Mona

Sometimes at night she lies by the pool until long after midnight,

Warm Merlot in a pink plastic tumbler her tawdry companion,

No IPod, no phone, no way to communicate, and no need

As the tiny stars and huge moon drop as the blackness rises

And the pale clouds curl and roll on the sky’s invisible winds.

On these sullen summer mornings, hours before sunrise,

She traces the names of old lovers across the darkness,

Remembers their kisses and rages, their inevitable sorrows,

The same way she remembers breakfast, tea, or a nap—

Sweet pleasures of the past now fading toward nostalgia.

She’s always stiff when she finally wobbles to her swollen feet

And tries—each night—to recall which door will lead her home.

No Zen

The first time I tried to meditate

I was tired and fell into sleep,

My beardless chin curling to my chest.

I don’t recall that long-ago dream,

But know still I awoke to joy

Despite my guilty embarrassment.

Next time, I knew, I’d touch Nirvana.

But the next time I was drunk,

My “OM” more of an “Oh shit,”
as I sought the quiet sacred place

Where rooms ceased spinning

Cross-legged beside the toilet.

Every few months now, for years,

I dust off my rusty lotus,

Focus my mind on a single point,

Try to think of absolute zero.

But my mind’s still not still,

I don’t want to lose myself

In some vast and cosmic One.

I already know I’m nothing.

Why, oh tell me why now

I’d want to feel that truth?

A Lonely Haiku

Random memory,

A maple leaf replacing

The touch of your hand.

The Greatest Country in the World

This legendary land lies, of course, quite far away,

Farther than the distance between now and then,

But when we finally enter its enchanted gates,

We’ll learn that the CEO knows the temp’s name,

And that the taxis pass right by the bigots

To pick up the trannies and the young black men

On their way to teach peace to the generals’ sons

Who by six have memorized the Tao Te Ching,

All the works of Whitman and Langston Hughes,

And the Cherokee songs of short love and tall corn.

The flying cars run on dandelions and desire,

And no one knows what “cancer” even means.

Everyone gets to be the president for a day

But no one ever needs be a judge.  All guns

Fire thick bread, fresh fruit, and sweet wine,

And never run out of their fine ammunition.

The children gleefully flock to their schools,

Gleaming gold on top of the highest hills,

Which of course overlook the cemeteries,

Which are spotless, revered, and joyous,

Filled as they are with music and dance

And the memories of such brief, bright lives. 

Best of all, not a single citizen has ever said,

“This is the greatest country in the world.”

Machete

How high were you that ancient night

You stumbled into the Burger King

And demanded a large order of French fries?

The clerk knew your natty dreads, your face

With all its naiveté and confusion,

Knew you well enough to call you a regular

And know you were always hustling, so

He probably wasn’t flabbergasted when

You pulled out those empty pockets

From those droopy gangster jeans, said,

“Come on now, brother, help me out”

And flashed that dopy golden grille.

But when you pulled out that machete,

That brush-chopping, pineapple lopping monster,

He got suddenly very silent, somewhat sad.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t give you the money,” he said,

And you knew through your Robitussin haze

That this stupid boy would die for whatever

Tiny amount of change was in the register, so

You settled for those salty, glorious fries,

Held them aloft as if you’d won a marathon,

And ran into the heavy, humid Tulsa night,

Already forgetting what you’d meant to do,

If—that is—you ever even knew.

One Magical Day in Tulsa

Waiting one day for the light to change,

They might instead decide it never will.

She might open the Lexus’ shiny door

And sashay away from Utica Square

Past the I-Hop, Wendy’s, and the hospital

Down 21^st street, past the park to Peoria,

Where she’d make a left toward Brookside.

Meanwhile, back at the frozen light,

He might reach across her empty seat

And pull to closed that dangling door,

Floor the pedal and race across

The after-all-vehicleless intersection,

Rubber screeching and peeling

Over the summermelt asphalt.

She’d have now walked 20 blocks

To sit in the Brookside Bar

At five o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon

And throw back shots of tequila

While telling anyone who’d listen

Lies about her life as a local actress

Who was an extra in The Outsiders.

He’d head north at a high rate of speed,

Take 244 east past the tiny airport,

Merge onto I-44, crowded with cars

Cruising to the Hard Rock Casino

The Cherokees run in Catoosa.

Soon he’d set the cruise on 78,

Follow the signs toward St. Louis.

She’d let some random handsome cad

Carry her to his pad and fuck her.

“Well, that’s done,” she’d think,

And she’d never drink tequila again.

She’d get a job teaching kindergarten,

And she’d join the Catholic Church,

And she’d live someone’s life, now hers.

