spysgrandson
oh, someone always asks: yes, I am the grandson of a spy--being perilously curious is part of my DNA
when I asked how long I would live
my father told me about you
to comfort to my six year old ears
he saw, perchance, I was no longer beguiled
by the ignorant innocent myth
of immortality, on the same night
he spoke of infinite electrons
spinning in a car dome light
strangely, I knew,
even when the car door closed
those energized specs would spin forever
and dance about on a minute stage
when Methuselah was nothing
but words on an ancient page
still I saw his long white beard
counted his earthly years,
and asked father
if my number would be as great,
perhaps colluding to avoid my fate,
as the oldest man who ever lived
“Jeopardy” replaced
by ominous clouds
on Doppler’s screen
rains came!
if there are ghosts, they curse me
for my verbose blasphemy
for the tales I tell of their fleeting flesh
when they stood beside me
in the killing fields
committed the same sanctified acts
loved the same women
read the same eternal true lies
I take from them
something I did not earn
if there be spirits
in this ether of silent white noise
they are haunted by me,
more than I by them
for I still live with my feet on the ground
trampling their powdered bones with every step
with every word I utter
about their timeless time
I prove I am a thief
in this holy night, if there be ghosts
my lies do not fool them
Picasso at McDonald’s
super size my eyes--let the glare
of Pablo’s dead desires
burn my retinas, and
indelibly engrave the golden arches
behind my drooping lids
they will be my rainbows,
with pots of dreams
to order at each end
and fast food prophesies
slickly sliding down yelling yellow loops
through the endless blue sky
inside your hallowed halls
the chopped souls of Guernica
are invisible to our eyes
their stillborn screams don’t reach our ears
but their torment will be assuaged
by a Big Mac and large fries
they will no longer hear
the shrill whistle
of the German’s falling shells
the laughter of the children at play
or the other sinking sounds
that get us through the day
the trail up the mountain
is lined with serpents
hissing in strange beauty
they lunge but do not strike
not in dreams
I
w a l k
p a s t
t h e m
I
avoid their fangs
for I do not trust
what the elders have said
“in dreams none die,
in dreams none die”
though lost loves and my dead father still
speak
in some language without the tongue
revealing answers to questions not yet asked
yet
I do not trust those ageless words
“in dreams none die”
though I know this is true
of snakes
of men
of fallen angels
whose wings were words
writ for eyes not yet closed
before dreams,
before the mountain
and the myth of blue sky
COP: You killed a homeless old lady in a wheel chair
KID: I know, I was there…
he grabbed her
stabbed her
slashing her again and again,
downward through hot flesh to cold bone
like she was some mattress filled with money
in her pockets were slips of paper
with hopeful, hopeless scribbles,
cigarette butts and
two dollars and seventy-six cents,
all in change,
which he exchanged for Skoal
or maybe…Red Man
the shit colored juice from this bounty
dripping from his grinning mouth
when the cops cuffed him
and shoved him into their cruiser
he confessed, over and over
like he wanted to have one confession
for each slice of the blade
for each wound he made
for every other silent sin he saw
an acknowledgement
of his petty part
in the fall
he wanted her last sight
to be of him shutting her eyes,
muting her cries
to him, luring lullabies
the judge would not put him to death,
though he would have liked to
even with his own hand, he mused
for who could be so joyously jaded
at the slaughter of another
instead
he again asked, why?
KID: I made ME immortal in her sight
JUDGE: Your eyes will close a final time as well
and nobody will be there to tell
KID: I know
JUDGE: Do you?
