"tucson" poems
#teamara
As in the nub of the remains of crayola crayon that’s been used to color in so many smiling cartoon suns on a piece of paper-
Her favorite color is yellow.
And I don’t mean a wimpy *** pastel yellow or sometimes a pale yellow
I mean her favorite color is bright *** yellow.
Like Pikachu yellow.
Like she’s almost nineteen but she’s still willing to play Gameboy Pokemon yellow.
There’s something innocent yet corny kind of yellow about her.
She’s beautiful like yellow jirasol petals
She’s intricate as yellow thread woven in a Rasta Dom
She’s yellow like gold and Africa
She’s sweet like pineapples and delicate like daffodils
I still don’t know why her favorite color is yellow
Maybe it has to do with her fascination of Asian men…
I mean! ...with the continent of Asia
She thinks she’s more like pink Japanese cherry blossom trees in the summer
But I know she’s truly yellow petals on Paolo Verde trees blowing in the wind spreading around Tucson
A metaphor for her love
She’s yellow like the color in the middle of my pride rainbow- She supports me
She’s yellow like the big painted sun at the hospital with a big grin
I wonder why nobody smiles at hospitals
The place where life is easily given as taken
Where we are reminded that our health is sometimes taken for granted
Other than that great big yellow sun
She is the only that radiates yellow and smiles
In waiting rooms, she seems like she’s the calmest
Even though she’s the only one going through surgery
She’s so beautiful on the inside her body can’t even take it
She doesn’t deserve scions or scalpels to even be considered touching her bronze skin
I wish instead they would strip down the color yellow from my life
And give it to her to make her smile so bright that even word “cancer” would cease to exist
But still. Even through pain and hardships
She still smiles. Not only is she yellow when she’s happy
She tends to radiate yellow even when she’s gloomy
When I’m upset, her aura has way of rubbing off on mine
And I get insight to why her favorite color is yellow
*** she’s the kind of yellow that represents strength
She’s yellow like tall forts made from gold bars
She’s yellow like flames that roll of her tongue when she spits fire
She’s yellow like a crayola-crayon… except she can’t be broken
From her, I’m learning
That even when you’re hurting
You can still shine bright like your favorite color.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
My Sunglasses
I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses
I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands
I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes
I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades
I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow
I use black plastic as onyx shields
So Tucson, I see you.
There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon
I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands
They tell us we’re wasting our time
Telling the roadrunner to run back home
When its nest was here since the beginning of time
Tucson.
I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days
I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms
Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere.
I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper
In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences.
Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see.
Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast
They tend to only record your overdoses and murders
Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds
The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching
It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business
Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs
Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far.
Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving
Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets
We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist,
Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in.
I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways
And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds.
I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown.
To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you
On walks home I photograph your murals.
Listen to the poets in the hallways.
Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph
I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’.
I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses.
Framed your mountain ranges in my frames.
Took cover in your shades.
Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow
Tucson
I see you.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
matt’s hats tom’s tools & tobacco lou’s liquors fred’s beds dale's doors frank’s planks bill’s drills jane’s drains & panes chuck’s check cashing cheryl’s barrels hank’s tanks tina’s trucks & tractors walt’s asphalt sean’s pawn rick’s rifles mom’s guns terry’s tires charlie’s harleys rhonda’s hondas jim’s rims art’s parts gus’s gas mike’s bikes frank’s feed gwen’s pens ann’s cans nancy’s nursery joes‘s clothes jess’s dresses bert’s skirts steve’s sleeves paul’s shawls michelle’s shells & bells al’s pails & snails sam’s hams & jams patty’s pancakes phil’s chili don’s donuts betty’s spaghetti bob’s burgers alycia’s quiches jean’s beans jerry’s berries anna’s bananas andy’s candies cathy’s taffies tony’s ponies roy’s toys ron’s batons kim’s whims marty’s parties jill’s pills rick’s tricks alice’s palace debbie’s disposal dave’s graves
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts she dreams aches to create deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration instead she writes paperback television trash stupid inadequate answers to solemn questions she wonders if she is too scratched dented to find love her ******* are definitely changing she is deeply disturbed not ready for menopause too young for menopause she wants to remain a fertile woman with smooth skin wet ******
2
her neighbor Leslie awoke to horrible morning Leslie’s 6 chickens were assaulted overnight precious Mabel dragged off feathers everywhere trail down the street other hens cowering slumped together with wilted necks 3 of them with puncture wounds Leslie carried them one by one inside washed their wounds hugged them cried who did this terrible act a neglected abusive neighborhood cat or some desert predator why didn’t Leslie wake to sounds of savage marauding now this creature knows hen’s whereabouts when will it return for more massacre what modifications need to be enforced to ensure their coup before nightfall
3
she wants to remain a hen keep producing eggs does not want is not ready to enter the next **** stage of this **** existence it was fun being pretty for men inspiring them to say do wacky things she wants to remain a hen she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts “tucson square dance” (self-referential) ****** bit about Americans came through here last night in “tucson 3-step” ****** perhaps the pinot noir lowered her standards everything is becoming nothing she cannot sleep tosses turns thrashes sheets in humid heat of her lonesome bed is she is too scratched dented to find love worries for Leslie
4
tomorrow is another day they say the rain will come last year’s monsoon never came the baking sun smothered her garden died one by one sleepless she will miss tomorrow’s pilates class the infrequent delightful breakfast afterwards she dreams aches of deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration she crossed the line tonight her ******* are definitely changing
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
It was Tucson in the endless dog
days of an endless summer.
The heat was inescapable,
pooling in the window frames
and the air as it coughed from the vents:
A fever that would never break.
Two weeks we lay there, knee deep in the throws
of a heat that would never subdue, a summer
that would never end. You would knock on my door,
laying there on the bed, staring holes into the
dripped and melting ceiling.
You held a paper bag of cheap wine between
your ****** and tarnished fingers,
clinking against the rings you wore like
trophies. I don’t know where I found you,
golden brown and beautiful out amongst
an vast eternity of ugliness.
We took mescaline we had gotten from
your cousin living back out on the reservation.
Laying there passing back the wine
you told me how the desert was alive,
how it had been swallowing you your whole life.
You told me that the dryness and the heat
had consumed you, burnt you through until
you couldn’t bear to be yourself anymore.
The scorching heat overcame you and you told me
there had been no choice but to become the desert.
I had only been in the southwest two months,
but I saw it, although I was untouched.
You had grown here, you said,
wilting to ash together with the desert.
The mescaline had me by the throat and
I saw you from dust to dust.
I saw you at one with the desert.
You were beautiful amongst the
red and ochre blood of the sand
and at once I wanted to melt to ash
and burn into the desert alongside you.
I told you and you laughed and I laughed
and we made love to the heat
and to the sweat driven
out from underneath our pores,
inflamed by the drugs and
the inescapable heat.
The room was aflame and
the great desert was alive
and ripping at us
through the open window
with claws of heat that
slashed at our backs.
I awoke and you were tying your shoes.
Just like that, the fever had broken,
and already you could feel
autumn coming in with its swathes
of chilled air sweeping across the plains.
I had been in love those two weeks.
With the sun and the dust and the ash
and the desert and all of it being one
with you. As it all collapsed around me
I felt saddened at its loss.
You were out the door
and the summer was over.
I moved back east where the
winter came faster and colder
and the desert was
of a different kind.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
Is there anything as special
As a sister's love?
They are right there with you
When push comes to shove!
They fight for you
Have light for you
To show you that they care
They grow with you
And sow with you
The mem'rys you both share
Sometimes they may not agree
Sometimes even fight
But that's because they want the best
And they know what's right!
It's my sister's birthday
And I want her to see
She is near and she is dear
In my memory
So here is a story
I remember from her past
It tells of her character
She's a fighter to the last!
~~<♡>~~
When my sister was still going to the University of Arizona here in Tucson, she had a motorcycle. Which had a proclivity for breaking down. Well, it was getting on toward summer. And the bike broke down many miles from where her mechanic was located. She had no money to get it towed. So my hundred and twenty pound sister pushed that heavy motorcycle all the way to the dealership! The mechanic was agog!
