Across the Table

Why did you cry on a wooden bridge watching old war planes fly over the river, feeling the rumble, the sound of propellers that drove thoughts of young men in World War II?
The destruction of the bomb (war) on unsuspecting geese who lead ducklings into water, calling attention to nature, forgotten by machine. Am I the river it’s elf? Timeless, swept away

Evelyn

For Evelyn,

No one glances in her direction
Precious beings in halls
Charged with humble skin
In fortress of kings
She dreams herself a Queen
Rising over wheat fields
Golden tapestries play across the land of her kingdom
Few see her shine
Few see a Portuguese fire in her eyes
Trickster, she curses her enemies with a stare
Ebony horns lifted from her head
A symbol of hooked flesh
An example of Earth before the flood
Her likeness is a rose
Her beauty is a pose in the rain
Without a home

Dreams of elvish texture gentle
Protector of hummingbirds
Lily ponds and vagabonds
Where she builds a scene from nature
Bending bramble bushes and
Shucking coconuts by the sea
Her light twisted hair ballets
Around her garden features
Giving each shadow shape of
Swooping eagles
Beneath her eyes, cheeks, and
Cliff rock chin
Dancing alone like a woodland woman
Barefoot
Her blood pumped by a dog’s heart
No one glances in her direction
I know she’s alright
When Evelyn’s smile stretches into the City
We’re all gonna be alright

August Shoots of Grass

August bamboo shoots collect the
Elixir of life in cylindrical cones
Reaching into heaven a proud emerald green.
A decortified tool of reinforced grass.
A lone raven lifts a wing and
Alights to the top branch of a juniper tree.
The sound from the black
Canvas attached to his frame
Shook me.
As if animal nature
Had power to generate a gust
And the will to turn his fury into a storm.
The raven swayed with his neck
Held close to his body.
The Wind obeyed him.
August shoots of grass
Across grandmother’s bearded chest.
I passed a building of Twombly’s architecture
Admiring twisted pillars and broken mirrors about the front door.
I was surprised at the absence of evil.
Orbs hung before the walls and
Wicked wires played in space. But all
Was only suggestion.
A wounded hound guarded the corner of his room
Wrapping his injured body pitifully
Around his wounds
Snarling towards the door
There was nothing to relieve his pain.
An owl in the rafters of the shed watched his every move.
The raven moved from the juniper and rested upon the fence
And watched his every move.
Tattooed women lay in the grass and
Watch his every move.
His grimace does not ease.
The face of his pain has a recognizable name.
A method of punishment exits within the subconscious.
The hound has forgotten his own name,
Knows only the howl of his pain.
Nymphs of uncut graves cannot help him.
Down the darkened road walks a being
Androgynous human he
Looks like a mountain of a man grizzled
By spit and Time
Beetles and food in his beard.
Pocket full of shells
Do I see you coming home?
Pocket full of shells.

Seal of Summer

Clumsy footed white sundress
Hyacinth bomb of ruby-footed rings
Rabbit woman lies shaded by trees
Hidden until dawn.
Sweet warm honey dripping golden
Hair
Bubblegum lips jade queen hides
By deep emerald pools, gullies, and
Streams and the interplay
Of shadows thrown by the leaves
Hidden by hills.
She sits next to a gilded swan
Her fair figure admired by wolf-pup
Romulus and Remus.
Face a petrified stone of amber
Eyes of ice and sunlit meadow
Reclining on a bed of grass soft
As lamb’s ear
Dew point diamond earrings playing in her hair.
The fish watch her dance
Next to a waterfall she looks
Like the creator

Of my heartache.

Dead Parachutes

She is a Nubian dandelion
She dances on whiskers of dreaming men.
Her voice changes with the shape of each ear.
Thousands of birds shed feathers
Disturbing reflections of her mind’s
pond.

She is a Nubian dandelion
Her hands are soapy with dishwater.
Wind takes away every desire.
Drinking freckled lemonade
The Nubian dandelion is a maid.

