One night, late, on a moonless night black as the ace of spades, my bike sputtered and died. I was in the middle of nowhere outside of Lake Tahoe on State Route 89.
It had been a smooth ride into Virginia City and a wonderful party for a brother at the Bucket Of Blood saloon. The night was not terribly cold and Jack, my bike, was running as sweet as ever so I decided to take the long way home.
As I crested a small hill Jack coughed, sputtered, and then he died. I pulled off the road but there was not much of a shoulder; small mountain highways don’t often leave a lot of room for breakdowns. But there remained just enough of a wide spot for me to check Jack out.
In the black stillness of the night I did not hear, nor notice, the stranger come upon me. I felt a chill on the back of my neck and turned to find him standing there. No truck. No car. No bike. Just him.
“This is a bad place for you to be. You should push the bike a little further down the road, away from danger.”
I shot straight up and confronted him. “What danger? Who the hell are you?”
“A friend, my brother. I’m just giving you an offering.” With that he stepped into the black night and disappeared.
I ran after him, but nothing was there. Not a sound. Not a whisper of his presence. The chill on the back of my neck would not subside. Without knowing why, I began pushing Jack further down the road. I made it about twenty feet further when headlights appeared behind me along with the sound of screeching tires. A drunken hillbilly took the turn too fast and plowed into a tree, exactly where I had been parked.
He was dead upon impact. I suppose he never felt it. A few minutes later a local Sheriff pulled in, surveyed the scene and called in for help. He looked me up and down and I knew what was coming next; been through it way too many times. But the LEO stopped short of the usual and asked why my bike was parked where it was. He noted the crash site was wider. If my bike was broken down, why would I not fix it there?
I decided, for the first time in my life, to not lie to a LEO. I told him the truth. He stared off for a moment then told me of a nasty accident at this very spot that had claimed a biker three years earlier. He was hit by a drunk in the exact same spot while repairing his bike. It killed him on impact.
We both stood there in silence for a moment before he asked whether my bike was able to be fixed on the road, or would I need a tow.
He put his spotlight on my bike so I could see better while we waited
for his back up. My fuel line had split, an easy fix. As I was putting
away my tools the LEO asked me the name of my bike.
“Jack,” was my reply.
“Offerings…was the name on his bike. Kind of a strange name, don’t you think?”
The ambulance had arrived, fire department too. A couple of Highway
Patrol right behind them…it was an entire event unfolding. The sheriff
looked at me and motioned down the road with his chin.
“You best be on your way.”
I rode out down the highway, black as coal except for the illumination of my headlight. Offerings. The word etched into my brain.
The word has stuck with me since. Kind of a hard word to forget, given the circumstances.
For those who know;
i have never stopped loving you
i simply turned left
when you turned right
.....may your spirits continue to soar.
It is probably true that each brain is wired differently. Some of us see and are more aware of things others do not see or go unaware. Some notice things in detail that would go unnoticed to others, and some forget things that would normally be remembered by others. Often a simple memory lasts forever rather than the details surrounding the memory. I remember the pavement glistening freedom when I skipped school to ride my bicycle to a different town. The pavement seems always half déjà vu and half blacktop like when Ginsberg or Cassidy was behind on my motorcycle whizzing though towns and streets free as the phrases we cut up and shouted. Freedom phrases. The truck tires going from California to Kansas sang that freedom to me as a child.
David could have named his book “Jack the Bike”, with a trick appeal, but he titled it OFFERINGS. The reason for the ordinary title emerges from the extra-ordinary. It emerges in the same way some things go unnoticed to most people but take on a special significance to others. Some things will invade the ordinary day...or night!
A poet learns that there is no need for tricks. Pursuits others would engender may be avoided by the poet, like perusing incidents that happened to a person caught up in society at large in a period when drugs were the commerce that put some in jails, and let others reign as captains of industry and politics. I know. I saw it happen living in Washington D.C. in the 80’s, going to “chili” parties with names that would be recognized in politics and commerce even today who thought I was too square to take me into the snorting room. It was a party for them. But for those on the
wrong street..."across the tracks" in my day would remain nameless. "A number not a name" as the old saw goes. I taught in a prison program at "The Cut", between Baltimore and Washington. Foolishly I was brainstorming a topic for a "lifer" to write about and asked him about the job he had in the galleys on the graveyard shift preparing the cafeteria meals. I can't forget his look when he said, "You never want to know what goes on down there." Most poets see things they don't necessarily want to, but things stick to them in half déjà vu. On the other side thousands of kids go to college to learn to create those things. David saw many such unspeakable things and had to deal with society's ruins, once even staring at the gray walls of Leavenworth.
