Thursday, June 25, 2009

Wand Wavers of America

I left my wand, in Argentina. High on a bed with luscious breasts.
I left my brain in Argentina. High on shelf and out of breath.
I left my mind in Argentina. High on a cloud with a tiny head.
I left my pants in Argentina. High on a flag I love to hoist.
I left my family for Argentina. High on a dream I had to waste.
I left America in Argentina. High on myself and to hell with the rest.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Poem at Point Reyes

I remember the slow drive
Swerves, cuts to the side
The grass thinned to sand
Trees poked from the falling hills
The rift of sea air, the waves
That become us once we hear
The silent awe, the world
More often than not denies our ear
The one with silence beneath wind,
Somewhere between
Skittering plovers poking beaks
and whisker-sleek sea lions

That day the fog grew thick
At the entrance to the bay
I stepped into the sweep
Of gulls, hundreds of gulls and brown
Pelicans, edging here, there, flapping wings
A little nervous when I walked in
But casual the way gulls are, or can be
As long as you keep the pace slow enough
For peace, they’ll put up with you
I waved my arms, the wings
I wished for, made me one with them.
And the gulls, nodded, slipped aside
Or simply stared the way birds do
Wondering what a human
Thinks he or she is
On this strip that lets us breathe together
Without hindsight or an edge.
One of those days that make us realize
It’s all a big wash, a timeless dance
We all put up with, with a little care
A little patience, rain, shine or fog

Monday, June 8, 2009

The All America City

In the All American City, TV and newspapers proclaim
one disaster after another until we don’t know
our butt from a post-Russian hole in the ground
and somewhere along the line we forgot what a good Sobrett
tastes like, or a bus smell going somewhere.
Wasn’t it ‘86 when the Challenger’s teacher
exploded in all the children’s faces
and nobody was to blame and nobody came to say
there may be a problem here?
Now we walk in dream and the keyboards click
no sin to behold, no chance to test the wind.
Sirens wail in the wicky-wacky extravaganza
and behold, oh giant guns, humongous cannons, why
we all clap and big old hungry us gives the world the finger
with stars in our eyes like some lost Plato
not to mention our deficit savings accounts and now
the sweet children cock their ears for some sign
of relief, gaze from windows at the milk running
through the streets and we scream Bang Bang.
We dance on irradiated moons and cremate what’s left
Oh yes, oh, yes, we have sung the song
at all the curbs and suburbs in all the All America Cities
our America Zen salute snapping and drifting
at the unfolding, curling, whopping, whooping flag
that hangs on the hot-plated, cooked up bone scraping
surprise it turned out to be this time.