He couldn't believe she had lugged that motorcycle all that way! He told her, "Honey, you have some *****
This is the way my sister is. Beautiful, brilliant, and brave!
I am very proud of her, and I'm honored to be her sister!
♡ Catherine
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
my world has many colors like the prism;
the blue hues of glistening waters of greece
against the white stucco adobes.
dancing tap shoes of flamencos
while visiting in spain.
autumn hues of russian reds, gold, cobalt, greens, oranges and black co-mingling.
asian tastes of polynesian spices in the philippines.
safaris in africa witnessing the awesomeness
of massive mammals.
sophistication from the streets of champ elysees, sipping cappuccino
and i will have some creme brulee please.
or perhaps go to italy and sit on the spanish steps
with a cup of expresso. i will take along a cannoli
and count the steps.
while back at home reminiscing over a cup of joe
with a friend in tucson arizona.
after exchanging our love for art
i will read my mail from friends afar;
the outback to talk about the love
pocketed in the kangaroo’s pouch and discover
new zealand, the unfamiliar territory.
we share our secrets who have been there.
reading beautiful poetry like never before.
all the while being reminded
i have been blessed by the HOLY ONE.
you see my friends, my world has forever changed
since i have met all of you.
getting up each day having my coffee
welcoming me to another day with my friends
from the east, west, north and south.
upon dusk we say so long, see you soon.~~by lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 8:28 PM UTC
Kindred spirits with hearts to repair
Connecting with every story shared
Between the morning star and the crescent moon
We found beauty and strength in the rainy monsoon
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
On my 74th Birthday
The eternal magic of eternal things
sends the dreamer out into the world
-Rod McKuen, “January 2”
I didn’t mean to be 74
That wasn’t part of my master plan
To be young forever, cooler each year
But suddenly I’ve become invisible
Once upon a time and long ago
I drove my old MG to California
A sleeping bag, a few books, a few poems
A portable typewriter, some portable dreams
I remember breaking down in Tucson
But best of all, I remember the dreams
Jan 3, 2022
Jan 3, 2022 at 9:04 AM UTC
There's a complex on the corner of three streets
Just south of something and north of something else.
One time a girl stood there crying in the rain all alone
Waiting to get picked up by anyone who wouldn't ask where her tears came from.
All she could say was she was sorry.
At night there's this dog that barks for no reason
No matter how loud you are, or how quiet you are. It must just be the flowers.
They look like a 13-year-old girl's experiment with make-up.
And they smell like dust in your nose.
Follow the road north to the pharmacy and the convenience store
Conveniently next to a windowless brothel and an indie movie theater.
Follow it south and you'll get an organic market, loose tea shops, and gelato.
Funny how that happens.
If you stand on this corner you'll see cars lining the street in every direction
Squealing and shaking with each extra body shoved inside to enjoy the beautiful dumpster view.
And maybe a pool that no one uses.
There's a complex on the corner of three streets where Atlas goes to shrug his shoulders.
And complain about how heavy his job is.
Loudly tending to his messed up joints.
Drinking with passers-by and sleeping with women who came by to massage his limbs.
Gently, tenderly, and maybe a bit rough every now and then.
Atlas lives, owns, and runs this whole **** town.
