“A Happier Thought”
 
The bottle would break itself
before it ever broke my heart,
and that always seemed
a happier thought
than paying too much
for half dead funeral flowers
at the supermarket
or pretending the first drink
didn’t feel like a kiss
after another inoffensive day.



“lowercase versus uppercase poetry”
 
if i can stay on the black decaf
then the poems will stay brief
and professional as ironed slacks
on a monday
but if somehow
the whisky sneaks out
of my cupboard
like a teenager breaking curfew
it won’t matter
that it’s only tuesday
and my words won’t care
about shakespeare
doing it better than most
(according my old high school
english teacher anyway)
or the way a hangover is
the kind of muse
most let die of thirst
even if it means
another photocopied sonnet
sort of day
 

Last Play of Light


Sunflowers swoon
in the fading light.
Pollen gusts have ruined 
my eyes.

Thick hot soup
of summer evening—
a thunderclap follows
a sizzle in the east.

The sun dips off
as raindrops tink
the thin tin roof—
I clap mosquitoes.

Ice cubes rattle a glass,
whisky poured over
slowly so it chills
before the first sip.

Tip my Stetson
to the hombre
on the moon
in his sombrero.

Tip my Stetson 
to the sagging
sunflower army,
defeated and sombre.

Cage and the Birdsongs

During summer of 1974 I hung around the developing Boulder poetry scene. There was a guy from New York  there named George who was going to publish one of my fledgling poems. He was a big wheel from the big world who knew things. One of those things he knew about was John Cage who was going to do a reading from Thoreau’s journals in a couple of days. George told me and every young poet he encountered that Cage loved it when spontaneous sounds, bird calls, cat calls, whistles occurred while he was reading, that these sounds would add to the sonic texture of Cage’s performance.
The evening came for the Cage reading. The great composer projected random words from Thoreau’s journals on a giant screen. There was absolute silence. “b-r-r-r-ro-K-K-Keeee.” Cage spoke in an urgent whisper.
Syllables, vowels, aspirants: Cage proceeded.
From the darkness a sudden whistle burst forth, and then an animal growl, a bird noise, a cat call, farts, a kazoo, laughter.
Cage suddenly ended his performance. He stomped off the stage and engaged the interrupters in the midst of the crowd. An angry verbal exchange ensued. The kid poets said they were just contributing to the random sounds Cage was making. In a fury, Cage screamed they didn’t know what they were talking about. There was a link between intent and the provocative noises. This was different from random sound. At the way back of the room almost in shadow George folded his arms, and leaned against the far wall. He smiled.

"The Key"

Sitting in an Impala
in the city junkyard

tires not flat
and windows up

somewhat safe
fenced-in lot

surrounded
by rows of dusty cars

this car a new arrival
with an impound ticket

glove compartment open
containing a black book

I'll read later
every word in blood red

as this sick world steals
all that is right

reversing it
into all that is wrong

everything rewritten
by a hand in the dark

slapping my memory
I forgot my glasses

in my apartment top floor
on the corner of Main and Done

I'll have to go back
into the burning streets

helicopters circling
fanning the flames

playing loud speakers
Give-up or Die

I bow my head
for some way out

suddenly noticing
a key in the ignition...

Blue, White, and Red
The 250th Anniversary

 
Blue waves are coming
Water, clear and opaque
White bubbles rise
Crowning the surface as they surge

Rocks stay solid, brave
Unblinking as waves strike
White blossoms bloom in the air
Then dissolve upon the stone

Deep beneath the sea floor
Red corals sleep soundlessly
Ringed by silent seaweed
While small fish pass now and then

Let peace rest below
And honor the splashes above
Dive as freely as you can
Forever blue, white, and red

 

lost highway


neon veins throb dark.
glass veils gaze dull.

heaven floats lightly:
an ethereal corpse—

atonal, the night;
shattered, her prose;

speak softly, 
dear barbiturate,

my marble
repose. 

The Child In You 


At times when you are sleeping 
I see the child you once were
Dreaming on the mattress 
In the space next to me.

If we had a daughter
She might have looked 
Much like you do now
If I cracked the door to her room 
And checked on her slumber.

What we are does not go away. 
It remains, buried under
Added flesh. Dormant. Waiting 
For the right moment.
A twinkle appears in old eyes.
The child is there, laughing,
Waiting to come out and play. 




Catching What You Can

- for Daniel Lange

Morning on the Willamette,
Many boats are out there in the nice weather. 
You see two fish caught, none by you.

You may or may not 
bring home dinner tonight.
It's too soon to tell.
Even without a salmon yet,
You find the day well spent.

"It's been a beautiful morning."
"A glorious day."

You can take that much 
back with you at the end of a hook;
Let it leap into your net
Of its own accord.

"A beautiful morning."
"A glorious day."




Initial Offering 

Some people got rich
On Wall Street today,
But the poor in Kensington 
Are still poor,
And the addicts still need
To fight for every quarter 
They can get
In order to stick 
The next needle in their neck.

Montana

Montana, that's where you can go around
Screamin' loony stuff while runnin' butt ass
Naked in the woods and only the tourists
Think you're nuts.  Yup, a whole 'nother
World on the edge of so-called civilization.
Well, true, the Injuns worry a little over the
Freaky white man but they already know,
From experience, whitey's born that way,
Just can't help it.  A while back, they thought
About rounding up them pale faces and then
Sending them back to Europe.  But the ones
That stayed in the homeland wouldn't stand
For it.  Okay, the Irish did, reluctantly, take
Pity and said they'd take a few.  But none
Crazier than they are themselves.  Oy vey.
In that case, that ship never sailed.

“In Between the Whisky Sweats”
 
A dead man’s music
is my best friend now,
and he becomes less
deceased with each sip
of cheap whisky
(a plastic bottle
so many walked by,
believing in the recommendation
of something aged
12 or more years
from the cashier
at 11:30 AM),
so that the silence
is left dreaming of one day
when it’ll make
the most beautiful music
and we’ll be the ones
with nothing left
to say.

GOODBYE ECHO

Sleep well above
the crystal stars of Hibbing
where the cynical minstrel
smoked cigarettes on your sofa
while listening to
Jimmy Rodgers.
How much did you miss him,
Echo, when he traded in
the icy winters of Minnesota
for the neon nights
of New York City?
Something tells me
he remembers and,
even as we speak,
I'm guessing he's picking up
his guitar to write more
about the winds
& where they hit heavy
on the borderline.

 

  

ICY RIVER


            “I am a rock. I am an island.”

                                                --Paul Simon

 
I’m the kind of man

who hunts grief down

in the rain-slick streets

of a downtown night

and screams

I’m not afraid of you.

I eat devastation

for breakfast.

The bankrupt business.

The lost pet.

The girlfriend

who dumped you.

The unfaithful spouse.

Death. Loss. Tragedy.

None of it matters.

And rest assured,

that the single tear

you see working its way

down my cheek

like a rivulet

from icy river

means nothing.