Intelligent Life

("Hail in the Desert, Northern Nevada")

Do the heavy clouds

Mutter their tears and glower?

Well, and if they do

Sweet sage answers with

Kind and liberal breath,

And so does the dirt

Proclaim itself with flint and dust

On a rainy day.

The Quail race, heads forward

And beside them tiny chicks

Flutter and bounce like feather balls,

And so, outside our evil world

They move to their own

Beating of hearts.

So, too, the snake coils

Under sheltering rock

Lizard scrambles, looks over his back

And darts into brittlebush.

The innocent datura

Luxuriates in soft trumpets

And grows it’s fatal fruit.

Above, the Hawk soars

On solar winds, below

Ancient stars, all

Enmeshed in the hunting of time.

We know all this and yet…

And yet somehow, we still can

Call our lives civilized

And say they’re the benighted ones.

Worth only the subjection of pens

And the yield of the butcher’s blade.

Ah, but let the lay of the land

And the current of wind

Expose this ridiculous lie.

The native ken of the reviving Fish

The patience of the creeping Newt

The watchful eye of the Rabbit

And the yip of the Coyotes

Proclaim a thousand nations

And histories beyond our understanding.

We think ourselves so bold and knowing

But where does intelligence lie?

Oh, muttering clouds who hold

Our so many lives

In their vaporous hands

The sun beyond, who’s mighty beams

Rest quiet and modest upon our fate,

Perhaps they know in their ages

What was really meant

When a lonely, wise wanderer

Spoke to every heart and soul

The words prophetically ringing

In my ears today…

The meek shall inherit the Earth,

Someday.

The Phantom of Terezien

(Kurt Gerron)

Dark corners in a gloomy hall,

The door beyond the shadowed wall,

Where you wander beyond it all

No stage, no lights, no applause.

Your bulky shadow shades to night.

You have moved beyond the fight.

The chamber is now bathed in light.

Look up and see the naked stars.

You can’t erase the hopeless eyes,

The heaps of flesh, the swarms of flies,

Yet, help them with their ghastly lies,

To live another day and starve.

Fat man, now, so big and small,

Haunt the endless ghetto hall.

The victims that around you fall

Hostage to your desperate role.

Your name once bright is now but drear

Because you gave yourself to fear.

A fool as mad as old King Lear

Or, Iscariot, confused and doomed.

The day before the chambers closed

You stood in line to be disposed.

On one last awful stage you posed

Your final scene in ashes clothed.

 Your memories of gladder times

Mack the Knife, Threepenny rhymes.

Now rot below the dust of lime

Ten million phantoms crowd the seats.

Bouquets of flesh and whitened bone,

Thrown to the stage of broken stone

Where you play endless and alone,

To maelstrom moans, eternal cries.

Love Poem

("Hills, Mountains, Sky" by David Saltaire)

The more I think of you

the less I understand.

I can't see you through logic

yet my heart, somehow

comprehends.












.

Rabbit's Moon

(Still from Kenneth Anger's "Rabbit's Moon")

Yea Perriot

Fallen in love with the moon

So far

Over and over again

You reach

For the lover who isn’t there

Perriot.

The rabbit, the moon and thee

Are three.

Shine on silvery moon

And hear

The bells reveal the doo-wop tunes

So clear

On this night

 in the forest of flowers.

Here comes Harlequin

To beguile with tricks of air!

Walking the tightrope across the ground

Juggling nothing, cavorting and tumbling

And leaping about!

Don’t look such a fool Perriot,

Look further than his wand!

For with his magic lantern


Behold!

He’ll conjure the sun

Maya, illusion, a beauty…

Sweet Columbine!

Fool Perriot

Who spurns the mirror and the lute

Has turned

And thrills to her lovely dances

Mechanique

Oh what would you give

Naif Perriot

To be her one and only dream-

The moon?

But now you are the one who’s spurned

She dances

Now with Harlenique!

And now the lantern shows a fear

The moon eclipses, dark and drear

Disaster for poor Perriot

The fading of all the love he knows.

But soft! Your better angels come…

And show reflection and the tune

Again you hurry from your room?

