I was walking my big Ridgeback Mr. Brown
across the Starbucks parking lot
when this little white poodle started yapping
from the rolled-down window of a brand new Mercedes.

Mr. Brown responded like shot from guns
and before I knew it
he was scratching at the Mercedes door
eager to make friends with the poodle.

Then the Mercedes owner came running out of Starbucks
spilling latte all over his substantial stomach
What the ****…..!?
Look at those ******* scratches!
Do you know how much it costs
to fix a car like this?
I’m suing you and your big ******* dog !

Not wise, sir, I responded…
to be so aggressive with someone you don’t even know
and who has a 110-lb. African Lionhound
on the end of his leash.

I might be a whacked-out Vietnam veteran
with a hairtrigger temper
or a gang member
or maybe I'm just a senior citizen
with an extremely protective service dog.

Well, he said, his belly shaking,
look at my **** car.
I am looking at it I said
and handed him the keys to my ’68 Shelby Cobra
parked and shiny right nearby.
Take mine, I said
it’s more fun to drive.

Old men on park benches
they’re the real heroes
souls defying impermanence
greying and slower than you
recalling the days
when they dared the seasons to change
kinetic and thoughtless
they were once young men ablaze.

These elder boys sit reminiscing
as the beautiful young women prance by
not daring to say a word
for fear of ridicule
but knowing that many nights
they were desire’s center of attention
when lithe legs enwrapping them.

Elders are not holograms
just vintage men with feelings
hurting when the young and sparkling
look through them not at them
as if they were props
in the day’s act.

Elders are not mirages
but consciousness battling time
accumulated wisdom vibrating in the ether
still electric inside and unafraid of time
with smiles on their faces
they reach out for sunsets
and pull them close
with arms of love.

I live in one of those small
mostly untainted towns
not trendy, just funky and innocent
the kind that’s becoming rara villa en terra.
No Starbucks.

But modern winds bring dust and particles
from larger cities around.
They have infected our fauna
which are morphing before our eyes.

Last week I was at the pond
where the deer come to drink at dusk
and my heart broke.

There was that huge seven-point whitetail buck
the one I so admired
huge, taut and fast
but instead of hooves
he was trod with Goodyear offroad tires.
He saw me see him
and embarrassed turned and sped away into the trees
leaving rubber treadmarks in the loam.

Homer got hit by a bolt of lightning
late one afternoon
when he was putting new plugs in his tractor.
The electric laser cut him in half
just like a pie
and one half of him fell to the ground
on each side of the machine.

All the contents of his life
spilled out onto the wheat stubble
including all the bittersweet emotions from his right side
and all the rational reasoning from his left side.

Fortunately for his soul
he was right-handed
so that hand crawled across the ground
and took his heart back from the other side
to where it belonged
with all his random joys and fears
laying there like tiny diamonds.

His left hand didn’t do anything;
it just laid there drumming its fingers
waiting for the paramedics.

Homer’s wife heard the crackle
and by the time she got to him
Homer’s right hand had convinced his left hand
to help put him back together
and all she could say was
“Oh, darling, I’m glad you are OK.”

Every cell in my body
trembles with anticipation
as the curandero croons
ayy ooo wah hee….
….time to come and see me…
as my stomach settles from the purge
of the exlixir of the vine of the soul
I have dared myself to drink
as my limbs begin to vibrate
as I am seized by the hair
lifted right up off the ground
in the arms of great angels
who look like alien jaguar dancers
with huge luminescent eyes
and funny hats
who live in the emerald jungle
where the concoction I took
grows entwined
with my desperate hope
that this isn’t a scam
that there really is another world
or maybe galaxies too
but then I realize
I’m so far away from home
I know I’ll never get back
because I see him up ahead
it’s God with his hair gloriously ablaze
sitting on a grand throne
at the end of a great stone road
like the Roman’s Appian Way
suspended in pulsing interstellar space
and there is a line of people
stretching for light years
all hoping for a sustainable miracle
all holding tickets to see him
and each one walks up to him
heads bowed
and he caresses their hair
and he says I love you
but really, I just work here.

Pharmaceutical angels hover
in the space above my sleeping head
chanting slogans
they have been paid
to whisper in my ear.

“Keep it clean with Terbenafine.”
“You can fly on Abilify.”
“Everyone’s lean on Levothyroxine.”
“Go on a roll with Anastrazole.”
“You’ll get a thrill from Lisinopril.”
“There ain’t no reputin’ the bliss of Welbutrin.”
“Don’t be a geek. Take Pristiq.”
“Go far on Adderall XR.”
“if you want to rate, take Cypionate.”

I wake with a jolt
the neurons of my prefrontal cortex
already firing like machine guns of craving
for the treasure in my medicine chest
and I know everything is going to be fine,
just fine.

When you die alone
nobody beside you to see
your heart erupts through your chest
and a thousand tiny people crawl out.

Some of them climb down the bedside
and build condos in your carpet;
others climb up the lamp
and start hang gliding businesses.

Still others make their way
down the stairs and out into the garden
where they ride on great snails’ backs
singing wistful cowboy songs
in memory of your greatness.