he runs not for the finish line
for he knows the setting sun is
only a melting chat between dark and light
between dreamy sleep and wakeful flight
his eyes tell a tale not of what he has seen
but of what lives in the space between
what can be and what cannot
and what can be sensed, but not taught
when we speak to him of earthly ways
and our conscious counting of finite days
his eyes can only partially conceal
what dreams we are about to steal
our chiseling chatter is meant to teach
but his drifting dreams are beyond our reach
and one day soon he will slowly awake
to the sorrowful sound we are forced to make
when we cunningly convince him his race must end
and that all his dreamy glory was just pretend
he has a house,
with books,
drawers of old clothes
and sacred secrets
cluttering the floors and walls in every room
he walks to the library
to escape the heat, the cold
and the treacherous terrain of his past,
to spend the day in the company of strangers
who don’t know he is there, mostly
their home is the alley behind the furniture store
the windless spot under the bridge
or someplace mocking memories
have no place to hide
he stares at them
hears their breathing half sleep
smells them
envies them
and how they can tell their story
without uttering a word
he is afraid to be one of them
after years of hiding from their truth
you said
we all
have the love of men and women inside us
you said
you were born to love men
if we have two sides of the coin, who flips it?
you had no answer
you asked,
had I ever loved a man
yes, we were young and he was beautiful
but I did not tell him,
nor did I want him
you asked why,
as if…I was denying myself
some privilege with half of humanity
I said, it
would have seemed queer,
to be with him that way
queer like mustard on chocolate
not evil, not sinful but queer
like beer with breast milk
you said
that was sad
I said
I was not sad
but not born that way
two sides of the coin, you said?
inside all of us
but you knew not who flipped it
nor why
I fought you, long ago
you had me
like gravity moving sideways
but let my flailing,
deluded body free, to go roaming
in the fields of my upright youth
I emerged from your feverish flow
believing I was victorious
(that and other necessary lies)
when,
in truth,
(if there be such a creature)
you released me
to steal and heal
and slay another day
now sixty plus one, or two
I see you
in my rear view
brown huddled masses
skulking across you
to reach hopeful higher ground
you tug on their feet, weakly
making a mockery of
your name
our history
and the day
we played tug of war
for my future
those who cross you
now fight other rivers
fear, hunger, and yearning
I
far from your banks
walk slower and remember
your once mighty power
I failed to defeat
and the treaty we signed
for my simple life
I should be asleep
instead of watching
insomniac cab drivers
wipe the blood and scum and cum
from their black vinyl seats
mobile priests
of the city, they
have heard every confession
in their yellow checkered halls
those who entered, fell from grace
long before they found this space
the penitence
for which they had not asked
was not given,
the sacraments withheld
while the wine spilled,
the blood flowed, and
the wipers kept time
like some mindless metronome
in the Baptismal summer rains…
in his rear view mirror
were all the stories,
the fallen, the damned
ignored
while they lapped the asphalt miles
their lives measured
by the c l i c k c l i c k of the meter,
until
they made a guilty exit
and said keep the change
in the quiet
between the metal madness
of flesh being ripped from young bones
the watching and waiting
the stinging eyes
the flaring nostrils filled
with the sounds
of napalm painted flesh
there is a cool liquid silence
that comes with
the token tokes we take
as we pass the golden bowl
those times when we forget
we could flick a switch
and rock and roll
rock and roll
with psycho-delic cassettes, or
full metal jackets, though
neither allows us to see
there are times of senseless silence
and lost lizards lounging
on dew dappled leaves
in mornings after
the crushing steel
the fatal fingered agony
we sewed and reaped,
there
is
this
quiet,
this still green scent
the lizard and the fruit
the green promise of tomorrow
that we may erase
with our screaming toys
and deadly ploys
but only after we awake
from this smoky drifting dream
troglo-what?
