continuing
through Winter,
that certain silhouette
the coat and hat,
Indian silver flashing,
zig zagged red woven belt,
He arrived to place
of Western dream
Striking it rich! was the phrase
the second chance!
this benevolent poverty
a life, compared only
to the sun,
the mountains, clouds and valley,
continuous flux
the greening sage,
the saddening ochre
gray of winter, accompanied
this Chaplinesque arrival,
to bleak
lines of Nevada desert,
loosing between folded hills
and distances
unfolding, on this thorny carpet,
stumbling
Farther off, there, pointing--
softer in the distance, then
wasted in dust and scraggled afoot
and one more ridge-- winding
a sickness in anticipation
of no home, or place to be--
buffeted by this wind, seeking
shelter in this rock,
reflected sun
on a tough earth-- plodding on
2.
A deer stomps the hard dirt
then, looks up, re-adjusting to the wind
and scent
trailing down
through fields, silently,
threading through the objects of day,
nibbling in the moon light--
eyes here, then, there
silver lights, mysteries
complexities of existence
quietly navigating--
ears prick-- Bam!
a scattering shot
leaping over fences,
tails bobbing into night
fade through black
the gathering morning,
a lone coyote trots by
its tail between shaking legs
looking back
the light of day’s
reality, a white skull
on the mountain crest,
dragged there, as coyote trophy
chewing, as watching--
flowered
straw
quaking
in the warming
day.
3.
The sun arced across the sky
lingering behind, the shadow
the morning spirals,
revealing a vision--
turning to see, in full relief
the sculpted mountain range
the dimpled light through purple veil
distance
dumfounded in shivering amazement
the sun’s shaft-sharp, arrow light
penetrated the deathly, prickled
frozen frosted ice design
on the rotted hides and skulls
blanketing
the half buried corpses,
these belated desert wanderers--
that chomped green,
their teeth now grin
as raven gods,
pluck eyes and entrails--
this romance, the little doggies.
these western spaces
our Sublime left to us
who look after
Days of Heaven
this sad
Economy of Meat,
the steak of-- Western flavor,
icon of Marlboro Man glamor
misplaced,
in commodity of waste and fat,
unseen despot
of burp and fart
through some progress
teetering,
on Modern edge,
chugging, steaming breath of iron
thus through detritus
searching
Yet, still unfound! Walt?
what is it? that must still be seen
a hint, a facet unturned
this Ace, a Joker in Sands,
a winner in Reno.
“...this-a-way, Pilgrim.”
more or less, some Hero
outfitted in rusting van,
without horse or gun,
dust covering the trail
in his aluminum wake,
the crows flee,
caw
4.
tires and wheels
rolling through
an abandoned house,
it’s broken door
frames a window
to nothing
that is telescoped
through shattered vision,
of broken glass
the distance within--
tramping circles
waiting here
to discover any invocation of
“the desert calling”
all the ideas one ever had--
screwing through the project
uncompleted,
ever end?
echoing in this empty frigid
space? silence is the answer
these insides reflected--
fright,
the object’s distance
a lesson of the wheeling
Liquid nitrogen-- the star’s
streaming nebulae
the scuttling of crabs,
dreams in the night.
The tree outside this sleeplessness
darkens upon a lightening sky in
cinematic fashion of time
exposure
The light, carving ravines in bark
and through the distant hills,
lightening, from way low,
across spaces and horizon,
everywhere, We-- Us--
are standing in the way,
to see,
the wagons are pointed
inward
away from this desert light,
the trees, are planted
against
this wind that
rustles, creating this blank-- in
thought, this seeming
beyond--
The white ochred,
fading, the
vert, almost slightest, green.
Writing,
it’s stained hope, expressed.
The sunrise organizing,
as it repeats
a round,
brought forth, to full hue
the palette of
metaphor
of this, to that--
the day repeats--
again, repitition
of pregnant orb to swirling circle,
diving to silent center,
as a leaf twirled, between fingers
is held against the sky’s azure,
dancing
with mind,
and in it’s turn
the Desert hands to me
it’s emptiness
5.
