Toast
     for Ron Padgett

What can I say?
Taking another sip 
of coffee, I keep
trying to decipher
the chirps and chatter
of the birds 
frantically yelling 
at each other outside 
my open windows.
The morning remains 
darker than this cup.
Or maybe I’ve closed
my eyes in concentration.
To heighten certain senses.
To focus my attention.
Whatever I’m doing, 
it doesn’t appear
to be working.
I’m as terrible
at eavesdropping
as these birds 
are at “singing.”
I’m the worst spy. 
Or else I’m not 
really their audience.
The only thing
I know for sure is,
everybody needs to relax. 
Well I do, anyway. 

Yours…


You show up in my dreams
I can't say that you look happy 
Even in eternity, I manage to
Disappoint you 

I will wait right here
For a sign from you:
Shifted pictures, four
Candles that spell H / O / P / E
Turned around to face the wall

I will stay here until you show your face
And I think I spot you standing in the doorway of the
We Close At 4:20AM Smoke Shop – so random!

O eternal wanderer
I know you see me in your peripheral
Don’t you remember the va-va voom?
The “Cut it out and get a room”?

A virginal paradox!
Big-tittied complexity in a lyric sung
By Mr Al Green – the one where you take me
To the river and wash me down

Dashed hope --
You weren’t intended to drown
You were supposed to live and
Finally claim what is
Yours…

 

 

WORRY COMES WITH AGE

As doors slam I shake with a fear I ain’t
Ever experienced before as my mind is full
Of paranoid fantasies of some smacked up
Junky nut will kick my door in & then my
Head but tonight, just like so many before,
It’s for next door again.

“If you don’t let me in,” he screams, “I’ll
Kick the fucking door in you bastard!” &
The silence from him next door is deafening
As I nowhere what sounds like a large man
Straining and then suddenly a loud, a really
LOUD crash & the door is off it hinges as
The pair go at each other like a UFC fight
Until finally a few minutes later the roar
Dulls to a quiet whisper & soon the door is
Back in place as no doubt some business
Is done and it got me thinking…

Why? Is it all connected to the hypodermic I saw
Sitting on the grass by the cafe on the Steine this
Morning that suggests the real bad smack is here
Hunting victims & my neighbour is casting that
Spell over some poor unfortunates like the hip young
Amy I spied hanging outside my shop today.  Seeing
Her I worried as she talked deals with an aspiring
Businessman & I thought, wow, worry really must
Come with age!

 

One Summer Night in Seattle

I wrapped the Stars 'n Stripes
around my head like I'd been
trepanned

Got up on stage between sets
took the mike 
& performed the National Anthem
in chicken

It was nice
Nobody yelled, "Speak English!"

With a series a guttural clucks n squawks 
& in tune, more or less, with say, Beyonce, like 
just before the Super Bowl

The punk rockers at the Dog Pound
who came to see 13 Dollars
& Mr Smithers
didn't recognize me

I was just another 
flightless animal

by the end of it they were all
standing at
attention,
baseball caps held over their hearts

The Left Breast of God

The left breast of God
Is for nourishing the
Faithful.  The right is
As well, but it sounds
Better to only point out
One at a time.  Of course,
God is a woman.  Who'd
Wanna suck God's nuts?
Okay, for sure, somebody
Might. That's pretty weird.
I don't think they'd be just
Sucking on nuts. 
God, in her infinite wisdom,
As a punishment for the 
Bad boy, could send a bolt
Of lightning up Satan's ass.
I think that's a regular thing
With Hitler right now. Hot
Times in Hades.  Could be
Haiti but they got the voodoo
And hoodoo to keep him in 
His place.  They really need to
Work on the gangs. That done,
I know some places they could
Work on up north.  God and
Satan, tits and nuts, make
The world go round.

Locomotive Dream


Dinner on the Amtrak train
between Portland and Tacoma
is a microwaved burrito, but

at least it’s vegan. I gnaw
half-frozen beans and dream
of a different tableau: tables covered
with linen cloths, gilded platters,
elegant silverware. Fantasy meal

for two with a view of fields,
rolling its cartoon reels
between glamorous locales.

Instead, I lean against the wall
to peer through cracked windows,
while stunted lines of mini marts
sprout like mushrooms from

sidewalk cracks. In fifty minutes,
the train will deposit me
at Tacoma Dome Station, and
passengers will scatter like ants,
anonymous and frantic.

Outside, a boy plays solo
on the sidewalk. A stray dog wanders
across the street, looking for
something he lost that afternoon.

America in the twenty-first century:
how swiftly it runs without arriving.



Classical Performance

In the shadows of
a high school auditorium,
in a closet above the stage
during a Shakespeare play,

I experienced
“heavy petting”
for the first time.

I could hear the actors
reciting their lines
in stentorian tones.
My boyfriend groped

inside my shirt, as we
tongued each other like
melting ice cream cones.

“Your mood ring must
be changing into all
sorts of colors,” he said,

as he slid his hand down my pants.
After our finale,

we climbed down the ladder
to bow for the audience, but
they had already gone home.

Straight Talk

You should be here not me.
I’m just sleepwalking my days away.
If I’m gone someone else can
walk the dog. Water the plants.
And mow the lawn. 
I’m ready to go.  Punch my ticket.
Put me on a train to anywhere.
Just take me away from a place where
I feel like an overstayed visitor.
The hour’s late.
I’ve learned.
Loved.
And lost.
I’m tired.
It’s time to go home.

 
 
Music Makes the Spirit Go Round

Listening to Ice Machines from The National
and the introspective sad absurdity of it all.
Driving down the interstate when a bird flew
in and directly down at my windshield as
I barreled down the fast lane.  It suddenly
darted up at the last minute.
It wasn’t the first time birds have come
to visit me. 
Coincidences don’t usually happen twice.
Caught my attention.
The spirits are alive and talking.
Wanting to be seen.
Had to pull over to the shoulder for
a second.  Regroup and smile.
Write a short poem.
It feels good not to be alone.
We are all connected.
No matter what incarnation we
are placed in.

Image


There was no funeral
I don’t know the dead soul
It might read my thoughts
Better than my own mind

The body was silent, the image alive
No grave has ever been found
Many friends have been searching
Even strangers have joined in

Whoever drove by after that summer
Along the great boulevard
Always trampled on bloodstains
Never washed away through the rain

Dimming Fireflies:

You can talk to the dead
like you can the living—

neither listen.

Fireflies
drift
and dim
among the aspen
like carrion stars.

If you're quiet you'll hear
there's nothing to hear.

In the Dark

On a stormy Sunday night,
during evening mass,
a tree has fallen
onto the power line.

The electric candles have gone dark,
the electric organ has gone quiet,
the preacher’s microphone has gone out,
the sacred has gone
silent.

I stare ahead
waiting for my eyes to adjust,
hoping to see the believers,
straining my ears
for their faithful whispers.

But the priest has left us all
in the dark.
He busies himself
looking for the fusebox
in a vain attempt
to enlighten us all.



Traveling like the Bees

I move slow as honey
dripping from flowers
the buzzing all around me
in busses, in trains,
especially in the air.
All whirs and chatters,
I’m not used to this:
moving as the bird flies
a bee line toward home.

The clouds temps me,
their siren wail begging me to stay
but I cannot rest.
We’re too busy to ever slow
like a hummingbird in flight.

I travel with the bees
buzzing, chattering,
I don’t know
what they dance about.
I’ve never stopped to listen
except to drink their honey
my shaky legs covered in pollen.
I fly on,
flower to flower,
to home.