Into the silver forest gloom

And there’s the rabbit in the clearing

The moon 


a spotlight on his hearing

Is something there that you are fearing?

To fall?

And Perriot

In the garden grasping, flying

He tumbles

Towards the magic light

And when the ragdoll hit the floor

Poor Perriot

He was no more.

Fanfare for Flames

"(Spawn" By David Saltaire)

Times being what they are

 I look out the window

at dirty streets and passing cars

and it seems all the bright sunlight

is a lie.

That there are so many lies

so many foolish hands covering

worried eyes, open mouths

and so much terror that it bores

like endless shocks eventually

bring numbness, as your hair falls out

and is sucked down the hospital drain.

And here I am

typing away in the bluish glow

of a testtube cigarette TV screen

unable, it seems,

to do anything but record the night

in the despairing brightness

of the silent, heated day.

Thunder cracks the shell of silence

Clouds roll in like Armadas of doom

but only cubic zirconia particles

drop from the pewter skies today

nothing wet or nourishing

just the insult of eternal expectations

a soap opera with black and white parts

for everyone except

you and me

and no plot in sight

no wonder Amelia Earhart lost herself

in the bitter winds over desert lands.

So maybe it’s not a good idea

to click and point at the frozen answers

not moving anyway, nor will they

and I’m not going to cash in on

dreams, American or otherwise.

Some people claim to find

God in their hand-held device,

Some people hear demons in

the fillings of their teeth.

I heard the Doors the other night

like licorice whips melting

into carnival tea

but all I could think was

Jim Morrison, you swaggering ass

you were miles before the end.

You and I know what the end looks like

Don’t we?

Emergence

("A Quiet Place")

In the blindness

Of starless night

Even diamonds do not glitter

Nor does finest gold gleam.

In the glare of

Blinding sunlight

Even toads seem afire

Base stones glow with false promise.

Walking the finer line

Of balanced light and shadow

There’s beauty enough

In marbled blue and green

Of this tiny, wondrous place;

This island, this Eden

Suspended in a jeweled void.

Reflections In Water

Fractions of sunlight

Pieces of the sky

Instants of fluttering leaves

In the untiring,writhing,

Gushing, flying

Downhill rushing towards

The embrace of the mother sea.

The movement never ceases
even in her enfolding,

But enlarges into swells

Rocking the primal cradle

Streaming life outward, onward

Towards the land and to the sky.

We go about our business

Moving through the air

While the sea and many rivers

quietly attend us.

Sister Delia

Here is your headstone

Delia, born Lucchesi.

You are not here,

Simply your memory

And earthen remains,

Feeding the grass...

Simply your shadow

Sealed in polished stone,

Your history etched

In simple words:

Born in Brazil,

Died after 35 years.

The rosary surrounds

Your name, the rest

Is simply a guess

To the curious man

Lovingly photographing

The relic of your riddle.

Were you a mother?

Whose wife? Who loved you

Cara Delia?

Did you ride there,

Or did it come to you in bed

Who cared then, Delia Lucchesi?

Somewhere, a family

I do not know

Keeps your picture

In a dusty album.

Perhaps, once in ten years

They point to your image

And say, ah,

That was Sister Delia,

Born Lucchesi,

There may be someone

At that kitchen table

Who can tell your story,

Someone very old who,

In cracked voice recalls your

Young, young life

And is waiting to meet you

On the other side

Delia, Nata Lucchesi,

To look into your liquid eyes

And caress your soft hair

Someone who will laugh

And take your proffered hand

And wander up a misty path

Where all is forgotten

Even graven names

Such as sweet Delia,

who was born Lucchesi

in Brazil, 1894.

Who the Enemy Is

The war is not between

One country and another

One group of countries

And other groups of countries.

The war is not about

Saving any culture

Or preserving any way of life.

It’s not about religion, either.

The war is not against

Them, or that, or those

Enemies, or monsters in the dark

Wars are against you and me

My brother and sister, both.

An Evening In the Village

Things have been tense.

But, it is quiet,

For the moment.

