Russian language traing at Indiana University. After that, another three months of of equipment training at Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Anglo, Texas. After completing this year of training, we were both assigned to the same post in Gemany, traveling together throughout Germany for a year. After that we were assigned different post, he in Turkey and me to the Pakistanni frontier. Following military service, we continued to see each other for all the years, every year or two, meeting for a drink or coffee or a meal, despite living over 1,000 miles apart. As the years pass our own lives each went the normal way of lives, leaving us always something to talk about. Now, following his death, I remember the years of memories that we alone shared but that are now mine alone. And thus, this void is left, there being no one left who remembers it all as I do, no one left to talk about as we did. This is a poem I would liked to have written. But this prose rememberences is what I have instead. It's a fine day today it's a fine day todaiy, the sun shines on all of us, children of the bright... it's a fine day today, three pages of dead people in the paper- only five younger than me and one of those I think was lying a fine day today, three pages of dead people in the paper, and none of them was me...   Day 24,387 and counting another day, another dollar, a million days, a million dollars... that's what the fella down at the Happy Valley Home told me... and, depending on your capacity for long-term planning, that view can be very encouraging, even cominf from the Happy Valley cohort, who, if you choose, can be seen as not out of touch with reality, living instead in a greater reality closed to the ore prosaic of us - or not as for me, I'm a believer in reality, but only in romantic affairs... when it comes to money, I settle for no less than the wildest fantasies which is why I am sure I'm on the road to riches every day and while I may not get all the days I need to get there all the way, being on to something good is better than being stuck in the weeds like a back-road vagabond with a flat tire and no spare in the trunk... I'm a human being of the American persuasion after all, and, like my kind, want to get everything there is to get and expect, by god, to get it... day 24,387 and counting  Thinking of the state of the world, as well as my country and even my state, I think of this poem. It's an old poem, one that I've probably posted here before, but it's a rarity for me, a "message" poem. But I think it's a good message worth repeating. Habits of mercy I was thinking this morning about what I want to do with the rest of my life, and decide it's the same thing I want to do with the rest of my day - kiss my wife at least once or twice eat some good food write some good poems sleep a nice nap communicate with my better nature & forgive myself for all recent sins, known, as well as those secret, even to me easier for some then for others, those with no true love to kiss no food to eat no bed to sleep in no poetry for their soul - those with no key to unlock the door to self, their true self as unknown to them as a stranger passing dark on the street - and most difficult of all for those who can't find withing themselves forgiveness of themselves... poor miserable, ego-obsessed creatures that we are, sinners almost from our first thoughts, if we cannot forgive ourselves, how will we ever learn to forgive others and if we cannot forgive others, how can we ever live in this world that needs cleansed hearts as much as we need clean air and water habits of mercy are what will save this world; human sins forgiven by human sinners A minor poet explains it all I'm eating breakfast north-faced today, unusual, because normally I sit at the booth on the other end, the one next to the electric plug where I face south as I eat this morning, that booth was taken by another south-faced keyboard clicking diner, leave me at this end, in the only other booth next to an electric plug where I now eat breakfast facing north I'm not sure what effect this will have on the gastro-dynamics of my egg-over-easy and super-extra-crispy bacon but it does present a subtly different view, which could have far-reaching psychological effects on those like me, normally eat breakfast facing toward the south, facing the oncoming traffic on the interstate as well as those like me, today, who eat breakfast facing north, facing interstate traffic going away, this different orientation the reason, I believe, why south-facing diners are usually highly motivated people with the supreme confidence required to write meaningless, totally trivial, poetry, while north-facing diners often suffer from abandoment issues and are frequent victims of depresssion Lost Jigger of Gin  The Hawaiian shirt plan it's a kind of orange/yellow thing with palm trees and some kind of liquor bottle with sailing ships on the label, it's one of seven Hawaiian shirts I bought a couple of weeks ago - the one I have on today part of my new strategy for facing South Texas Summer - embrace it! no more hiding in my air conditioned house