look it up, those who
do not know the word
for
I am
a lover of words
obscure exotic esoteric poetic pedantic petty greasy slimy odoriferous clanking cacophonous melodious odious arcane archaic
all
a primal pleasure to hear,
to write, to read when perched
in the right order and place
to take flight and allow
me to soar above
or hide below
the massed multitudes of monkeys
who share my deoxyribonucleic acid
(and you thought
I would simply say,
DNA)
for they
find solace in the day
shared with simian soul mates
but I,
the true troglodyte of Texas
prefer the singular scent of words
on trackless trails
over the sound of lovers
and their breathless tales
when
I
woke
I
remembered
little of you
though I plumbed the depths
of you, religiously,
if one can say that
about those milky rhythms
seen and not heard
(for who really hears a word
in the deaf space of the night)
we get only lilting lunar light,
sharp, crisp edges rarely appear
inside closed eyes--our pink lids mute
whatever passing parade was there
though I continue to stare
last night it was simple neon light
fading baby blue,
flickering florescent
curled like a pigs tail
wagging and wafting
in my watery waves of REM
I left you mid stream
for the cold clang of the alarm
has no respect for a dream
I
made my way into the day
where my open eyes
still blinked and longed
for the lost spell
of the color of night
the candy cane sign
is gray with frost
its spiraled dance
stopped years before
the old man died
he, the emperor of hair,
meant to get it repaired
like all good intentions
and the clipped hair
that got swept away
day by day,
hour by hour,
minute by
m o m e n t o u s
m o n o t o n o u s
minute
the cutting,
the sweeping
punctuated by
the clang of the register
the hardy laugh at a racial joke
the passing of a borrowed smoke
and the buzzing silences
in between
when I would watch and wonder
what spell he was under
in his royal white regalia
chopping and chatting away
(at eyeless and earless heads I thought)
until I would sit in his chair
and escape the gulag of my life
with his ponderous questions
about
feather light skies
heavyweight jabbing
the “old lady gabbing”
the engine
in my “shrimp nip” car
and how very far
I would go
when I rose from his
leather and chrome throne
and once again be on my own
with hair a bit shorter
and life a bit neater
for a minuscule dot in time
I would not even remember
when I thought of his implacable place
in the cold past
feet and eyes
these are all I use
to find my way
my ears have been open
hearing the drums in the nascent night
soon begging for morning light
for the sounds carry the solemn songs
of the slaughtered and enslaved
I have masterfully managed to evade
but
sometimes
their holy
imploring eyes
their maimed
sacred bodies
come into two dimensional view, and
I steal fleeting glances
but allow no chances for them
to take
human form
I let them lay
in the fallow fields
among the bones
where their epitaphs
are written by the wind
where their last gasps are heard
only by other famished wanderers
who like I had feet and eyes
but whose drums in the night
were not untold tales
of the forgotten, the forlorn, the wretched
but death chants
just beyond the horizon
just over the edge of my
blind corpulent world
where I could hear
their muted emaciated cries
yet not have to see
their holy and hollow, dying eyes
The origin of spiritual sustenance is defined differently by each person. Most attribute it to a divine power or some God incarnate that helps us, limited corporeal beings that we are, relate to a deity or to the infinite. Like billions of other sentient souls, this is a way of "seeing" or believing that I have embraced on some level. However, when I ask myself what sustains me beyond this, I am taken down another path.
That path leads me to the crumbling adobe dwellings or sometimes to the freshly painted stucco buildings scattered across the great southwest. That path leads me to something more tangible or palpable than I can glean from traditional halls of worship. I am led instead to a simple yet profound vision--the sight of a hot plate of Mexican food.
Here is where a slight or perhaps dramatic shift in the way one thinks about the spirit is required. This is not necessarily a new concept but merely my take on it. You have all heard of "Soul Food" as it applies to the cuisine of the African American community or more generically in recent years, "comfort food". Also, some of you may recall me saying at one time or another, truly good junk food bypasses all vital organs and goes straight to the spirit. Let me clarify that last line--it is not that I believe the physical laws of the universe are suspended when one eats certain kinds of food—calories will still be consumed, the food digested and metabolized, etc. Instead, I believe, like so many things spiritual, eating Mexican Food transcends the natural laws of the universe as we know them.
This begs the question, why Mexican food as opposed to some other fare like Chinese or good old fried catfish, a southern favorite? The answer is simple. Some people, because of where they were, who they were, and when they were, are Christians, some are Hindus, some are Muslims and some are witches. I am a worshipper of Mexican food.
My sustenance, therefore, comes not from those in polished marble and stone palaces, clad in clerical garb and carrying holy texts. Instead, it comes from humble servants scurrying about hot kitchens doing what they do perhaps simply to feed their families—from my point of view, a noble endeavor in and of itself.
From the time I see a Mexican eatery through a bug-splattered windshield, I notice its energy or aura. When I open the door and see the gaudy but somehow authentic colors on sombrero covered walls, and hear playful Mariachi, and smell the frying tortillas, I know I have entered one of the houses of the holy. Truly, the colors, the sounds, the sights and the smell all take me to a higher place.
