this river is all that remains of the great floods which carved these canyons

the old ones tell us this is where time began--an emanation which knows not its own source

yet this crafty creature creeps up on us, an uninvited guest.

and spirits were born with time:
the hawk, the fishes, the bear are the vessels for the soul of time

their gift though, is the unknowing, the ignorance of time's mortal measure

we flat earth walkers, we talkers, are burdened to tell the tale--one of beginnings and endings, of birth and death

the winged ones and the water dwellers see the same sun rising and sinking

though for them, the stream, the canyon, and all it births have always been and will always be,

for they are not cursed to see, the awful arc of this light

they are spared the specious rhyme and rhythm of day and night, the repeated reaping and sorrowful sowing;

the knowledge of the end of days, for everything which had a beginning

those folks hired white help,
maybe a Mex to tend to the yards
but they let old lady Latty wash
their soiled sheets, bath towels
and undergarments

they sent out their fine clothes
for that new process called dry cleaning,
a magic Latty would never fathom--how
you gonna clean anything without water
steaming, lye and labor of love

but Latty knew those folks
whose ****-stained drawers
she was scrubbing had more secrets
than money, and she knew to keep
lips God gave her closed

for nobody need know about
the joy juice that was on the sheets
when the man of the house was
gone, and the towels covered
with the seed part of that

weren't none of Latty's business
what sins were seeping under the
cracks of those fine wood doors, or
what other rich as Croesus gents were
walking softly on the polished floors

Latty was off Mondays, but
not on the Sabbath, for it was
often the eve of that holy day
when the most soiling was done
and that didn't bother her none

for Sundays the folks was mostly
gone to church, and whatever sinning
was to be had took its rest like the Lord did,
unless sitting in a pew with a man
you never loved counts as such

Tulsa, 1908

called, "when I am dead"

and what came to mind, while
pecking away

were thatched roof cottages, hedgerows
all along a cliff,

and waves below whipping against
earth's spine

farther out were great swells
and black ships foundering

sea serpents were darting through
the green depths

this spectacle was silent, the screaming
men, the crashing waves

even the charcoal sky, threaded with a
thousand bolts of lightning

birthed no thunder, though I didn't
wonder why

I was supposed to among the dead
where vibrations abound

though none pound against
eardrums

such silence, I was told, was tantamount
to solace

but men were drowning, and fires leapt
across the waters

and no passage led up the cliffs to home
and sanctuary from this terrific tempest

and the eraser, so I can
clean up messes with a bit
of magic rubber

this **** ink is indelible,
even if it's scrolled on a page
in ephemeral cyberspace

delete doesn't count once other
eyes have made a meal of your meaning,
digested and crapped out your words

I long for a Big Chief tablet
and the art gum magic I could perform
with nimble fingers and clear eyes

I was in no hurry, for he was
past this world's impatience, there
in that quiet room, prostrate, manicured
so we could "view" him

before I cleared my driveway,
I saw a white dove--was this an omen?
until this eve I was not sure such a creature
existed--still no verdict on omens

at the first stoplight, a Harley, straddled by
a horse three hundred pounds soaking dry,
caught my eye--shorts and pink ubiquitous
breast cancer awareness tee (really)

at the funeral home, there was not
a space to be found, so I parked at the
Baptist church across the street -- I doubt
the lot knew the deceased was Catholic

in the entrance to this place of grief
and peace, and artificial flowers, two men
in twin black suits were arguing -- I heard only
one sentence, "His wife doesn't need to know!"

then, of course, I decided not to go, but did
stop for a Big Mac and fries on the way home, wondering
if the bulky biker had been through the line before me,
and if the mythic white dove was yet on my lawn

he sits on the curb
all twelve years of him,
waiting to be a teen

when he'll have to pay
adult price for a movie ticket
or bus pass

he usually has no cash
for either; but wishing and waiting
are art forms to him

he's learned to move
the brush of time slowly on life's palette
while he watches others whizzing by

on their store-bought skateboards
and Huffy ten speed bikes, while he has
only one gear for two feet

which now are clad in Keds
from the thrift store, and planted
firmly on the cement

by the drain gutter,  where he
last saw his favorite possession, a Super Ball,
get ****** into the sewer

when the storm ended, he yanked
off the manhole cover and crawled into
the dark, but the ball was gone forever

when he came back into the street,
yet lamenting his round loss, more boys
on bikes buzzed by

their circles safely spinning
on asphalt, far from the gutter and curb where
he once again sat--wishing, waiting

Baltimore, 1965

freeze like that self assured fool London gave us
in "To Build a Fire"

so do I avoid the wild Yukon, or learn to ignite kindling
before I succumb to the deep sleep?

maybe I just write a different tale