for four months, tasting unprocessed outside air only for the time it takes to get from my air conditioned house to my air conditioned car instead, I will sweat as one's supposed to when it's 100 degrees in 85% humidity I will wear my salt-stained Hawaiian shirts daily; I will work at least one hour each day in my backyard in the cinder-toasting sun as lightly dressed as allowed by law, my fish-white belly and butt will be brown like the pecans that fall from the tree, my feet will become summer rough again, my hands black and bruised from digging in the dark soil and sharp chaliche rocks I will be like the ancient peoples who made their hard lives here among the cactus and hills, and rocky meadows, in the summer heat and north winds of winter I will be seven years old again, when summer was my friend I will be summer again My town, from my neighborhood  My town, round and about downtown i heard a new song on the radio yesterday.
The line is, "I like Austin, but I love San Antone." That's true for me except, while I like Austin in the late 60s early 70s, my son lives there now and I never want to live there again. In fact, I've spent time in all the major cities in Texas and the only one I'd live in is where I live now, San Antonio, a city of a million and a half people, including a massive influx of people from all over the country, that still has managed to maintain it's own unique culture. Notes from slower regions of the universe the first time we made love I carried you to my bed, like a leaf on a high hot tide ```` Sunday afternoon in the apartment on Santa Fe, lying in bed, watching it rain through a damp window screen watching the rain advance in soft sheets across the gray waters of the bay ````` the house on G street open ceiling, rain on the roof pattering, banana plant by the window weaving green pataterns in the wind like sleeping dry in the rain ~~~~~ the first night home from the agency crib at the foot of our bed, we sleep lightly, listen in our sleep for his beathing ~~~~~ we slip into sleep flesh to flesh, spooned, soft skin on soft skin, my rough hands cupping your small breasts ````` I sleep, my leg between yours, your arm across my chest the fire banked, the embers still glow  SAME BULL, DIFFERENT CHUTE I was just finishing up my biscuits and sausage gravy when two Leon Valley police officers walked in, both kind of pear-shaped, as Leon Valley, being a small suburb of the ciy, has not nearly the pay scale or physical job requirements of the city within which it is subsumed they sat at the table to the right of me, all jingly with all the tools of their trade hung up on their utility belt... from a table to the left of me, a tall, granite-faced fella with a sweat-stained cowboy hat and a basso-profondo voice that seemed to come from some deep, dark cavern beneath his boots, said, "Howdy, boys" the officers said howdy back and asked, "What's up?" and the tall man said, in his voice from the center of the earth, "Same bull, different chute" and I was thinking, first, how goddamn cool is that, and then, by god, there must be no more than ten people in the whole damn state of Texas who can say that and not sound stupid, and here I sit, next to one of them I started listening then to the tall man and the two other fellas, wanting to hear more of that great voice saying cool things, but, mostly, he talked about the goddamn newspaper and the stupid reporters and how he called them and threatened to cancel his subscription if they didn't quit all their commie reporting, and talk such as that seems he only had one good line how disappointing! but then, later, I stopped at the supermarket on my way to our Sunday morning newspaper reading marathon and I notice a fat-assed man and a fat-assed woman walking in front of me, noticing the tender way the man put his hand on the woman's butt, stroking it and patting it as they walked and I was thinking, damn, ain't it great when people get what they want in life, and appreciate it  This poem is by Wanda Coleman, taken from her book, Heavy Daughter Blues. The book was published by Black Sparrow Press in 1991. Born and raised in the Watts section of Los Angles, Coleman, even as a welfare mother, continued her struggle to be a writer. She broke into the profession through writing screenplays, eventually earning an Emmy for a teleplay. Author of four books of poetry, Coleman works as a medical secretary/transcriptionist while continuing to write and publish. I.S. In the Purple Felt Hat (3) street of wine house of thrill walnut corridors & double dead-bolted doors/a dingy hoover avenue hideout eyes/having had me have to have me come across me at a local ink spot "I want it again" i can barely balance the tray of drinks under his scorchinig scrutiny danger in ebony skin and ebony moustache the purple felt fedora and daring ebony leather /criminal of the spirit stalks the cconer pocket (cunt musk) "I never expected to see you again" i collect the dollar tip, tuck it into my bra he hangs until closing. we leave together i will quit this waitress tomorrow - leave no trail tonight I'm out to get -even/repay a debt in flesh (a thigh for