Saturday, March 18, 2017

Cars, Trucks and Rebel Flags

I think that I shall never see
more ignorance, rediculosity,
Nazi-like complicity than Rebel colors,
flags and license plated F350cee.
.

Saturday, August 20, 2016

Feeding Instructions

1. Find the key under the pot on the wicker table and enter through French doors in the atrium in the back of the house. …
2. Greet Bessie with a treat. Your choice. You'll learn. Put a couple in your pocket ... or if you don't want your change to smell like bacon ...
7. Although we walk her without the leash, Bessie demands attention and “range awareness.” If she senses she is out of your domain, she runs around trying to find a new pile of deer pellets, a fresh road kill, or will sometimes chase the phantom beast into the woods. You know the phantom beast is around when she perks up, poses, and jerks her head from one pose to another. (She is beautiful when the phantom beast shows up, but she also uses it as an excuse to go her own way, indefinitely, and you are being paid by the trip rather than by the hour.) …
16. … Let Bessie escort you to the rabbit hutch.
17. At this point, depending on her appetite, Bessie will try to gulp down some rabbit goodies under the rabbit cage. She wouldn’t be a dog otherwise. (Just a word of warning in case she tries to lick you later.) Make sure she uses her napkin. …
18. Change the rabbit water bottle and refill the food dish in the hutch. Access is through the small roof panel. …
20. Buster is the older of the two rabbits, white and now dominated by the other one, for whom, admittedly, we do not have the same feelings as those for Buster. Say “Hey, Buster,” putting the right intonation on it and letting her know you know she is the victim of circumstance, a prisoner of her pink skin and eyes, her white fur, and the needs of the once weak and pitiful foundling rabbit who has matured to become a dominatrix at poor Buster’s expense. The echoes of that greeting should indicate that Sadya, Vane and Randy will take her out more often, hold her, and let her walk on the fresh grass at every opportunity. And that she is a vivacious looking hunk of rabbit for a 10 year old. “Hey, Buster.”
21. Walk Bessie till she has peed and pooped. We use the time-worn, “Make your BM, Bessie,” because it does seem to have a salutatory effect. She will decide on a spot by a certain, almost telepathic movement, and will circle an extraordinary (seems to me, anyway) number of times. If the number is particularly high or if she changes directions more than once, she does not take offense if you laugh. She is more than a dog.
22. … walk Bessie into the woods. (Because the threat of the phantom beast sometimes looms, and though some, among them I, prefer the gentle light of stars regardless, the light switch for the outdoor lights is above the telephone, next to the French doors in the kitchen. They illuminate the rabbit hutch and the woods trail enough, in most cases, to foil the beast.) …
25. Release Bessie and spend as much time as you like smoking cigars, shooting darts, and otherwise socializing with her. …
27. Ah. Now Barney. Upstairs (through the living room from the kitchen bearing right, u-turn up, at the top, right.) in Sadya’s playroom is the we-call-it terrarium with a chamelion in it. He hides in the lip of the cover sometimes, so be careful when removing it or he will be CRUSHED or ESCAPE! You probably won’t have to remove the lid, though, because he has just been given 24 large crickets who have been left a large leaf of lettuce. Crickets are living in Eden. Barney is on safari there. …
28. Spray the back side of the tank liberally with water [rain forest!] from the sprayer next to the we-call-it aquarium, but try not to hit Barney. He springs alarmingly fast and might hurt his delicate being.
29. … Say your goodbyes. Check the door to the basement once more and leave through the French doors. Rattle them to be sure they are locked.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Talking to myself

When you read her note ...
at the second mention of depression alerted by the first,
leaving in a vacuum, your heart deserted,
somehow fluttered in the emptiness,
and echoed hollow chill inside this place you think.

Your face is cool, your breath is gone.
Along the path your longing (yes, it's longing) exposes some bare truth --
like a single tuft of moss and lichen,
joyous color in a frozen winter wood --
so you see you see. You see you see?
Oh, you are so alone, heartless, breathing here amongst your fellows.

The Shadow of the Object Falling on the Ego


Master, is this why
I am mirrored in your eyes
Or wanting it so?

That seen, do I go,
with diagnosis, surprise,
excuse or goodbye?

Monday, February 8, 2016

The Bus (working)

Through your kitchen window, you see your neighbor,
the asphalt seal-coater, driving his truck with the trailer
go up the gray winter street. The roof-vent on the trailer is open.
You ask why it's open ... is the trailer full of fumes, heat, dreams?

The big, yellow bus emerges beneath you as you saw an opening in its roof.

You experience clear, eucalyptus air and laughter as your father helps below
in the California clarity where you and wife have parked the bus of dreams.

The bus wouldn't fit on the neat steep curvy street
where your father lives in the beautiful hillside house
with the deck, the flowers, tiny green front yard, his crumbling marriage
suburbanized across the Golden Gate.

You twice cut openings through the yellow roof and the inside ceiling rainbow,
two metal sheets sandwiching wires in '50s insulation to the back lights.
You cut the wires accidentally only once when you discover they are there.
You repair them, learning school bus electricity from the simple teacher, Accident.


Lying back in the beanbag chair on astroturf in your living room --
stopped en route in the desert, on the shore, the Tetons --
vent lids, screens and cranks float in a rainbow above.

You look down again while sawing, see your dad, then decades later
turn awake in the gray morning.
2:17 PM 1/16/2010

Thursday, December 17, 2015

Gravity

The physics of gravity is a mystery.
gravity both in kind and in the unknown force we take for granted, love.
love, what's that?
love, the gravity that is irresistible, that draws us to touch.
love, how I cannot resist your anahata.
love, a mystery that showers me with some inevitable energy.
love, that takes my breath away.
love, that is the inevitable and irresistible mystery of you.

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Alexander Technique

Walked past by your place today,
in the neighborhood, you know, scouting poetry
at a bum show of a score of miserable poets' ego.
I looked up at your gently glowing windows
in whose light you work and share your art, expecting nothing.
At the outdoor market once, expecting street domestic garb, I couldn't find you;
but then, your beauty wrapped in glamorous dress and elegant style
shone out, not of vanity, but care.
One evening in that light I witnessed artistic being amongst
those who share your practice who shared
their talent, music, movement, and delighted in your voice.
We kissed to a soft romance several evenings there,
chatted, shared, explored, --
even learned to float a perfect soft-boiled egg on water --
respectful admiring and parting, each to dream alone.
One evening, I saw you wave good night
from that perfect windowlight, and blew you a kiss,
not desiring or expecting it would be my last.