blind from birth, she
could tell the difference
between the odor of chrysanthemums and tulips,
and remember her first whiff of both

she could identify
the scent of her brother
in a groping group
of sweaty brutes

she knew
her nose was her biographer
collecting memories, visions
her eyes could not

she studied biology
only to discover her compendium
of smells originated in a space infinitely
smaller than a fly's eye

a few molecules
devoted to identifying ham,
the rich smokey meat
of her first Easter

another clump to help her hold
the faint smell of perfume which lingered
in the room hours after
her mother passed

and who knew what atoms,
what cells, what curse of chemistry
forced her to recall, most of all, the sweet scent
of her newborn's hair,

the few seconds she held him,
after his heart stopped, and they took him
and placed him in a smooth, cold box, where sight,
sound and smell were locked forever

I'm there,
an old portrait hanging on the wall
in need of a good dusting--past worthy
of restoration

passers-by will now and then pause
(more then than now), and wonder what my
two grey eyes saw, what my folded hands held,
what words came from my pursed lips

then came you, all dozen years of you:
maybe you liked old oils; maybe you were bored;
but you stopped, you ate a plump pear
while gazing

you squinted to see the signature
of the one who created me, though somehow
you knew there was but one creator
who gifted all brushes

you read the brass plaque
which summed up my life--three names and
eight digits, the last four a score before you were born
then you closed your young eyes

because you knew mine were closed
despite the painting's vain attempt to keep them open  
and you imagined you were asleep, waiting for a new sun,
or for another curious soul to stroll by

one who would take the time to look
and, like you, wonder, who I was, and why I was draped on this wall,
in this quiet hall, where you stood, pear in hand, finding color,
light, in my untold story

there is silence sandwiched between silence
thanks to the sudden cessation of their croaking
as if a plague took them, but it didn't

nor were they sleeping, nor were you,
at 0300 hours--you were between guard towers,
with an M60, and a hunger for sound

though you were picky about your song;
you longed for their familiar cadence, for
their green belched reassurance

that they would lay more eggs in the mire
and tails would grow, the swimmers would
become singers of familiar verse

but you could not wait for a resurrection
you did not know would occur--your duty would end
at dawn, and by then you could be dead deaf

from their silence

you were born in Denver
during a white out blizzard

like all round babes,
you had no clue, what was in store for you
you couldn't have known...

you would be
the last nickel to ***** through
a five-cent coin phone box,
in El Paso, Texas

or that you would sleep
for a year in a piggy bank,
of a boy named Felipe, who would die
of white blood cancer, before
he could spend you

and who would have thought
you would be in the linty pocket
of a serial murderer named Ray, when
he was captured in Santa Fe, a sunny day
on the ancient square, stalking
his next victim

a jailer used you that very night
with a twin of yours he found in
another picked pocket, of a drunk drifter,
to buy a Hershey's bar, from a machine
that would have taken a dime as well

your face began to show the fingered
signs of age by the time the choppers found sky  
above the Saigon Embassy, where you had spent
an aching April night in the Ambassador's pants

when you turned a half century, you were tossed
into a gallon jug, e pluribus unum, no more special
than others a third your vintage

I finally met you today, only because chance landed you on
the top of the heap, waiting to be saved from further folly

wedded that day, on their way
to El Paso, for two nights in a grand motel
with TV, and AC

they would splurge,
for profligacy was not a sin at such times
and a fat steer was sacrificed for it

the radio filled the cab
of the pickup with Tammy "Why-not"
singing D-I-V-O-R-C-E

they sang along, changing the letters
to M-A-R-R-I-E-D, creating one cheerful
cacophony in their shared space

when the next tune started, he hit:
a greasy buzzard, wingspan wide as a fence post was tall
black as an oil slick

the old windshield was no match
for the vulture, and it was a vengeful one
that crashed through Ronny's side

glass, bone, feather and flesh
tore into his sweet face like a chainsaw
his blood blinding him

Ronny turned so ******* that wheel
the truck rolled, twice, landing them on
the passenger side in an arroyo

where he lay on top of her,
gasping, his blood dripping generously on her
"Ronny, Ronny..."

her legs were numb, and she felt a warm
liquid crawling down her back, one she knew
was from her own head

which smacked the roof
so hard she was surprised her skull
hadn't popped

or maybe it had, for she saw double:
two steering wheels; two setting suns; two mangled birds
and two crimson faced Ronny's  

who then had stopped gasping, and only
slow breaths came from him, like a warm whisper
on her cheeks--but only until the song ended

and she knew, he was gone--and old verse
came to her, from Psalms, from Matthew, and she knew,
she was sure, someone would find them

and make her whole, and resurrect Ronny
for the good Lord would not do this to them, on this
hopeful highway, before they consummated

she harbored such a notion until
her own eyes closed, and other dark birds came
to find them, still, under her God's closed eye

(1968, north of Marfa, Texas)

I almost celebrate the unpopularity
of my imaging sandpaper and saws
sounds
thy western accompaniment
of warmer inner purpose
progressions of chords
calming and coherent
when you listen to
the harmonies
like adding mustard and relish
to a hotdog
sniff around for
chords perfectly
a new layer or two
on a journey of  my own
may you join in
my Magical Mystery Tour
where I add an f flat
to an f major
f flat becomes
f seven
upon your shoulders
and my powers and
depth are nothing but borrowed
true artists
are more
articulate

I am but lyrical
trying to re-introduce
a cadence
developing
a dream or two
however successfully
or not

it might be because
of a disconnection
a hallucinogenic
recollection
an old song
I listened to
while tripping

a long time ago

a radical idea
no

nothing but
borrowed

shadows

I dipped my leary feet in a
pond called science and witnessed the
molecules turn to ice

I asked a priest the meaning of
life, he said
"To be redeemed by God"
I read the scriptures of holy
gospels
I pondered the interpretation's
of all the apostle's
Answer the phone
I asked a bald monk the meaning of
life, he said
"To walk along the path of light."
I banged a gong sketched with
calligraphy and ate only
pomegranate seeds
Answer the phone
I looked all around for pieces
that fit
That sanctuary where you
come from
Like crossstitched buttons
from different grazes
the semblance of home
Answer
the
phone.