a thigh - a truth for a truth) "how man other women have you raped" "a few - but you are something special" a part-time pimp he withholds copulaton - use it the way corporate execs use perks/seduction into social slavery - he goes against his nature enough to change his modus operandi i'm fifty below zero having got my got he's mine - mine always. sobs my name begs. pleads Flight of the California Condor (3) over ham & eggs they jaw about how it was before the Dodgers hit town in '58 the old downtown hang-outs and the 10 cent mug of java the old white men of L.A. tip their hat say, "so long" and move further west I  Admiring the Dark dark is staying dark longer every night as July heads for the back door and August impatientely taps its fiery little feet out front... waiting I enjoy the dark morning, eating breakfast by the big window looking out to the dark of night waning watching the new day gathering in the east, just a hint, a bare little shadow of light remembered, almost lost in the ambient glow of clouds softly lit from below by the city's night illuminations, clouds always glowing from below in a city of a million of a half people fearful of the dark - porch lights lit all night, motion lights flashing bright with every rustly of leaves by the wind, every twitter of a bird, street lights, security lights, night lights that let us sleep in semi-darkness, certain that whatever evil lurks outside the luminance we wrap around our sleeping body will be as frightened by the light as we are by the dark and will stay away it is the way we have lived with the dark since fire-tenders maintained the flames that kept us safe at night from the earliest history of our kind... menwhile, sitting in my well-lit cafe, typing in the glow of computer electrons, I admire the beauty of the night, while looking past the dark to each pool of light around, calculating the distance between pools, clocking how quickly I could race the dark from one bright pool to the next if I had to eith  A little shout-out to the paranoids among us. SMALL DREAMS PASS BY UNNOTICED don't dream too large tonight they know who the dreamers are and they are watching TRUE ROMANCE  I'm thinking soft this morning I'm thinking soft this morning soft autumn breeze on sun-warmed skin, the soft middle of fresh-baked bread, the soft fur behind a kitten's ear and under its chin, the fresh smell of soft sheets on a wedding bed, the soft squeeze of a woman, the velvet slide down her back to the rounded slope of her rear, the rise of her breasts, breathing in out rising falling on the soft edge of sleep, the moist center of her calling, and the damp cheeks of my son at four, eyes wet from a bully's taunts as I held him close, "you are a good person," I tell him, my voice a soft whisper in his ear, "and a strong, brave boy whose mom and dad love him." ````` I'm thinking soft this morning, remembering... missing the touch of days brighter and softer than today DEN OF INIQUITY   What I'm supposed to be doing this is the time of day when I usually demonstrate my bonafides as a poet by pontificating on cue and the problem today is I can't remember if a cue is a nudge and a wink or the long striker stick used to reposition colored and numbered balls on a green felt table in a brisk game of pocket billards - pocket pool I would have said but that construction is often construed to denote another game entirely - or vice-versey, which complicates things since i'm not sure now if I should start writing or amble over to Fat Annie's for a pick-up game of eight-ball which reminds me of several good pool-playing stories I could write about if I knew that's what I'm suppsed to be doing at this exact moment but since I don't know for sure, I won't write anything, but that's okay since I didn't want to write a poem this morning anyway instead, if Fat Annie's is open this early I might resolve the question by connoting that's what I'm supposed to be doing... ````` meanwhile there is a moon hang pale like a sliver of shaved soap in the dark, night-tide sky that cares nothing about my poem or any lack thereof and Annie's cooler is full of ice-cold Orange Crush and Grapette that would suit me much more than than a hostage poem so that' where I'm gonna be Next I have three short poems by Guillaume Apollinair, taken from his book Alcools, published by Wesleyan University Press in 1995. The poems were translated by Donald Revell. It is a bilingual book, with the original French and English translation on facing pages. Apollinair was an infuential poet, playwright and critic in the late 19th-early 20th century. Like his contemporary, Blaise Cendrars (the inspiration for my own book, Places and Spaces, of travel poems), Apollinair was a world traveler and wrote many travel poems. Annie On the coast of Texas Between Mobile and Galveston there is A big garden filled with roses There is also a mansion It is one big rose A woman walks there often Alone in the garden When I cross the lime-tree road We are face to race Because she is a Mennonite Here roses and her clothing have no buttons My jacket is missing two buttons The lady and I are almost one religion