i woke up early.
the scent of my soap
crept into my imagination
and dared me to dream.
i drew a map in my mind.
closed my eyes and squeezed
them shut hoping you would like
my soap too.
feeling the weight of your hands,
on my breasts and your lips on
my chest, my soul blushed.
just a little, though.
the little monk’s bell broke the
spell and i knew you weren’t coming.
i think of air
the load on my mind
is old and un fascinating
Alvarado has lost its
gold and my memories with it
i miss the buildings and their soul
the potato pancakes and the ducks
breezes that used to smell like L.A. Times
have died away with Marilyn and the Waltz
the pain of polio boosters and empty hugs
rushes back as i walk from the past
on Sundays i had gampa and pistachios on the lawn
an incomprehensible accentuated teutonic love
but that too has flown away with the
sirens and on the wings of the med fly
at 5:37 p.m. the smell of
bacon and fabric softener
covers the neighborhood
like 4 a.m. London fog
so many lies and angers
and injustices and tears
and hungers and losses
in one city block
but the smiles, oh
those immutable smiles
and the hope in the paper sacks
dog shit by the fichus trees
is the city’s way of welcome
but the carnival in the hearts
and the corn fed regimes in mind
cannot and will not tear
them down
angst, terror and hate
has become a child’s game
the roses are not free
but they are in juan v’s
can along the window
rotten with defeat
it is no longer enough
to wave the right flags
blood sacrifice one son
to the blue coats and one the
the Vat
no we have become
smarter than you
and we will not
lay down to the east
or to the west
but resign to be
free in the window
in the door
in our spirit
and in the mind
although the scratches on the record
add to the appeal of midcentury Americana,
i don’t believe the boy at the counter
gave me correct change.
the fact that my perfume is from S.H.Kress
across the street, but the gangrene on my leg
cannot be hid by pheromones alone.
the stench is likened to war.
but that is not the fact.
the one good leg danced the Tennessee Waltz
when it was good, the bad leg was bad
from the beginning.
the root, the marrow, the veins,
the sinews all of it; rotten
all over. i wear pearls and smile
at the wrong time and in the wrongest of place.
Buddy Clark in my head,
i saw Treasure of Sierra Madre
merely to see Bogey again
on Los Angeles Street before
the nuclear heat pushes me down
scurry, flurry
and tread right up
to the strangest
show on earth
come one or all who
remain in this world
to see the corpse in
the archives of time
hanging for the wolves
beloved and slated in one breath
global victim of the letter
of the law
inoperable in the one pit of time
terror and broken bone
let the vultures
entertain your value
let the earth open up and
imbibe us whole
oh holy milky way
spit us back out
through caves
let the mud and the ashes
fill in the tooth
the trees are all broken
the soul’s in the zoo
waiting for a
piece of meat
it all falls on formal shores,
Mr. Fogerty,
the rain you talk about.
the circles are no more,
the pulse neither fast or slow.
but Mr. Fogerty, my time for all is gone.
the sun hard and warm,
and i see the rain soft and cold.
yes, you sang to me long ago.
in the sand where glass is born
in the image of the bones.
the rain it lingers in the holes.
through the blood a soul is told,
live forever all alone,
no more fear to wander.
Mr. Fogerty i see your rain,
in the wrinkles of the pain.
to a life of no complain.
to the wars of the remorseful heart
like an engine in the 8th.
no more fear to wander.
and the circles in the eye
Mr. Fogerty for this time,
shedding rivers in the light.
across the fire of the sun,
skies are empty,hearts are down.
and the rain will keep its distance.
in time the patch
roughens and flakes away
leaving a badge to remember
the lesson learned.
while not being ready yet,
choosing to fly won’t help
the break. alone in the canyon
a river dwindled and the
holy caves yawned forth.
a taxi stops around the corner
of time’s middle age;
insurance forms and medic aid
now fill the noons.
beauty is cold and superficial.
the birds are dead but stones
still keep the souls
of the soldiers kept in compounds.
the corridors bleed open.
the history a waste.
to hear the lonely aging,
to see them in my wake.
a closing unto open air;
the swallows make a nest.
the river thickens with the garbage
of angels’ broken praise.
Henry i know you can see
me. in my rut i can feel the
blisters in my spirit swelling
up again. the prayers only
make it worse.
Henry how did you ever walk
from out of the doors into the
open air? where did you find
the time to convert misery
into diamonds?
it’s so so late in life but
i haven’t been born. the
many things inside of this
bone cage cannot easily come out,
Henry, why?
there is no sun and no moon
divine. the hours twirl and multiply
into clouds of nothing. buildings, caves,
the underpass dull with expression and
righteousness of self.
Henry i remain intact full of holes
with nothing but my germs and
dirty fingernails stuffed with
the scabs of days gone by.
sins and smiles
angelic nothings cry down
cigarette ash at your kitten heels
typer-bang/bang of your letter gun
heart spilled onto the book
with pencil shavings
by my side
innocent beast with naked brain sleeves
long lost duker wild at heart
contender of my wits-end
jumper of cliffs lover of untender whores
drinker of thoughts
captivator of fears contrary to your view
godfather of streets
cardinal of bums
sultan of bars pope of poems
big daddy writer always tried in spite of all
in the dirt the sun shines
delicately highlighting all
the elements found
in my skin
the wind wipes down
what is left of sweat
after the logs have
been chopped down
in my skin i feel
your lips at night
as i too feel the wires
of my debts
the lonely wolf is in our garden
love where did you go
the thunder resurrects what’s
left of me without you
my turn has come to till
the sunny dust
words less spoken 