Trail of Tears in the Snow
 
Footprints in the snow, fresh.
Will your divorce lawyers talk
to Jesus this night—
set me chain-free.
Set you on your traveling ways.
Searching, we'll both be curiously searching.
Even hell has its standards burn with grace—
jukebox baby, we'll meet again
in the end, in that big black box.
Jesus suffers with the poor and the lost.
Jesus is the lead tempo rubato
4 both of us now bounce around
robbed of our stolen time.
Let me drive you home for the last time.
Coming home to go on separate paths.
Footprints fresh in the snow, 2 paths
forked off in different directions.
Hear diverse sounds —
on the FM radio, our favorite tune,
with age, it will become a classic
'Sympathy For the Devil,' The Stones,
jukebox, baby, put another quarter in.

The Old Poet Laments His Declining Poetic Output
 
The poems used to flow quite quickly
But lately they’re slow and sickly.
And though the Muse has not withdrawn—
She doesn’t speak so much as yawn.

 

 
A Romance That Changed the Town for the Better
 
When the book-banning, bigoted barbarian
Fell in love with the loquacious librarian—
We weren’t sure it would last, but now time has passed:
And the bigot sounds practically Shakespearean.  

chains are suggestions:

14 minutes
the hound howls at
the wind chimes
until her owner
yanks her chain
and even then
she refuses 
to abandon
her wails

our tongues lack bones
so they won't break

hence gods and reichs demand
incessant whispers chants shouts

after all
silence isn't possible
you can still snarl muzzled

freedom then is what you refuse
to abandon

—for Addison Radle

An Autopsy of Retribution

To get to the heart of the matter
You must take out a dagger and dig
And stab until the viscera splatters
From the corpse of the question at hand:
This cadaver of a country—
A dominion of the damned.
This unhoped for promised land
Where every throat is a sacrificial goat
Whom the gods of war command.
Is it far too late for forgiveness?
Probably so…it’s no good for business
As usual. An eye for an eye, O me O my:
What will you wear to the funeral?

because of my poetry


i always had dreams of
making beautiful women
smile or laugh or feel the
need to get naked because
of my poetry

it actually has happened more
times than my dreams could
even conjure

of course, i’m at the age now
where the hair in my eyebrows
grow in thirty different directions

warts and god knows what else
where i can’t reach

these lost years where it would
certainly be nice if one of those
beautiful women were growing
old with me

they tend to cost more
than an old poet makes

i suppose i should have
learned to play the guitar

or let the cocaine habit take
a few more pounds off

fucking hindsight

Old Man Body Blues


 
When my belly was no longer slender
and my pants drooped without suspenders,
when I smacked my lips when I chewed
and slurped when I was spoonin’ stew,
when my snorin’ sounded like a kazoo,
then I was beckoned to moan 
the Old Man Body Blues.

What are other clues my youthful physicality 
has been replaced by a long-toothed reality?
Hesitatin’ at the bottom of a step ladder, 
panic when I need to empty my bladder.
Creaky knees, crinkly flesh, saggin’ sinews,
strugglin’ to bend over to tie my shoes.
Ears and nose requirin’ a daily tweezin’,
breakin’ wind when I have a fit of sneezin’.
’Fraid salt water taffy will tear out a crown,
happy to fast dance without fallin’ down.
Look cadaverous under a harsh bathroom light,
let others drive when day turns to night.
Remember when I could grow a crewcut,
I wear hearin’ aids but still go, “What?”
Posin’ for a photo, I tighten my chin,
youngsters stowin’ my bag in the overhead bin.
Dreadin’ a doctor probin’ my prostate,
walkin’ with a slow-movin’, lop-sided gait.

Those Old Man Body Blues can taunt you,
haunt you, tease you, tryin’ to undo you.
They can bellow anywhere
like when I was breathin’ breezy air
amblin’ on a path back to my cruise ship.
Suddenly I stopped, worried about my hip
descendin’ steep stairs without a railin’.
A lovely female sensed my fear of failin’,
offered me her arm, sayin’, “May I help you?”
I muted those troublin’ blues. “You sure?” I knew
pride cometh before the fall, but I took the risk,
stepped down sideways, without slippin’ a disk,
grinned widely at the winsome miss.

That same voyage, orderin’ a thin piece of meat,
a server asked if she could cut it for me to eat.
Hesitatin’ I said yes, watched her slice it into forkfuls.
Must’ve believed I was a cud-chompin’, flaccid bull.
She ladled gravy on the steak, handed me the plate.
Did she really think I need a chin-wipin’ helpmate?
I jested, “And now could you chew it for me?”
Her face froze, then she laughed uproariously.
Pushed my tines into those savory morsels, amused
by the Old Man Body Blues attempt to bruise me.