The Gypsy The gypsy foretold Our two lives thwarted by the nights We told her goodbye And Hopefulness sprang from holes in the ground Heavy as a circus bear Love danced when we commanded The blubird lost its featehrs Mendicant friars lost their prayers A person knows damn well he's damed But hope of loving along the way Compels us to consider hand in hand The words the gypsy meant to say Autumn In the fog the knock-kneed peasant and his ox Go slowly through the autumn fog That hides the villages and all their ugliness The peasant keeps on walking humming A song about love and deception A song about a ring and a heart of fire Oh autumn the autumn ambushed the summer In the fog I saw two shadows go  Career counseling the Saturday morning crowd at the coffeehouse, though large, is not conducive to poetic exploration so I fall back to yonder years when at sixteen I shot a 45-caliber pistol at a turtle in the Arroyo Colorado about six miles from my house the turtle was a tiny green-shelled reptile floating provocatively on the surface of the water which in those days before herbicide runoff was not a harbinger of death to creatures large and small except fish which would be a harbinger of death to you if you are ever ate one a place where in the old days I learned to swim in the murky green currents and never died even once in those days being a harbinger of death to numerous bottles and cans with my 22-caliber rifle and pistol I had never fired a heavy-duty piece like the 45 which I borrowed from a friend and wanted to which I did, firing a volley of hard hitting slugs which caused a mighty stirring in the water around the turtle while the turtle floated away, unimpressed, in its placid green-back way dreams of turtle soup fading away as I returned the 45 to the friend from whom I had borrowed it and turned back to the hunt for frogs at midnight, their pale little legs delicious when fried and tasting like small chickens, much better than turtle soup anyway content to understand that due to my incompetence there was no likelihood of a future for me in sniper alley, or as a serial killer or fearsome terrorist, my life as a fearsome bureaucrat set instead SWIMMING UPSTREAM IN A DOWNSTREAM WORLD   December night in my neighborhood winter night in the last moment before dusk falls, the sky is clear, light blue, like the "it's a boy" blankets you get at the hospital to warm a new-born son, thin, almost tansparent blue moon bright in the soft sky, not full, flattened a little on one side like a globe, flattened at the south pole so it won't roll off your desk, Antarctica folded in on itself a chill wind blowing from the top of the hill, raising a shower of golden leaves from trees long the creek light winter-home, taste of chimney smoke in the air ten degrees cooler than the numbers on the thermometer read very quiet  CIRCLES a new year approaches just a few dawns away one rotation ending as another begins, circles within circles within circles within larger circles still as our moon circles, bringing dark to light night skies, bringing day and night circling our sun, bringing singing birds of spring, summer's meadow flowers, tangy taste of autumn leaves, chill winds that blow in winter even as our sun and all its brother-sister stars turn on the universal axis of everything we can know, for now, but maybe not for always, as we may someday know of other cirles, turns, rotations, there now but that we cannot see and the All we know will grow again and we, in our knowing, will grow again, even as we shrink ever smaller in the everything there is circles within circles within even larger circles still... "it seems we're just running in circles," and how true and how grand that is Practice Board  It occurs to me, late as usual, that I have not properly credited my wife, Dora Ramirez Itz, for her help in editing and proofing my blogs. So, thank you, Dee.
 EVEN THE DISBELIEVER SEARCHES FOR BELIEF the scientist says there is no God the philosopher says there is no God, but do we not, in our search for all knowledge and final truth create an approximation of God, for what is God but the alpha and omega, the perfect final of all, including truth. you search, the philosopher adds, because you believe that there is an end to all knowing - your belief and your search for the truth that is all truth no different than that of the Hindu holy man sitting cross-legged on a mountain peak contemplating his way to the One at the center of the All, or, the monk in his cell flagellating his bloody back because he thinks pain will clear the pathway to the presence of God, or, the Methodist minister who does good works because he thinks God notices those who do good and seeks desperately that notice, like yours, all of them a search for the God of final things, like the Greeks searched for God through the creation of ideals, gods like men, men like gods, the ideal of creation --- this one says there is no God except the one who exists as the most basic craving of our humanity, the one who urges our rational self to disbelieve so as to protect the truth of our soul, that essence which spirits away to other realms when our rational self expires Big Bend National Park, Chisos Mountains, Chisos Basin The Texas Big Bend, as I recall it in this painting.   