Whispers to Sea: XV – Final chapter

Single mindedness between high and low ranks. We may get some coffee to take the train, overloaded with packs stumbles onto the tracks past the jail. Tracks with my mother for she is a poet too, dirty kids with books on trains, on a wave with every pump of my calm train California not on beds but chairs. Headed for C. and I., his love. But people suffer and we forget all cooped up inside. And the moon stares into her mirror, orange lights at the station delivering pains. The first from Cupid’s dart gone, small lights dot the railroad. Companions’ doomed flight, train that is blocking their road. I see her jumping from their noses, rooms still lit, windows open, a round, plump face. Just carried it with him. My brain memorialize the trip but they fade. When I return home, a bottle! Esteban, Portuguese poet inhabiting the muck. The sun telling time, stir. The sun perks his rising ear to song. Above them a red apple, flamboyant reality. Esteban Vallejo hides in the jungle, is brewing to pick up these books. Good selection? Plus more. Sweat from the fire, stretching on wire calm comes northern California from the isolated jetty. Rainy for the weekend, a warm wood stove. Hear his rapid breath from one mountain to another. Summit days spent running through rain. Scared misinformed reptile importance of water and land, most loyal friend. Time I am not myself. Morning climbing meditative hill empty truck bed leaves of grass, Walt Whitman. I get high to escape and get away. Lines of birds along the shore move up to mark the tide. When I die light my body afire and set me out to sea. Drums roll by on the tracks and the Ruger in my hand yelps ignorant. “You probably should have paid.” Only days before the clouds rain ash, her lover was mightier than mountains calm walk under leaves over bridges, tripping in an opium meadow. Vehicle to keep out the harsh wind. Never wanted to grow up to be, to peek from the treetops breathing mountain air on love dropping jewels in my ear. Not an object for strangers to behold, looked and smiled. So we shared a wave. Field with a princes brown horse, road – Stoned. Birthday with my beautiful love, staring at purity. A kitten naps with me. It is only a matter of going (If you’re headed to Akkaba). Protests? Wonderful streets searching for the next cup of coffee. The Man exits. And I have surplus for hungry babies to feed. A strange upon the lids the strain. How when the leaves were green I was not the same. Inflation long quiescent is stirring, conspiracy charges misfire. You are me. And to Hell to take them home.

Crow

You should have seen her glow

After all the dirt was gone.
She had her cart. She was all clean.

She was shining

Change, change
We all see each other changing

At night, in the dark, there is no fire.
On a hill, through the trees, just off the side of the road.
With their sandals and boots they know the trail to camp.
They drink, smoke, keep one another safe.
Sleep under the stars.

They watch everyone always changing.

Wild Indians yelling, running down woods and dirt, happy and lost, at home.
Loud and drunk, just off the reservation.
Then falling noiseless on cement, young, asleep.

They watch each other change.
People look down on them.
They watch everyone change.

Heaving bodies in the night.
Keep everybody warm.
You should have seen her transform.

Eyes of gold.
Eyes of gold.
Her houri skull has eyes of gold.
I can’t sleep at night I think of her – Alone.
You should have seen her transform.

What happens at night when most are home asleep under covers with no cares?
Who worries?

Who is that woman in the camp there?
She looks older than before.
Her soul is painted like Mother Theresa.
The woman there is our mother.
For everyone.

Have you seen her change?

A crow plucks a feather from the high-wire.

Outskirts Of City

Fashions
“It’s okay, thank you.”
Easy to get away with voodoo
When a woman’s face follows me everywhere and
In my room watches what I do…
Beautiful people
Smile at me and place curses behind The Wall
The people that I knew before all covered in flies
A man stands feathered in gold, his arms raised
Atop a golden-stepped castle
Engraved with heads of man
Engraved with vines of jungle
Incan faces carved coins of princess gold of royal necklace
Worn by mummified woman saved with straight teeth
And petrified skin
Plucked by man digging
In Peru of El Dorado roads
And green is the gold of heaven.
(Green mountains with mist that make it look like China, anywhere)
Fashions end.