The strange familiar flew up out
of the past, it had been hiding there for centuries, or even days, and it wrapped around my room, the walls offered a sliding berth It carried the color of the evening sun shining through rosemary, but had no definite face Just look at the odd stones and you'll see what I mean, bulbous round objects of language captured crystalline I determine at this moment to build an amplifier so that I can study the sound of my choosing Bring Miles Davis into the mix and watch the atmosphere change
Used to be the woods were
a great expanse of familiar mystery that spread for miles, now beer cans and cigarette butts mark the beaten path, only the ghost of mystery on display at the public park The only big trees left are the cottonwoods and the sycamores with beautiful leaves and useless wood, the big oaks all gone, harvested long ago What did this land look like 200 years ago before the ache of commerce laid the roads, and the spread of farms tilled the prairie grass into red dust?
I read your foreign label,
I brewed a Polish stew, I know it all sounds crazy, but that's all up to you, try not to get yourself worked up, I know it's hard to take, unclean men all touch the meat while rich men eat the steak, and the bird outside your window, she sings an lonesome tune, while the old man with the box guitar plays to an empty room There's a shadow on the windowsill, a long hospital hall, the nurses drag machinery past bad paintings on the wall, and in the cubbyholes of rooms your mama sings a song, "don't worry little children, by now it won't be long", and up above the flashing lights the choppers swing down low, and the statue of the Jesus stands with both both hands full of holes
There's a flutter in the page,
not of my own doing, just a natural product of controllable instances, the toad frogs are singing the autumn song, they prepare for a good long sleep guided by the moon, the song they sing is measured, regardless of urban influence, a primal beat holding fast to the continuance of life from the mud of the golf course creek
The little bird cries dominion! and
this morning I have the presence of mind not to claim it as my own, but share it with the trees and wind, as I am a tree without roots and a breeze that blooms in a package of flesh, no more, no less, a natural element that brings erosion equal to the thump of a meteorite
I don't despair when I read Neruda,
he was an anomaly, a strange flower of undiscovered hue, as rare as a meteorite, a metal of curious design Nor do I weep at Harrison, yet I marvel at the mix, astonished to know the depth and breath of sight turned inward, a reaching into unseen lives As I must learn to read the labels of my food, so I must learn the ingredients of poetry, the food of an undiscovered reasoning, a secret nourishment organic and pure, to stretch my body into long life, that I may pass on the charge of natural energy, so that we may continue unabated, and grow like tendrils of the climbing vine
In a palapa in Yalapa
Drinking mezcal moonshine with a local named Rudolpho He waves his hands in circles and squares in candle shadows Eyes turn inward to see becoming a mind in the present childlike wonder big moon rising pulling internal tides stretching roots grounded in the earth Rudolpho knows how to laugh in colors He knows how to dance Zorba style arms held high to the diamonds in the sky Nothing was achieved but everything was fixed Zooming towards a universal experience among the universal mind Don't know where the night went Rudolpho knows the ritual of the sun Told me what I needed to know singing "Hurray another day" while a parrot calls my name and a scorpion slips into my shoe. A palapa has no walls I didn't either all I was was windows Drinking mezcal moonshine with a local named Rudolpho he knows all about goodbyes.