I WANT A DONUT I said, I want a donut damnit not a carrot stick or a celery stalk not a bowl of moose munch in rehydrogenated goat's milk no cold little cauliflower bud not even a sugar-free donut don't want it fat free either I want a good ol' suicide-in-the-round glazed Dixie Cream capital D donut with sprinkles you gotta fight back or the older you get the less you get in living now, get me my damn donut Lost Jigger of gin Many readers love him. About the same number hate him. I enjoy reading his dark, bleak, wrong side of life poems because in them, you always know his hero will, like the Dude., abide. What I most admire about him as a creative artist is that he created a persona he maintained consistently in both his poetry and his fiction, breaking his cover, but only a little, near the end when he know his end was coming. Who was Bukowski, really, beneath the persona he created? Maybe his ex-wives knew. Here are two of his poems, the first as philosopical as I've ever read him, and the second back to his familiar turf. Both of these are from his collection Open All Night, published by Harper Collins, in 2003. Like so many of his collections, it was published after his death. THIS IS A FACT in the company of fools we relax upon ordinary embankments, enjoy bad food, cheap drinks, mingle with the men and ladies from hell. in the company of fools we throw days away like paper napkins. in this company our music is loud and our laughter untrue. we have nothing to lose but our selves. join us. we are now almost the entire world. God bless us. THERE'S ONE IN EVERY BAR the pathetic squirrel drinks Johnny Walker Red at Stinky's Bar & Grill, in love with the cocktail waitaares he watches her body her eyes he dreams of her on his sofa crossing her legs and giggling he dreams of her drunk in his bedroom he dreams of victory of conquest he leaves her very large tips he says very little to her. the pathetic squirrel dislikes how crude and obvious the other bar-squirrels are to her and he's delighted when she laughes at them and says things like "back off, Marty!" the pathetic squirrel loves the large bow on the back of her short dresss. he leaves each night intoxicated knowing he will be sick on the job the next day. the pathetic squirrel is in love with the cocktail waitress but ask her about him and she'll confide: "he makes me sick! he's a complete asshole!" an she'll be right. but he still has his dream and that might be enough in itself because he doesn't realize that she'a a complete asshole too. I did not intend to do a third Bukowsky here, but when putting the book back in the shelf, it opened to this piece, Self-appraisal, such a rarity for this poet. But, of course, not as himself, even as he recognizes the end of his life is approaching, but as the persona the created, his alter ego through out all his poems, Chinaski, who will live far beyond his time, in books published long after his death. Chinaski, not him, but in his mind, I think, more than him. CHINASKI parodies himself, romanticizes himself. he's in a small room again, always in a small room, closing the door, closing out the world. in his 70s he's still trying to over- come his brutal childhood and he's never had a real understanding of women. his writing is uneven if powerful and even at its best there is a feeling of redundancy, of nothing new. he has been imitated by hordes of writers who find his simple style appealing. he now has a home, a swimming pool, a spa, a fine car and a wife who feeds him vitamins. he is a recluse and if you apparoach him at the racetrack there is a chance you will be ignored or insulted. his only visitors appear to be movie stars, film directors and interviewers. upon his death perhaps a small place will be made for him in world literature where he will sulk in the shadow of Celine, Hemingway, Jeffers and Henry Miller. God rest his alcoholic agnostic soul and now let us go on to more worthwhile things. Now, A couple of images from the central Texas hills. One, a picture from the road of the legendary longhorn, and the other, from the campus of Texas State University.    (a found poem: NewYork Times, Front Page, Januayr 14, 2009) PRAISE GOD FROM WHOM ALL BLESSINGS FLOW a man on a motorbike pulled alongside her asked what seemed an ordinary question "Are you going to school?" then he pulled her burqa from her head and sprayed her face with burning acid 17-years-old and bravely back in school, she says, "They want us to be stupid things." praise God... in all his cruel and hideous forms amen Another Practice Board  Another favorite poet, Polish winner of the 1996 Nobel Prize for Literatrure, Weslawa Szymborska. The piece is from her book View With a Grain of Sand, publishedby Harcourt Brace in 1993. Translation was by Stanislaw Barqanczak and Clare Cavanagh. UNDER ONE SMALL STAR My apologies to chance for calling it necessity. My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all. Please don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due. May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second. My apologies to past lovers for thinking that the latest is the first. Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing my flowers home. Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger. I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths. I apologize to those who wait in railroad stations for being asleep today at five a.m. Pardon me, hounded hope, for lauging from time to time. Pardon me, deserts, that I don't rush to you bearing a spoonful of water. And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage, your gaze always fixed on the same point in space, forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed. My apologies to the felled tree for the table's four legs. My apologies to great questions for small answers. Truth, please don't pay me much attentioin. Dignity, please be magnanimours. Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from you train. Soul, don't take offense that I've only got you now and then. My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere at once. My apologies to everyone that I can't be each woman and each man. I know I won't be justified as long as I live, since I myself stand in my own way. Don't bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words, then labor heavily so that athey might seem light. WHO KNEW I know what this poem means and so do you but it would be so great if we could get together some rainy afternoon in a coffeehouse on a tree-lined boulevardin in a quiet neighborhood and talk and talk until you understood what I wrote and I knew what you read Clown for hire   SCATTERED IN THE WIDE NIGHT SKY scattered in the wide night sky are pinpoints of light bringing star-heat to worlds like our own, biological stews pining the universal spark on some and on others life at its most simple is cradled, protected from the cosmic storms, and on a relatively few creatures who strive and dream like you and me I know this like some people know god, such knowledge a product of longing in the lonely night for a companion worthy of our best nature Crackpots of the world unite STRINGBEAN string bean looking fella in a cowboy hat and shit kicker boots sitting across from me drinking from a quart carton of 2% milk reading some kind of techincal looking book with graphs and shit and one hand looking paralyzed fingers tight against his palm like Bob Dole 'cept this fella isn't holding a pen in his clenched fingers like Bob Dole aways did good 'ol guy that Bob Dole might'a been a fine president if he hadn't been Republican and 143 years old - probably wouldn't a'been fucking around with no chubby interns any way what is it with politicians and their dicks anyway like just another one this week scewing around love me love me love me they're all saying all the time waving their dicks around starting wars or screwing women either too young or too married for any man with good sense to mess with I mean put your dicks back in your pants and grow up for christ's sake you're supposed to be running the country fool not running around on your dearly beloved who ought to be whopping you across the head three of four times a day till you get it on straight fool  A funny story before the poem. During the last years of my professional career, I had offices in about 15 cities in South Texas, including Del Rio. I visited each office at least once a quarter so that local staff could know me and know I was interested in what they were doing. eating breakfast every morning at a cafe next to my hotel, I noticed I was getting extaordinary service with every meal. Kenny Rogers was filming a movie near the city at the time of one of my quartely visits. At the time, my hair and beard were considerably longer and grayer. I learned later that one of the staffr at the cafe had become certain and had convinced the rest of the staff that I was Kenny Rogers. not the only time I was mistaken for rogers, none of the other times led to such excellent breakfasts. Now the poem. ON THE RIVER two eggs, one pancake, and four sausage links - five dollars, ninety-eight cents 4:30 in the very early morning early breakfast in Del Rio, Texas, County Seat, Val Verde County, on the river, 150 miles west of San Antonio 400 southeast of E Paso, with a population of about 45,000, largest collection of Texas bodies and souls between the two, not counting Cuidad Acuna on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande, where the lights in Boy's Town make cigarettes glow a sparkly, shimmering gold and a slender, young whore dances naked in a dim-lit courtyard among scattered tables with 16-year-old boys, college carousers, oil-tattooed roughnecks, leather-faced cowboys and fat businessmen belching beer and three-dollar cigar smoke, watching ever slow, sweat-oiled move, every one of them, man and boy, looking for something at a place where they're sure to never find it look, but don't touch for touching costs more than the price of a bottle of Mexican beer... but not a lot more Finishing with another practicve board.  |
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