X’ed on mountain’s top
come to see around
dozing in the elegance
of this perspective,
feeling beyond the crap
a Bruegel, in America.
the hero of the poem
looked
way off
there were he saw
the gallow-like Joshua Trees,
monuments of the moment’s--
tribulation, in clouds tumbling
whispering change.
whirling around
and through, there was
the SUN shining on
the nothing but
space--
as fulfilling
whole,
aside, and emptiness
wide and full,
of a startling jangling
light,
YES, his arms are outspread
hearing only the wind
echoing and vibrating
sunlit nick, head dropped back
the straw-- shivering in a breeze,
imperceptibly measuring
a shift ofone
blade on blade, in crystal
clarity
creating silence
into this infinity noted the panoramic shot!
the vision-- failing.
pink light, west of morning
quickens to burn, in red sight
the glare upon this globe.
Squatting in the midst, squinting
turning upward, hands shielding,
eyes corkscrewing towards
mountains carving
the continued drama,
in blue
Imagination, and deepening
yet glaring color, heightened-- square
then plunged
to depths,
6.
Ah!, the feeling of alive,
one
rolling into the dirt.
Here! parcel of
the sand and the saged
shrub in his mouth,
a rough, rolling--
into a hole,
a part and absorbed
into
feeling the stars,
dissolved and through
within, the regal tapestry
of mountains and hills, painted
on this cave’s ceiling
sending
pricks through his chest
he was reeling,
through transporting clouds
rising, beyond
ochred bottoms reflecting,
He was! eagle spread, HERO Ha!
flat on the earth!
and falling through the floor,
That he had opened his mouth!
inscribed in a round hand Goya fashion
on an etching of this scene
the bats, flying from
vacuum of horror,
large thoughts
lost to
grains of sand--
Woman with clothes blowing
in the wind,
old lady from down in Mexico
7.
Vegas then,
glittering, neon figuring light
attractive return to profane
thrill, and smell of cash
from this empty soul
fat cat
in silent night, alone,
the cold-- tail between legs,
Coyote headache
blinking
in the form of showgirls
zeroing
into the swoosh
of desert’s dry
wind at night
soothed by the booze, and
company-- sucking
moisture--
the parasites and leach
this, Flaggy Hole
our proud countries defense!
this passed out bum
shaken
the speeding trucks,
half awakened
touch, eyes opening
and terrified, to move
to still be alive,
a house seems to tumble by,
blown crooked,
gliding through snow and
sand mingling-- overlay
bush of prophesy
to burning heat
a signpost, speeding past
from an approaching distance,
speeding through emptiness
to warmth, and--
pell-mell, now elastically
swinging, as an ellipse
in penumbral thrown,
to distance, without origin,
awakening to the lightening
warmth
from cold,
dissolved in cloud, remembering--
this severe light
from low angle
Orienting the self to sun,
repeating, repeating
mountain light
in height
8
spiced today with snow,
beautiful now in order, the
whitening, the SIERRA
the blue distance
like granite
drawing, the
black coat
turning to reach,
comprehending
this, subtlety of life
at the foot, the faint color and--
in this slim space,
to create
a longing for less,
I respect this space
for just “that.”
not a Place at this time, to erect
monuments, or
because of endeavor, but of
just place, here now
that of our own singular existence
twirling-- the crystal quartz,
pregnant possibility
the flame
the reaching to touch,
constancy of the sun,
physical, I feel
the under nourished
the constant vacuum
It sucked at his ears.
The Sun this Evening
it is the end.
The emblematic oranging--
blue snow
to bronze decor,
a door closed, for now,
frozen January and
the mountains way blocked in ice,
to this next day,
this next idea,
to fill to some-thing, this
poverty, he felt
far away,
a part from, scrub
and sterile wind--
here the long lengthening shadow
the light falling beneath
the dirge, beneath
the crown
of height
9
reaching now-- from some different
NEW, angle to behold
the rolling hills
extending to ocean waves
like he’d never imagined --dashed
on rocky shores
and falling cliffs
wheeling gulls above,
to see all
and feeling it is good, it is fine
“we all die”, he whispered
“like this day.” complete
a moon, like
embryo, on mountain edge
egg like
struggles, to--
blip,
be born.
The mountain’s rock
blown to sand,
in this howling, never stopping
in the embracing
clash,
of regal circling
icy shapes
colored and ordered
in kaleidoscopic view
falling and rising
to ooh and ah,
of earth sound and cry
the desert dogs
proclaiming loneliness
and distance-- their love
of emptied places, desert
and abandoned connection,
clipped--
Crosses in circles
bound across the sky
dissolving into patterns,
of falling Indian diamonded light
torn fabric of stars,
blasted in sand.