David came to words in much the same way as unintended experiences came to him. Most of our daily discourses are guttural words, useless as even sounding like piss in a stool, if you listen carefully. A visiting poet introduced the way words can become the picture. No, he didn't need thousands, only a few words to convey the freedom, the pitfall, the photographic déjà vu of every detail and the nameless; but that is the melancholy déjà vu built in to a poet's vision. Many of the dead who should be celebrated remain nameless. Nameless as the humans upon this land before the white man's words. Nameless as the innocent creatures. Nameless as the innocent prisoners, whose crime didn't happen or doesn't fit the punishment of freedom torn from the heart when the steel doors slam and the grey walls confine.
When one learns that there is nothing fair in a society built on words that build those walls, the freedom is the road - the road upon which brings us the drama of David's poetry. The kind of apportioned déjà vu that stands behind all real poets and makes their heart feel, their hair stand on end; those things which cannot be learned. The greatest halls of the aca-deme may be successful in attempting to re-create these feelings. They may even be successful in teaching an appreciation, but the mimetic society hopelessly tries to make fiction, while poets who are wired as such cannot avoid the terror of the gray walls, the blown apart humans with forgotten names that society brings on, then avoids at all costs, all the while pissing in their stool.
The title "OFFERINGS" seems to offer an innocent reality to it all. Be prepared to jump in deeper to what is offered so that you can relieve yourself next time by realizing you were not the one chosen to go there.
Charles Plymell
April, 2011
The Dance Continues
my bike thunders
the ever widening ribbon
of asphalt and concrete
up from the valley floor
i crest the spot
where for years
i've watched
the mountains reign
filling my heart
with a peace
seldom found
an explosion of sound
the ribbon rushes by
quickly
its hypnotic
trance
increasing awareness
of the first time i heard
the poet speak his words
it has been a while
the red tailed hawk
reminds
i hear his call
and nod my agreement
i still remember
when the words
would lie dead
on the page
as useless to me
as tits on a boar
it had always been this way
i could make the words
look right
could appease
my teachers
and pass on
to the next level
but the words
would just lie there
limp
flaccid
useless
i had no use for these words
i believed them dead
then one day
the poet came
his voice boomed
and the words
danced
when he spoke
finally
words
that made
sense
his gritty shop
smells of
ink
herb
cheap booze
remain as clear
as his voice
the poets would gather here
to speak their words
he would welcome me
to join
his words stuck
in my mind
describing the kill
of a deer
the taste
of the morning
the color
of a dead
child's
eyes
blue
goddamn it
they were
blue
it is seared
into my mind
his words
were liberating
his words
set my mind
free
to explore
imagine
taste
smell
hear
feel
every emotion
locked up
inside me
released
by his words
then he taught me
to use my own
for the first time
that time
the words began
to dance
they've been dancing
ever since
the years rush by
like the highway i ride
the poet has passed on
words continue to race
across my mind
reminding me of the time
he released me from my prison
i shout out to him....
the words continue to dance
the words continue to dance
a red tailed hawk
fly's next to me
a wing tip away
my bike
smooth
effortless
finds its stride
the poet smiles
across the heavens
it is felt
deep
within
each mile i ride.
travelin'
morning
as the sun shines
over the blue-green mountains
the dew from last night
seeps through my bundle
bedroll secured
trusted thick
green
blanket of wool
won
outside of Santa Fe
from a drunken
gambler
whose three kings
were no match
for a handful
of diamonds
the road calls
i quickly stash
the blanket's memory
i'll recall it
later
maybe three
four
hundred miles
down the road.