And let me tell you, he's in great shape.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 8:30 PM UTC
when he looked at a woman he searched for qualities that attracted him because he wanted to desire her yet this tendency created an imbalance or disadvantage he was rendered weak to a woman’s beauty or whatever traits he idealized self-realizing this propensity he looked away from women years of disappointment neglect changed him he became afraid of women gynophobic
when she looks at a man she searches for qualities she is critical of because she wants to be impervious to his power she is suspicious of all men their upper body strength penchant to be in control misperception of women as property misogyny emotional immaturity neediness to be mommyed selfishness insensitivity or over-sensitivity depending she wants to be treated with equal respect a loving nurturing relationship she is suspicious of all people their alternate realities passive aggressive behavior co-dependence craziness
he sees her then looks away she suspiciously notices nothing happens they go back to their separate homes alone always home alone grown calm in resignation yet disbelieving of this destiny saddened by this fate both worry about the future she looks at her face naked body in the mirror her stomach churns feels a sad sickening remembers a time when she was more carefree he puts one foot in front of the other then walks tries to remember who taught him to walk how many times did he fall who taught him to laugh where did his sense of humor go
he sees her thinks she is lovely resists the urge to turn away he smiles says hello she notices nervously smiles her shaky voice articulates louder than a whisper hi
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 9:47 AM UTC
Being divorced is not very much fun
Two kids, no dad, life on the run
A king-size bed with two pillows
But she’s sleeping alone
On a whim she headed East to the West
The Cowboy convention in Tucson
With her new boots and hat
And old friend Laura Lee, wearing a vest
This Hollywood screenwriter has seen them all
Jive city slickers with cell phones and new cars
It had been so long since she’d really been kissed
Her love life needed a punch, it could not make a fist
Samuel Dawson was born on and still lived on the ranch
He rode fence, chased cattle, is one studley man
With a soft streak as demonstrated by his craft
He works wonders with leather, why it was art
He too was lonely, this singular man
He’d cleaned himself up since his wife went and made other plans
For he had deserved it, so he sat hoping to sell
Wishing he’d find that artesian well
Stop the action, let me set the stage
There he sits at his craftsman’s booth
Underneath the canopy in the hot afternoon sun
Here comes Rebecca meandering along
She lingers and fingers his feathered and leathered strands
He smiles and she notes his mustache and tan
They talk, she will not turn away
Laura Lee shouts, “Let’s get on the way.”
This is where the story begins
One cowboy love that has no end
She’s still a writer on fine TV shows
Sam is the wrangler, whom everyone knows
Loves a lady who fancies parasols
On hot Summer days, who now rides a horse
Who no longer leads a half-finished life
Where western handicraft is everywhere in sight
And their love is on course
Some don’t understand, some don’t want to know
But bridges are built wherever you go
Even on land with no river in sight
When a cowboy finds love he succumbs without fight
The ranch is now located in Southern Cal
The fence he mends is picket, see for yourself
For I know them, and please call me Sam
She’ll be home in a few, I’m her lover man.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
NEWTOWN (TRIBUTE)
from Tucson,AZ
E.J.Anderegg
In a haven of knowledge, structured for sharing,
an intruder descends with all absence of caring.
Unleashing his crucible’s conscienceless yield,
student’s bastion transformed to a killing field.
Grim reaper bedeviled with hell-bent depravation.
Safe haven for children suffers love’s reparation,
It’s not really surprising that death toll keeps rising,
While the lost moral compass despised compromising.
NRA’s pompous position truly appalls;
Corporate greed clenching sacs that once contained *****
Though psycho’s name fades, he’ll bequest mental anguish.
In Newtown hearts, where young memories languish.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
they are standing in line at a café on 4th avenue he is directly behind her she is lanky wearing white background faded colors patterned summer dress thin straps over bare shoulders brown hair some gray cut to shoulders small unfinished tattoo on left calf leather slip-ons 1 inch heals he is at a complete loss for words thinks to make remark about the weather decides not to overhead fan stirs hot humid July air barista girl asks what she would like her eyes scan blackboard menu behind counter she hesitates remarks help him i need an extra moment to decide he steps up to counter money in hand orders small to go Arnold Palmer half black current lays $3 on counter mentions change goes in tip jar thank you barista girl moves fast he lifts cup from counter glances at woman still deciding then at barista girl says have a wonderful day turns walks out door dawns on him woman grows hair under her arms his 2nd most compelling female physique adornment fetish oh god he thinks to himself should i wait for her to make up her mind then approach try to craft conversation at least find out her name no i’m too weak in this moment she is so lovely let her go
she orders double Americana in small cup to go room for soy milk thinks to herself he did greet her perhaps their paths will cross on street why did he run off so fast she glances toward front of café notices window seat changes her mind instructs barista girl on 2nd thought make it for here digs through purse realizes she left wallet in truck explains to barista girl she needs to run out to her vehicle to retrieve wallet under front seat the air on the street is heavy dense she smells her own perspiration looks north then south does not see him walks to truck feels exhausted appetiteless almost nauseous wishes she did not order a drink thinks to get behind wheel drive home go to sleep
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
I’ve dreamed I was falling asleep
And shaking myself to keep awake.