Christmas Eve, standin’ in a supermarket line,
traded jokes with a fortyish gal who was mighty fine.
After she carted her food away, the clerk told me
the gal bought my ice cream, so it was free.
Was she simply expressin’ holiday cheer
or was she flirtin’ with a guy older by thirty years?
Told the anecdote to buddies, hopin’ they’d say,
“You still have the body of your womanizin’ days.”
After I admitted I was wearin’ a dusty coat, unshaven,
they said at times I look like a hobo whose haven
is a cardboard box in the woods by a stream,
who dines with damselflies on meltin’ ice cream.

Days later, hung up a calendar, circlin’ my special date.
Classmates had died, but I’d be turnin’ seventy-eight
and balancin’ the sweet of vanilla and pumpkin pie
with the bitter of the Old Man Body Blues and its sighs.

 

The poem mistaken for ink and paper:
I've mistook
Moby-Dick 
for ocean
and drowned.

I've mistook 
Travels in Arabia Deserta
for sand
and wasted.

But I'm yet to mistake
any writing for
a throbbing soul
or mere ink and paper.

Bricks are bricks
plus
something else
but all we have
are bricks.

Dear friend
I wish to build you
cathedrals.

Will you
with this ink and paper
help me lay the foundation?



Tombstoning:
Only suicides die
convinced
their last hour
is their last hour.

They are not us
leaping from
thundering water into
strangling air
rent with
patient
claws and jaws.

They alone have escaped 
the torrent of the strange mystery
we exhaust in—

the mystery
of not knowing
whether
we're alive
or dead.

Self  Made Man

I had the look,
girlfriends, money, drugs…..
Cool black guys talked to me.
A self made man through the
sale of twenty dollar bags of Mexican;
later, Colombian at $25, then $30 an ounce.
I blew it though,
because I only kept enough
money to buy another pound,
another hundred hits of microdot,
another ounce of coke

I had enough sense to never wear a marijuana leaf,
Better Living Through Chemistry, or Kiss t shirt.
Strictly obeyed all traffic laws in my
nondescript hunter green 1970 Ford Ranch Wagon,
8 track blasting “Kashmir”
through two huge living room stereo
speakers nestled in green shag in the back.

I worked as a dishwasher in various
seafood restaurants to maintain cover.
You probably knew someone like me
if you were a teenager in the ‘70’s –
attempting the look of an English rock star,
the American caveman/cowboy equivalent.
Also, you know it’s all downhill
when you peak in high school.
No one becomes a rock god.
No one stars in the NFL.

We go to jail,
pay for abortions,
work construction,
develop habits difficult enough
to require twelve trips to rehab
but still fail.
Our kids become
just like us,
live in trailers,
buzzer-doored single hallway apartments,
in basements, in tents, under bridges.

Some might write down their thoughts.
Some might see this.
Some might remember
the self that made a man
like me.



May 8th, 1980

Asked to leave the Zappa show
for drinking. Security guards
confiscated my flask of Jim Beam.
We drove around in Ronnie’s Mustang –
young, drunk, stupid – yelling at people
for no reason. It rained hard
the night before, and streets were flooded.
The perfect chance – a girl with a bag of groceries
walking home on the sidewalk. Ronnie
gunned it, swerving into a puddle, sending
a wave of water over the girl and her groceries.
We cackled like fools, the greatest score ever!

That was the night
I met the woman who would become my wife.
A bar called The Dixie.
She claimed I was barefoot.
Asked her to buy me a drink,
and she did. Gave me her number
in lipstick on a napkin.
So many things happening back then,
untouched by the future.

Yesterday I was taking the trash out to the curb.
I picked a crushed beer can out of the grass
with thumb and index finger.
Holding it like that, reaching toward the garbage can
when a Mustang roared by, window open.
Geriatric fuck! the driver yelled at me.
With real anger, it seemed.
Random, misplaced.
You don’t know me, my first thought,
after the shock. You have no idea
what I’ve done.
That’s what I’d like to say
to the driver of that Mustang.

But he was young,
so many things happening in his life.
He might soon, even today,
meet the woman who would become his wife.
Things slow down to memory.
Some random stranger yelling at me for no reason,
bringing it all back like that.

Enlightenment

Detached from the clamor of the crowd
Settling amidst the mountains and waters

I dye past obsessions and dreams
Into the color of blood
Twisting them into a red thread
Stringing together 108 Buddhist beads
Shedding 108 worldly troubles

The sound of the wooden fish echoes
Striking out repentance for all living beings
The beads’ resonance swirls
Offering blessings in all directions

Abstaining from red light and green wine
A soul returns to its spiritual homeland
Freeing itself from the seven emotions and six desires
A white lotus blooms in the pure land of Buddhism


Translation by Yingcai Xu

Brave Soldiers


I saw them fight
brave soldiers all
I saw them fight
I saw them fall

Substances
subconscious
suppositions
poverty and prejudice
have seen off a lot of
my friends.
Every life is sad
at it's end.

Cancer, addiction
just plain old age
are waiting when
I turn the page.
It'll never change
I won't escape the cage
no matter how much I rage.

That's all that is waiting
and our bodies deteriorating.

Yes, its depressing
and very distressing
but it's all there is.