He’d barely glance at the famous arch,

Take I-70 through Illinois, Indiana,

Stopping only for coffee and Red Bull,

Popping his last few ADD pills,

Leaving the car in lower Manhattan

Near the exit from the Holland Tunnel,

And walking north on Greenwich Street.

You might say this wouldn’t happen,

That people just don’t act in this way.

And you’d be right, of course.  In fact,

They went home and watched TV,

Got up the next day and went to work.

Wait!  There’s one other possibility—

Perhaps they’re still sitting at the light.

Nodding Off Haiku

Now almost midnight

And now almost 12:30—

Brief sleep has fooled me!

Late June

This wind stormed in from the north tonight,

Caught all us summer people by surprise,

Filled our pools with fat maple leaves,

Pitched our tattered patio chairs against the fence.

We watched bat-like clouds fly over the moon

As rainless thunder rattled the windows,

And for this one mad, random evening

The too-familiar town grew sweetly strange,

A beautiful face glimpsed, then lost in a crowd.

How I Plan to Please My Woman

I’m poised to make you pancakes,

Very early tomorrow morning,

Before the dog’s fully awakened,

Before the phone’s rung even once.

Blueberries I’ll stir into the batter

Just until I stroke a purple streak.

I’ll pour a perfect pentagram

Of slowly spreading circles

Bubbling from the griddle’s heat,

And fry thin slices of bacon

In my mother’s battered skillet

While the coffee sings in my blood,

And I await your step on the stairs.

Once Upon a Time in San Francisco

The blonde dreadlocked boy

On the path to Golden Gate Park

Pounded the warm December air

And raged against the bland sky,

His eyes tight meteors streaking

From passersby to sidewalk

To whatever lost high shadow

Loomed over his tattered life.

I wanted to pick up his pieces,

Take his wild face in my hands,

Tell him he would come down

From whatever he had taken

And all would again be well,

But his Hell was perennial,

As much a part of the Haight

As the graying ponytailed men

Turning away from this bad scene

To make their way up the hill

To the endless circle of drummers

Raising their rhythmic praise

Up to whatever maddening God

Could possibly demand

Such a bloody damned sacrifice.

Pending Repairs

Maybe the basement holds water

While the pool cracks in the sun

And the hole in the kitchen ceiling

Leads to the burned-out chimney

and the window screens rip

and whip in the summer wind.

They say the hail ruined the roof,

Knocked the guttering askew,

Pitted and gouged the poor siding.

No doubt, I know, all this is true.

But no damages mean no living.

You and I limp together, battered

And broken in the ways of love.

The Blues Club at the End of the World

The sad music wasn’t on the radio, of course,

But somewhere at the back of the house,

Where a few blasted and saggy old men

Sat in rickety chairs of their own construction

And spoke in the shattered voices of the tribe.

A few people listened, their faces blue

And beautiful in the hot, smoky darkness.

The men’s long fingers and fat lips danced

like autumn’s dying leaves on the chill winds,

and the music went on until the sudden dawn

surprised them all with its wistful brilliance,

and the women collected their now-quiet men,

wincing into the way that it all continues.

Prey and Predator

The windows glare

At the July air

Like antelopes

Stare at the lion

Sleeping deadly

Under the lone tree

Casting no shadow

Upon the savannah

Rolling eternally.

Oh, You Must Remember That Morning

A sore neck, an empty wallet,

Stains of dubious origin—

A good time was had, and yet

Emptiness remains, lurking

In the milliseconds between

Memory and embarrassment.

With coffee, reality returns,

And the longing for a cigarette

Still, after 20 smokeless years.

You stub that dull urge out

On the blunt edge of your love,

This desire that feeds, keeps you.

Mornings have always chafed—

As a child you hid your head

Under the covers of your bed

And waited for the daylight

To settle in around you,

The way it’s still settling.

Rebellion at the Symposium

The story you want to tell

Takes us toward an edge—

Your edge, not ours.

When we peer over,

Nothingness peers back,

And we’ve enough of that.

Why do you think, oh bard,

We built such beautiful edges?

The Week Before the Solstice

Early summer storms—

The river flows out of bounds,

Washes spring away.

The Worm Dharma

Three days of warm, thin rain

Bring worms from nowhere

Into the small, marshy yard.

Some seem as big as snakes,

Wriggling between the drops

Drifting from a dull low sky.

I step between their dark curves

Like a cautious Buddhist monk,

Moving toward a distant sun

Crawling behind the clouds

Clotted thickly as the desires

Crowding the path to wisdom.

Déjà vu

Some times

Surprise us—

So different

From others

Our breath

Focuses us

On each

Stark moment,

Already somehow

Remembered whole

Since lived

Once before.

Cluck and Cackle (and Thanks to Albert Hoffman)

The night the chickens spoke

I was quite out of my mind

But not yet in another—

Stuck in a strange interstice

Of quiet and barnyard fowl.