There’s only so much weirdness
And crap a poor dreamer can take.
It was all involved with friends you see
That I don’t see now, because they
Were stranger than my dreams
Or maybe I was. Back in the day.
I would be partying with them
And walking remembered streets
But I’d look around and everybody
Found other people to go meet.
Then suddenly the Hollywood
I knew and loved for twenty years
Became Kansas City boulevards
And Hollywood totally disappears.
Or maybe I’m coming home
At the end of a tiring long day
And look around, find myself
Saying, no way. No effing way;
This is not my apartment!
It’s fine, I kind of like the place
But someone is pulling a joke
The housekeeping is a disgrace.
Then someone would come in
Who I was supposed to know
And this chick is my roommate?
Oh, no. This woman has got to go.
But before I can get my head
Wrapped around standing up
My family is there too, cooking
Handing me a steaming hot cup.
Well,, now I can’t offend them
So, I sit my *** back down.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful
Like some unfunny kind of clown.
****** I leave to go for a walk
Thinking I am in Tucson but then
This is the Country Club Plaza
And I’m back in Kansas City again.
One time I was building something,
Under an expensive sort of contract
But none of the sub-contractors
Or the assistants knew how to act.
They were putting the thing together
Like a Rube Goldberg machine.
I was going ballistic on them all;
The ugliest thing I had ever seen.
These are the dreamworlds for me
On a regular, but often bizarre basis.
Streets change while walking
And people I know change their faces.
Or I am tasked to do something
Involving technology or looming mass
I end up getting no help at all
And wind up falling right on my ***
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
I discovered roller coasters for the first time after I saw my therapist
She told me I had
OCD, DID, ADD, and an eating
disorder She told me to keep it simple and
stop trying to please others I told her to set herself
on fire I decide to take my damaged ass to an amusement
park and tell the drive I’m allowed I’m 5’4 You’re a ***** I spit
on him and jump into the car I defy gravity by myself on this tipsy turvy
future mobile I go up and into space and ride through clichés until my overalls
Snap off and set me free where I float without medication Snap out of it, you hairy
**** You never know how it feels to lose control until you’ve lost all control She never
Knew With the giant pebbles and water cascading downwards in a freefall And the terrible
feng shui that parts her massive thighs point my eyes into her pant stain while my entire head
falls down for the bottom A sick endless cycle of torture just like
the Mexican chanting annual melodies
…at a Tucson establishment
…sitting on truck tables at the doctor’s office
…cutting off DNA into style
…fighting off fever with drive by flu shots
So I count to 5
while I
make hot cocoa
And tap the doorway
I try on 4 different pairs of pants
eat an entire bag of Cheetos and
throw up
It’s all situational and relative and ridiculous
I don’t care if some 14 year old wears orange lipstick and
***** off her math teacher
Tell me Doctor what’s the diagnosis for my sick bluish foot
Oh you’re right I guess I do need to vacate the premises
The Land of the Lepers exists and we have renamed it “America”
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 10:57 AM UTC
In this city house amid the screaming sirens,
here in the whirling of paper and garbage
I hear the banging of trucks over broken roads,
low rider stereos, their deep boomed, throaty moans.
Here in this strange forest that flies with cactus birds
alluringly they sing in secret symphonies,
before the howling chorus of coyote calls,
the rising magnetic moon, a mountain flower
pink blushed that fully blooms.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
Iron gray storm clouds
Hug a ***** desert city
Gritty
With years of dust
And rust
Mistrust
And disgust
Heavy rain
Slaps against a grimy face
Leaving clean streaks in its place
A highlight
To the plight of the homeless
Thunder rolls forth
In this ironclad storm
Down here it's the norm
I find it soothing
Almost meditation
In form
Helps me inform
Myself
Oh well
Thoughts gone
Another monsoon
In Tucson
Mar 29, 2022
Mar 29, 2022 at 4:43 PM UTC
How did the crimson and tucson spattered sky cry tears of iron?a quant, old-fashioned, northern town;the season of the dragon brings arise such miracles.I wish these times would never end...Smog in smout;next year,at this time,no dragon will cry iron tears
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC
It’s not easy being white
As we are so often right
Taking responsibility
To the best of our ability
Helping those less fortunate
Unfortunate subordinates
Separating mother and son
Her to Mexico, he to Tucson
Half-breed aborigines
Removed with exigencies
Native American children
Re-homed by the millions
It’s a service that we happily provide
Duly doing our duty to divide
We humbly accept your appreciation
Of our outrageous Caucasian contagion
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
Winter respite,
Desert landscape,
Innocent Street erupts in horror.