Remembering, then Pollock’s
America, lost in space
his Ismael of my own distance
to travel, in depth
losing faith and floating
into deathly region,
losing sun in sail.
There is no reconciliation
in this nilihlism,
a scent in the grass?
a shimmer of something
there-- hardly seen green,
and profound disappointment
anchors him onwards
the seas plunging
the gods of snow and ice,
the vaulting -- height beyond
this revolving circle of day,
its dark liquid, blood spot
loosening that rose--
the turning out,
the labial of birth
to sky and to cry
chokingly, to laugh into
this mother’s
fullness and ebb
flowing, grasping the ring
and try, wanting more--
9
he took it-- this sheath of papers,
Crispin hero, comedian of art
to the mountain and scattered
it in the sky, the sun directed
each leaf outward,
a flaming orange
and shading to blue reflections
flowing back to earth
the dazzling
cottonwoods, golden
flames in autumn,
were a picture to paint
the blue
icy mountains
in aerial
10
range, the romantic hero
smokedrift,
reaching through the upper
atmosphere meeting lens like cloud,
lenticular called
looking like space ships long ago
having left for Mars, returning
to be flung once more...
a gray day is slate of Winter
and this rock
offers little salvation,
diving within for the light
to save this day,
here the necessity of--Nailing the sun up?
tacking it there,
to remember the
gravity of
diving into the western sky,
each day
YES, the Sun, our
necessary joy,
our sorrow to recognize
the Beauty
--once again
Marie! flung down, once more
and again
11.
here, Didi and Gogo
padding by
on the stage, a blinding
low light, Didi shields his eyes,
turns to speak, a 3 legged dog hangs
at his side, from another play
and instead turns, to look through
a conveniently placed telescope,
There, over there
the fashion model,
flash bulbs blinding
a bow on her forehead,
the prize--
worth fighting for-- WWIII! threee...
die, die, we die
them boys, happy in the
dream’s reality
floating to promises
a model for the World, leggy
with adolescent teeth and freckled
forehead-- a lock of hair falls
across a sunlit face --unawares
of her own metaphoric presences
she giggles and sucks a finger as
bending over--
Bombs fall from the sky,
her clothes burn around her
and turn to ashes of black negligee
as fat men eating the beef, spread her legs
and tie her arms, with lashes
to stakes, as tears drop down
rouged dusty streaked cheeks--
thorns are driven into her thighs
she, never thought to get
this-- deep down direction
escaping to
pastures in mental alpine meadows
of Germany--
explosive cottonwoods, flaming,
marking the perimeters as grids
spreading the eastern order,
the rationed water, hopeful sage
beyond, as a grayer
elemental dust covers
the rocky strewn mountains,
the distant snow
half covered peaks
the extreme of white,
tinged before
dusk.
12.
The cycling sun,
narrative of this life
revolving
in a hand, globe on pedestal
from great height, looking out
into neighboring valleys, strung along
like rungs of a washboard, that
Paul Bunyans’s mother, left
abandoned
like another theory, of
Religion the
older thought of a dusty book
the golden lettering
of some authority,
(if not the particular richness
I have in mind)
more like green,the green Leaves
of Grass,
(holy)
its title declares, blowing off dust
skipping past, this and that,
another chapter,
a stoned whore
this must be metaphorical
“no,” she says “this is real.”
how to live?, but
I’m looking for the wandering
part, where one questions
Creates!
Realities!
trials of Job,
the burning, crooked staff,
wonder at distance
the glowing sunset promised again
and again--
flaring, the orange
bush
in the blue
shadows.
again and again
13
footprints, Way high in the snow,
grey uniformed order
Nutcracker birds, attended by scurry of
chickadees, ze de-- de
fancy crows
of princely habit,
securing the palace of ice,
for the arrival in spring, of
our majesty-- the Western Tanager,
(King and Queen) of his Heraldry,
shining, flashing!