This sounds strange to most readers I am sure, but if I were speaking of a nature walk in dew covered grass among the scent of lofty pines, listening to the sound of songbirds, all could relate to its transcendent quality. We somehow place pristine nature above nature sculpted in a way for human benefit. I do this myself, except when it comes to Mexican food or perhaps a beautifully restored VW van, but that is another story.
To return to my original premise, the spiritual value of Mexican food—when the hot oblong platter is placed in front of me, I first notice its colorful array on the plate. Imagine a platter with red and blue corn chips, gray/brown frijoles covered with white cheese, orange rice, chili verde (green), a golden cheese covered enchilada, olive green guacamole, red ripe tomatoes with rich green cilantro and snow white onions, and last of all deep green jalapenos, forming a colorful tapestry and visual feast. (Contrast this with a hunk of brown steak, pale green peas, and a white glob of mashed potatoes.)
The scent of this feast immediately attacks my olfactory bulb and like so many smells, has the power to evoke startlingly clear memories. For me, I am taken to a place where the door opens to a moonless starry sky. I am in the desert, perhaps for the first time. I am in the desert, being courted by the dark desert lady who still haunts my soul in the night. I go back there so many nights, when all is quiet and my long day’s journey into night is finished. This vast, dark and inhospitable land that has called holy men to it through the ages calls me, a man as common as the cook whose labors unwittingly took me there. I huddle among the cacti, creatures who ask the earth for so little. I feel the endless winds that carry the remnants of a thousand ancient souls across the black Sonoran sky and rattle the door from where I came, as if still asking for entrance to a place where they can no longer dwell. Long ago, they returned to the desert for a final time, and now, a thousand nights and a thousand miles away, they mix with the holy night air as only desert dust can, and for a moment tempt the living, but then return to the black night. I do not yet join them—the door still opens to me. I can still see the colors, hear the sounds and place earthly but heavenly morsels in my mouth, and ask for more salsa.
Outside, in the dark desert, the night waits for me, but I have a few more bites to take, and a few more words to write, and to borrow a line from another, a few more miles to go before I sleep—thus, the spiritual value of Mexican food.
steamed broccoli calls me
its scent a melodious accompaniment
to the dance of
nitrogen and oxygen we call air
next I will torch
the dead silent flesh
of some sinless bovine beast
a sacramental conflagration
whose rich vapors will
add strings and woodwinds
to the wafting symphony
tickling my snout
my salivary will weep
in effortless anticipation
of jubilant mastication
of the flora and fauna
of my own culinary killing fields
that allow me
a few more waltzes
in this soundless song of air
nobody gave you their seat
your bag looks heavy
sagging on your round shoulder
with the weight
of twice and thrice told tales
none of those seat hoggers
likely cared to hear,
in our penitent past
you
had to sit
in the rear
perhaps your bag holds stories
that old, that bold,
now you are front and center
tethered to the bus and
this world with a rubber cord,
a hanging loop, for those
who wait for simple seats
or their journey’s end
at some blurry stop,
where others climb on
with their own weights and woes
and clasp the same old strap
that drew defiant blood,
the loop that once strangled
freedom’s cries, but now
is only a handle to grab
for those
who have no seat
on the same old road
I do not have a picture of you
except the gray one drifting in my head
I will feebly tell the world about you
and your three walls
the grated window does allow the morning light
to shine upon the graffiti prophets’ words
a scratched and scrolled novella
on the ancient cold bricks
the indelible tales they tell
hang above the pocked porcelain pools
where the unclean
were scrubbed by the unholy
who thought them unworthy
of their sacred soil
some would scream during the rituals
not at the pain of the brush
or the eye sting of the careless lye,
their rabid cries
came from the vacant eyes
of their captors
who did not see them
in their naked splendor,
speak their forgotten names
in the dead morning air, or
even hear them,
when they cried to their gods for mercy,
to be released from their pestilent past
and to be made blind
to the servant’s silent suffering
only they could see