Beautiful day
Dashed upon the rocks
And six o-clock news.
Politico’s bandy,
And mothers cry,
And all of America
Wonders why.
Random Gat,
Senseless,
Flat,
Six more innocents
Added to the list,
Scarring the crowds
That the bullets missed.
Justice shall come,
But somewhat late,
For injustices sealed this shooters fate.
The perpetrators in their unleashing,
Are lashing out
Against the perpetrations laid upon them.
Lacking skills to properly cope,
Leading to violence, instead of hope.
The whys shall be uttered for a few more weeks,
But sadly again,
We shall fall to sleep.
Praying that the night mare
Dare not visit again
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 4:03 PM UTC
Craggy spires atop a canyon wall,
against a pure blue sky and sun;
the creek's flowing over tiny bridges,
and the day is only partly done.
Twenty miles away, lies Tucson,
you can see it's skyline shimmer;
but here is nature, in the raw,
those are memories that linger.
Saguaros stand in stately fashion,
amongst the rock and barren land;
the views, they take away your breath,
the vistas sweeping, wide and grand.
It's 80 in this later month of winter,
this freaky temperature is strange;
I wear a t-shirt and my hiking shorts,
out here - out in this open range.
Sabino Canyon is a place majestic,
reminding me of why I love the West;
the sky, a vast and huge umbrella,
the splendid canyon, takes care of all the rest.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 9:20 PM UTC
by Barry Lopez
I'd heard so much good
about this place,
how the animals were cared for
in special exhibits. But
when I arrived I saw even
prairie dogs had gone crazy in
the viewing pits; Javelina had no mud to
squat in, to cool down; Otter was
exposed on every side, even in his den.
Wolf paced like a mustang,
tongue lolling and crazy-eyed,
unable to see anyone who looked like
he did–only Deer, dozing opposite in
a chainlink pen.
Signs explain
the animals are good because
they **** animals who like oats
or corn too much.
Skunk has sprayed himself out,
with people rapping on his glass
box. Badger's gone to sleep
under a red light and children ask
if he's dead in there (dreaming of dead
silence). And
Cougar stares like a clubbed fish
into one steel corner all morning, figuring.
Only Coyote doesn't seem to care, asleep under a
creosote bush, waiting it out.
Even the birds are walled up here,
held steady in chicken-wire cages for
the staring, for souvenir photos.
And this, on the bars for Eagle:
The bald eagle was
taken as a fledgling
from a nest in New
Mexico by an
Indian. He planned on
pulling feathers for cer-
emonial headdresses
every year. The
federal government seized
the bird and turned
it over to the
Desert Reserve
for safekeeping.
Bear walks in his own
*** smells concrete
and his own **** all day long.
He wipes his nose on the wall,
trying to **** it.
At night when management is gone,
only the night watch left,
the animals begin keening: now
voices of Wood Duck and
Turtle, of Kit Fox and everyone else,
Bear too, lift up like the bellowing
of stars and kick the walls.
14 miles away, in Tucson, are movie houses,
cold beers and roads out of town,
but they say animals know how to pass the time
well enough. And after a few beers
they'll be just like Indians–
get drunk, fall down and spoil it all.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
"Men only notice two categories of women's clothing: off and on."
From: High Tide in Tucson
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
I was scared he'd be going
And leave me behind
But he's cancelled Tucson
'Bought a diamond that shines
Now I know he meant it
When he said soft and low
Honey, this is the first time
I've ever been throwed
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC