Hanged Man

 
Dangling by one foot, head
inches from the ground, eyes
half-open, I wait for resolution. My ego
falters in reverse. Lessons repeated
are forgotten a moment later.

I have grown fond of the rope:
rough grasp around my ankle an
uncompromising noose. The veiled sky
is years away: its shackle a vine,
growing deep within my skin.

My only weapon
is one I cannot use,
lost in unyielding ether,
and release will come much too late,
when I no longer need it.

The 11 dazzling verses


The dreameries need Blue Hours.

The Blue Hours would need a sun's afterglow.

The red sky in the evening longs for a delight.

The delight wants a homeland.

The native land wanted a literature.

The writings are willing to manifest a reality.

The epiphany was willing to become a sermon.

The homily-becoming can conjure a hereafter.

The spell of paradise could paint an entrancement.

The picture of the glee may perpetuate tenderly the dreameries.

The immortalization pertains to the dreams of the Blue Hourlets.




The contemplative flower of violet


The mellow flower of violet
is a fineness of the violet's blossom in the moonlight
however the small eternity happens
in an enchanting woodland solitude
genus Viola is minor
but wonderful and subtle
so tranquil the last night was
when a sylvan dream was awakened
four butterflies landed
in the calyx of this violet
their elysian longing leaving

in the heart of the flower a diamond was created
from heart-like dreameries of butterflies
and from eternal power of starry night
and the moon shines on everything
I stay yet not far from that
in the phantasy – the violet so unfolded
intoxicated by charm and by home land
as well as by starlit night
full of the dreamy Erlking

Songs of Yesterday

In Nogales we drank tequila,
Sang songs we were meant to forget,
Wandered the streets all night
Till the roosters crowed,
Then crossed the border and slept.
In the daytime we showered in truck stops,
Slept on Mount Lemon at night,
Drank beer and smoked pot with local girls,
Spoke of pipe dreams that would not come to light.
Going home,
We stopped in New Mexico,
From a cliff we howled at the moon,
Drank wine until we were crazy,
Stayed there and slept until noon.
Those days are long behind us,
Now they seem almost a dream,
The music sounds so much different today,
But the songs are much the same.

"Stormy Nights into the Sunlight"

Sitting back facing the overlapping of nights
thunderstorms rolling through
the city slumping down with the beating of rain

claustrophobic thoughts and walls pleading
for help from dreams rattling the windowpanes

all of us wrapping hands around and over
our heads and eyes snap-sparking
with lightning spotlighting fear burning

this earth a great ball of burnt dirt
with centuries of babies crying
and all the old skin shriveling into bones

we cry inwardly into heart knots
ready to burst

the full moon parting valleys of mountains under compacted clouds
heavy with the silk of cotton
wet weighing

everyone tasting the salt of dying
men and women holding their children

slapping hard your own face
realizing we have sinned more
than we have ever thought

wiggling your bare feet and trying to laugh
it all off into the grave

but you can't
fool yourself

our bare hearts
in our beds at night

weeping till we pray the lasting prayers
of cold tears that cleanse
all the hot tears of sin.

January Palette
 
Beaks to birdseed.
Pigeons: peck, peck.
Under the birdfeeder, the snow
has been shoveled by doves.
A fat cardinal hops between them.
He is not the colour of seeds,
nor snow, but maybe
last year’s mixed reds in clay soils

A Clip

 
The clip that fastens
the bread bag

It slipped away and
I can’t find it

Now lost on the white tile surface
Of the kitchen counter

The button on my sleeve cuff
It sprung off

When I was pushing the snow
off the car windshield

Now it’s invisible in the snowfield
The world is ending



The Five CDs

 
When we were in LA for a USC campus visit
My daughter and I visited the walk of fame.

As we approached Bruce Lee’s star,
Songwriters selling their CDs hailed us.

My daughter was a singer in the rock band then so
I bought CDs from five different songwriters in support.

Took them home and played them in a car with a CD player.
Three were kind of pathetic, one was ok, and the fifth was blank.

I sensed a kind of proportionality that applies generally.
The just ok mixed with other 80%: the boredom, the theft. 

Doppelganger

At a kid's birthday party,
I see a little boy
who reminds me of my son.

He's eating cake
and smacking a pinata,
laughing and smiling
the whole time.

I watch him
and feel the urge
to go over there
and pick him up,
tell him I've missed him
for a long time.

Dilapidated Desperado 

 
Dead-end desperado  
On the run bravado 
No water and all guts. 
One in the chamber,  
Raw dog love, 
Next town, new sluts. 
Dying horizon lines,  
Wasted time,  
Long trails and damaged feelings, 
Temporal being,  
Wrecked heart and clouds of dust,  
No trust and days die despite never healing.   
Ripped the whole joint,  
Crushed every beer,  
It was their tab,  
So, I ran it up, 
Then dashed on their pointless meaning. 




Yesterdays that Craved Right Now 


We are all alive,  
Living beautiful little lives of lies.  
Smiles that want to frown.  
Dresses that desire wedding gowns.  
Yesterdays that craved right now.  
The milk tastes good,  
But I miss the cow.  
One day,  
This life,  
Will straighten me out. 

“A Lost Battle”
 
The unopened bottle sleeps in my cupboard
and waits for a bad day to help me
dream of nights; the same shade
as all the days
we tell ourselves were victories,
while listening to music
and whisky conquer the ice in my glass.
 
I, drunk as a general about to order
thousands off to their deaths
as part of a gamble I rationalize as a war
that was over
long before my first drink.
 
The rest of the world another Switzerland,
offering enough aid
to keep its neutrality
with clean hands
and so many metaphorical mountains
making it safe from me.

The Bicycle Thief

Some sounds have
never been the same
since Nam: fireworks
displays, car back
fires, any sudden,
unexpected loud noise
in the night, but
the one that lays me
out flat, eating dirt
faster than a cry of,
"Incoming" is the sound
of an unoiled bicycle,
wheeling slow, deliberate,
rhythmic, unseen as
the homemade bomb in
the old man's covered
basket strapped to
the handlebars and set
to explode once the lid
was lifted, downtown,
high noon, wherever
men gathered.