Dazzling delight of Jangle and Dash
thinking of little more,
winking and nodding
in the drifting snow, watching
black and white
figure lost , below
no direction
in cold, known by the dark hat
and kicking stones,
he could not see
not seeing
the desert alive or feeling --
did not feel, the cycles of life,
dead
to a self, mirrored in such
the shadows of revolving around,
invisible
stung by his realization of loss
and disappointed
wanting to destroy
14.
Of what gross injustice?
of what one legged man?
I pass by each day, nameless
on crutches, fallen into shit
and flung askew, a cart
over turned
his life-- on the sidewalk,
the Koreans squatting over
transmissions-- their hands oiled
and numb to mechanics cuts
creased into palms frozen,
depths that hold one another
at Christmas, a Buddha
glowing red, plugged to a wall, half
thrown away, titled there and saved
by it’s electric consumption--
what to do?
what to do?
David’s father falls
through the air
madly in love
with the earth.
thrown scraps,
the dirty bird
bent on one foot, under
the fender of the older Ford.
15.
In the night Orion,
a companion for the Moon
travels a circle, half way a turn,
then, continuing through the day
unseen, a shepherd to objects
burned into being,
shadows allowing us, to see
then
at that moment,
the bird,
flew out of it’s tree,
to snatch the greenish bug
thinking of little--
continuing on
repeating it in my mind,
then realizing
the moment
to mean
something, beyond that
bug
for dinner, the flash,
a prize
then, the image for itself
in organizing cycle,
the romantic
to a newer, further reality
the modern
symbol,
becoming Classic!
all tied to one, revolving,
as we speed, speed
head over heels
revolutions
through desolate
spaces into
the futures of millennial
paradises
promised by angels,
we’ve, burned and bombed,
and once more, abandoned.
Digging the root and
gathering the seed
come again,
beyond our desire
and want.
A figure with stick and hat,
walking down the tree lined road,
off to the desert, some he--
towards the glittering mountains,
forever-- beyond,
black birds
and blue
clatter and sing,
a requisite Hawk,
swings
low
in a swoop--
16.
Rising Star
Blank Verse, turning
Talking Big
Round and Round
Circling, Round
about
A Figure or Ground,
One Sets Ones Heart Upon?
To Wish Upon the Star--
Repeating, the Idea
this Wishful Thinking,
blank, but decorated,
what’s underneath
the sand, why,
we live in the city-- to forget
feeling my fragile exixtence
this body, hearing the wind
in and out, these ears ringing with silence
this culture, we turn on
this Nature.
17.
What has been, Real, is
thrown out,
daily, built upon
the dump
the Evening News.
1. THE SKY IS FALLING, (stenciled on a placard)
large black letters, declare--
a friendly fella’s fate.
2. his friend? her shoe broken, a fake fur
faded and torn stocking, encircling a princess?
the virgin’s flowered head
stumbling on high heel
her hand to a lip smeared face
a sign on the road
an arrow points
straight into the disappearing
horizontal stillness, then
the same breeze past ears
“A Shot Through An Old Tin Can For Beans”
tossed
through, the sky revolving
Shining, looking like
the same diamonds
on this same blanket,
woven
in this desert
the same abstracted,
seen over and over
through a life,
reaching
into the conscious shadow
down and back,
looking for an energy
to propel
one into the future,
energizing
light
of the moment.
Dredging bottom,
the desert’s minerals,
gold in a depth
of memory propelling
this Sun, I see
this Western Tanager
into it’s brilliant future,
towards
the setting sun,
ahead of death,
yet beyond
the land
clutching, for flotsam.
“Your noon leaves in darkness
the other side of the earth, and
it’s insides, and the depths
of the sea.”
18.
Winter in the desert
the winter wind of which calls,
deep emptiness
shown within, the distance
of the road, the rise and fall
of light this sea
shadowing
consciousness, the tree
against the same wind
that leaping crow
feathering-- a thought,
in autumnal bloom
staring into this orange-ing
space, the
Hydra snaking
to sparkling height,
beyond, our Sublime
always one
more beyond,
yet becoming--
still silent frame missing.
Cheerfully, then-- having set
out upon awakening
this Eastern hero,
this once more-- rising
this Winter’s sun, rising
this broken height
moving to gain the warmth
but in need
of future generation,
this journey
of some optimistic quest
of object
to hold
in new way
of mind the something
seen differently
newly strange,
a swerve
revolving.