I didn’t want to be inside

Our tiny rented trailer

With its tawdry Playboy pinups,

Its stinking, overflowing

Stubs of good intentions.

You hissed at me to come back in,

Your voice a frozen snake

In the thin October darkness.

I don’t recall a single thing

That those fat hens said,

But they were so beautiful

That I wanted to stroke

Their thick, complex feathers

And stare deeply in their eyes

‘til I discovered their secrets.

Oh, laugh if you will—and you will—

But everything has secrets,

A knowledge in the cells,

Some dangerous wisdom

That can change your forever,

Like full moon light on open beaks.

Advice from an Insomniac

In the neurotic early morning,

Awash in a blue-pixeled glow,

You may clumsily encounter

A brief, pain-filled epiphany

During those anxious bytes

Of stretched, stressed time

Lying between the breaths

Regular as your seasons.

Hold that tiny revelation,

With all its tight agonies,

Close as a constant lover,

Reveling in the sensations

As they burn you to sleep.

The Endless Campaign

So just what did you say

To make them hate you so?

You were programmed

So as to avoid offense,

Keep the focus positive,

The questions innocuous—

About the kids, mostly.

But now they’re wild,

Ripping up the seats

To make quaint spears,

Classic caveman clubs.

I’ve told you over and over—

Just read the teleprompter

And take the oily money.

Stick it in that fat gash

Where we only recently

Discovered your head.

A Brief Review

Reading your memoir,

For the very last time,

I’m yet again amazed

At your brutal honesty

Concerning vegetables,

Various and sundry kin

Wearing ankle bracelets

And too-stoned smiles

During huge breakfasts

Bought with barter

From your safaris

Deep into the heart

Of savage memory.

Vision at the End of a Longish Day

The light globes

Look like jellyfish

Floating above us

And my sore feet

Suddenly seek

To become fins

As we’re swimming

Within tight circles

Scales and gills

Silver as sunlight’s

Morning shower

Stretching toward

Our deep places

Omega Point

All our roads ultimately converge

Into a tunnel whose end cannot be seen.

No one has ever reached that end,

As the tunnel extends with every breath,

With every death, into a future

Where we may not know each other

As human, or even remember

Exactly what that used to mean.

Our linked minds may briefly ponder

The splendor of our gleaming bodies,

Washed in starshine and time,

Moving slowly forward together

To whatever’s beyond the end.

Northern Oklahoma, June

Wheat fields singing in the wind

Wearing a cougar’s sanguine color,

Sky high as distant memory

Or a promise long since broken,

And of course that lucky ol’ sun

Pale lemon, bright revelation

Demanding our immediate attention—

What can any of us do save

Prepare our gold souls for harvest?

A Summer Day in Montmartre

The rain sparkling all the way down that day,

A man skipping on stilts between the showers,

Two tumblers in the artist’s square, the hours

We spent in the galleries and the way

The sun surprised the rain and blinded us

Briefly with its colliding molecules.

But soon the afternoon again was pools

Under a high, bright blaze, and all that was

Was once again after all what had been,

What we saw once again what we had seen.

Truthfully?  Even before the rain came,

We knew that nothing would ever be the same.

Warrior Widow

Drowsy after a morning with the old masters

And a late lunch of fat crepes and flat, cold cider,

She lingers in the public park, where disasters

Conveniently stay away, and she can nap and bide her

Time until dusk pushes her from her usual bench,

And she reenters the world with a violent wrench,

And—brave, lonely old woman—doesn’t even flinch.

The Lake Where No One Goes

If the Holy Spirit exists, persists

Within this busy world of tangled woes,

That Ghost dwells soundlessly within the mists

Rising at dawn from the shores where no one goes.

The sensitive mind scans the horizon

For signs that all is not metal and meat—

A reason compels the elision

Of tragicomedy’s bitter and sweet. 

But that lake is hidden so far away,

And life, both short and long, so distracting,

The mind ignores the lake for one more day,

Mists where spirit slowly keeps retracting.

Minds trudge one, down the well-worn, rutted road,

Holding that nothing that’s such a heavy load.

Reading “Four Quartets” in a Paris Hotel

Outside, traffic, the occasional trill of horns,

Punctuated by construction hammers next door.

Inside, where the action is, the wayward mind yearns

To move among the noises, as the mind’s a bore.

In this city the Anglo soul has room to work, to breathe,

Isolated by language, by bias, by more time

To fill with some sort of meaning which will wreath

This tiny rented room with some perfect rhyme

That pulls the tired workers from the construction crew,

The weary drivers from their speeding, angry cars,

And solders them with burning words the way that you

Weld together the mind with lines of metered bars.