As you are going about

Your evening

After supper,

Before your prayers,

Suddenly

Staccato bullets fill the air
Splintering holes appear
In the walls
Dishes shatter on your table
Glass falls away from your windows.
Quicker than a flash of terrible light
Everyday illusions are gone.

Your family!

A jagged jungle
cacophony of screams!

Tangles of arms and legs

Dive for the floor,

Cower under beds and chairs.

Fear sucks the warmth

From your body.

Everything contracts

To the pupils in your eyes.

You barely notice the

Harsh rasping of your own breath,

The motor-race

Of your vulnerable heart.

The world suddenly shakes

With a satanic roar.

The blackest, foulest smoke in the world

Fills all space;

And when it clears,

Your wife is a scrap of bloody dress.

Your children are torn to death.

Your home is a hole in the dark ground.

You are lost to the howling winds...

Because they are fighting

Over which side has the right

To call your city,

Your street,

Your life

Theirs.

Desert Trek

(Yucca At Twilight)

Warm radiance

brings comfort.

Expanse of clear

yellow light

smelling of

distant smoke

lifts me up.

I walk my

road surely,

evenly,

a small smile

on my ageing face.

Tawny earth

passive,

not giving,

not taking,

allowing.

sage breathes

shelters the meek

mute lizard,

quivering rabbit.

Onward, then

to the great rocks.

The barren mystery,

the diamond of the heart,

timeless, slow dance

of the dervish creosote.

Surely, I walk the road

paved with earth memory,

one hand and foot

striding forward,

the other side

poised to follow.

Bring me to the plateau.

Show me huge, turquoise skies,

voluptuous and pure.

In afternoons, in meager

flickering shade

of cottonwood trees

I will rest.

In my body

I will drink elemental wine.

I will sleep

with an arm over my eyes

until sainted winds

kiss my lips and cheek

and I arise.

Surely, walk again

the architecture of God

resounds with time

a million tales and poems

inviting me

to give my stony self

and become,

become,

and wander no more.

(This poem republished from All Poetry)

Cologne

(Petrichor)

My cologne

smells of

dried gum

automobile exhaust

and wet asphalt

clipped grass

jasmine and rosemary

candywrappers

pigeon feathers

and cigarettes.

Inhale the city's

essence

and I'm there

Even though you

launder that shirt

you lent me

even though you

scrub your sheets

burn cleansing sage

in your room

and sprinkle vinegar

on the cooled tiles,

Our linkup can't be broken

not by soap

or prayers, not by rituals

not even by death

Not even by exploding suns.

Suspended in the air

my cologne will linger

recalling you

to the streets

and you will find yourself

staring out of your window

trying to pick me out

of the indifferent crowd.

My cologne,

swirling pungent and sweet

will hold my place;

it will follow into your dreams

you will reach for my hand

in your sleep

I know you will.

Poem: Text Message

(Self-portrait In Brittlebush)

iamm txtng thisa
messge 2 u
becsuae whn I trry
2 tlak 2 u
u donnt nundrstand me
attal.

Poem: Gray

(Hail-storm Over Pyramid Lake)

Gray
dampens emotions down
makes a quiet sound
Like ice freezing underground.

Gray
as Minerva’s clear eye
unemotional, outside
a cool assessor, silent pride.

Gray
where some go to hide away.
Keep your distance on the day
I’m wearing clothes of gray.

Gray
Like Dorothy’s Kansas plain
simple, flat and without pain
but also, like the twister’s mien.

Poem: Promise

(A Glad Procession Of Trees, San Jose)

I know that when you look
out your window
everything looks dark

but, I promise you
dawn is coming.

See how it pales
at the knifeline horizon¦
soon sun will rise in the east.

Soon we can leave our rooms
of uneasy sleep
and dusty lightbulb smell.

I’ll show you a
rose and golden morning

Then we’ll go walking again
in the cool rising of light,
together, our hair shining like haloes.

And won’t it be fine
to make plans again and laugh.
It’s not so far off after all.

I’ll give you
all the rainbows you need
but don’t give up before you see

The rising of the mists
on a brand new day.