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.
1.16
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.
to Buk
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
Sunny Dust
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
Porciuncula
The need for refuge beckons her to sit on the Pacific shore at 3 or 4 in the morning. With an eased mind, images of what the Tongva and Chumash peoples saw 8,000 years ago channel into her inner eye. Were her stars, their stars? Her moon, their moon, her sea, theirs? How many times had Hailey sprayed awe over a most sacred people whose spirit now inhabit museum cellars full of shells on the Wilshire Corridor?
Waves crawl atop of each other grasping at the salty air that dangles. Tired woman feet sink into the parts where the sand is dirty and pasty. An ancient destiny and nothing yet manifests. Tiny moist crabs send little winks of light like fire flies, only for her to see.
Currents swish around tired ankles inviting her to enter as a new lover does; into his soft troubled bed. Being of an unfinished spirit, she thinks of getting lost in the tremendous Pacific. Squinting, Porciuncula strains her eyes looking into the sooty darkness. Nothing but a stray speckled gull bereft of its home. She looks down at her legs wiggling to keep the briny cold at bay. Such is the juxtaposition of her emotions that the imagination’s pictorial bank issues an image of a monk on fire. Admirably grotesque. The siren of an ambulance wailing in the distance captures her attention. Surveying the gritty banks as she gets up to stroll back to the road, her eyes get stuck on a tiny heart shape shell. She smiles secretly. It’s a wink from God.
Like a pre-historic creature crawling from primordial soup, she lumbers toward her road. Such as the Cowboys and Indians, Porciuncula too had weathered many events on this Western shore. As she sniffs the thickness of the brackish kelp in the air, her mind floats to an early age when she learned to shut away thoughts, wrangle impulses and cram words sharply down her throat into the gut.
Porciuncula was born old in the land of the new frontier. Los Angeles. In time, words uttered by a simple child became tiny bell tolls propelling her into a black hole of law, guilt and polite despair. She had to have been born old. How else can one know to sit quietly and listen to the most infinitesimal crackles of salt water on sand as if to hear the soil pray to the sky gods of peoples and triumphs gone by?
Geronimo on the way to the fair
balmy sweeps of crusty air circle your pinky bike facing me
swooshing by our old galaxy eyes lock
and the heavens swirl about me slow-like
Amir asks why i go the way i go
and i can only answer like your palomino did
dead eye girl Geronimo it is you i know
half a mile up we smell the food of your enemies
blowing south to the seas of cactus
to the west the pale horse peddles in fire water and gold
Geronimo in young girl cloak bronze face
with ancient snakes of worry
oh Lizard King forgive me your blue Amir rides with me tonight through your love streets
nananananana
which were originally mines alone
remarkable girl-Kachina i do admire your courage
on the corner sitting on that pinky be-wheeled palomino
dying slowly slowly slowy a tiny bit a day
Geronimo in your eye
ghost molecules need penetrate my blood with artificial healing
that Philadelphia bell tolls nine
women spirits whose skies rip open oozing snake oil gods
to slither in my soul
choking out our spirit through scattered thoughts
rusty lights broken smile dream dropper
Lizard King hotness in my bones
sonic pulsing in my ears typing on electric stones
thinking of learning to drive the reigns
Geronimo girl eye pinky palomino i in blood
to the fair with the flags inky pinky vibes
broken veins broken flowers jesters laughing
deer dances hidden ghosts at the shin of the God so long ago roaming in this tired wind
ride little Geronimo eyed girl
Amir
the cactus
the sky
the gold
and the King
sit for you in corners to catch you riding west forever…
night
looking at the opulent west terminally
the west is a direction of science and de-evolution
the west has birthed and aborted
the west holds my key to survival
maybe
the west is where it’s at
the west is less frightening at night
the west is my coast
an edge between a dry crypt
and a watery eternal post
manifest destiny cowboys and ghosts
all looked to the west
falling off the edge
to a sagging universe
the west is not frightening at night
cellular levels impaled by expensive
alchemy
blood runs so cold it’s hot
life veins decapitated from their heart
to no avail
my apple has rolled out into the ocean
Hank
The Northwest has a different meaning
in this hour of the day.
Hey, Hank!
I’m trying to reach you by the telephone
standing in my blue boots,
but your old call box isn’t living here no more.
Hollywood and Western has truly made a switch.
No more ladies with the leopard print.
No more gentlemen with eyes to squint
at the devastation
of where you
and I grew up.
You know Hank, I never knew the snow.
Not the way nature intended anyway.
Yet, here I stand on Sunset, check.
Western, check. Hollywood, check.
Melbourne, Vermont check, check check!
Like when I was 20 summers long
stretching out my eardrums
hoping to catch some of your phrases;
some of your breaths.
A mere little prospect. Tiny.
Seeking you out Hank.
Like snowflakes on my tongue.
leaf blower man
addict
we wrestle in the tarriness
of a bottomless place
going deeper into what
has fallen in myself
you and i are twins of this pit
and the sun goes down
as ever
we walk and do not move
stare at the stars
and are not amazed
by wandering in the forbidden homes
we have touched
their roses; we have defiled
their souls
squeeze me as i gasp
and longing for you a long time ago
you were me
and now we don’t know each other
your eyes are big
but my eye is bigger
yet i cannot see
without you …
words less spoken 