blacktop independent
riding a motorcycle
always came
naturally
splitting traffic
at over a hundred
is as addictive
and simple
as a newborn
suckling
their mothers breast
the sense of freedom
difficult to explain
so you don't
you just
do
it
and ride
running with clubs
becomes tiresome
wearing colors
upon your back
a large target
for LEO's
an invitation
for others
forgotten how
many times
i had a gun
or knife
put into my
general
direction
never took it
personally
i will
admit
though
there is nothing
quite like
walking into
a strange bar
and knowing
within minutes
you will
own it
at some point
the life grew
dreary
too many brothers
locked down
too many others
buried
age was never
a factor
i could still
ride
twice as fast
as men
half my age
and still split
traffic
at over a hundred
it was still
as simple
as suckling
a breast
one night
when a young
man
green
eager
his life ahead of him
came at me
i knew the move
he would make
before he even
thought
to make it
in that instance
with his blade
now turned
against his throat
it occurred to me
years past
my goal was to be
free
and now
with his life
in my hands
i realized just how far
from free
i had fled
i watched
the sun rise
that morning
a free man
for the first time
in ages
though my side still bled
from where he stuck me
as i let him up
he was young
it was meant to be
i would have done
the same.
reno, nv
sparks fly
an
uninvited
past
resumes conversation
japanese bo
slice effortlessly
through air
time
remains a friend
lovers
dreamers
across the hill
meadow glistens
early daylight
i would lie there
thank you when the time becomes right.
masses stir
throughout the land hallowed angels
revisit us from the past
visions of tears
and soiled children
play across
our collective souls
with a fragrance
that quiets
the mind
we often
long
for bitter
lemons
on a hot
summer day
runners all
movement becomes us
lightly
silently
fading
against oblique mentions
of time
there is fire
fire on the mountain.
he was a gambler
from the day he was born
a natural
didn't matter
the odds
he had them figured the money counted
long before anyone else
he could float an ace
or a king
whenever he pleased
could make a four
of diamonds
disappear into the deck
then reappear
on top
the man was quick
good
the best
never once did he cheat
didn't need to
i watched him pick ponies
that others laughed at watched their faces
fall
when his pony won by his stated length winning not only the wager but all side wagers as well
he was a natural
good
the best
taught me as a child
to bet on the dog
that crapped
before the run
while all the men in fine linens
would be watching their mistresses
he would be watching
waiting
for the dog that would crap
before his race
at the end of the day
he would have the fine money
from the fine men in linen
and their mistresses as well
on the day he died
he bet his brother
he could beat him to the top of the hill
we were headed to vegas
all family
in the car
a small hill
loomed
in the distance
he made the wager
his brother accepted
two hundred dollars
said he could crest the hill first
he died half way up
years of gin
cocaine
and easy living
finally caught up
a heart attack
was the finding
at the funeral his brother
joking
said his brother lost
his last bet
i told him later
softly
in private
he'd bet me five hundred
he'd die halfway up.
we didn't beat him
much
that night
long ago
though he was
alive
and filled
with sensations
when we gutted
him
leaving his
bowels
dribbling
across the pavement
his testicles
firmly packed
into his mouth
his dick
sliced
neatly off
and tossed
for the dogs to find
the newspapers described a well to do businessman brutally
murdered
police never did solve any crime
we all silent
these many long years knowing
little two year old girls
were safer
with the bastard
gone
now speak
of redemption
in hushed tones
older
our own sins
transparent we whisper
amongst each other confiding
confessing
when once
we spoke not at all.
the first time
i saw a dead man i was eighteen
his arms were twenty yards from his body his legs were stumps from the mine
he stepped on
we were in a place
americans
were not supposed to be
there seemed to be
nothing but mud
and body parts
from the mine
it was all very
hush hush
back then
secret squirrel shit
and all that
the mission was blown
a secret
no longer
awaiting for evac
there
in the mud
kneeling with him watching life flow out of his eyes his body a tattered worthless vessel
massively destroyed
there would be no repair
he asked me
softly
to not forget him to always remember
evac came quickly we were out before
they knew we were in
his body reclaimed
shipped home with a flag though no medal
purple or otherwise would be forthcoming
we were not supposed to be there
there are rules
for this sort of thing
all these years later i can describe every small
insignificant detail
down to the insects
in the mud
on that warm tepid day
except his name
that part is locked
deep deep
inside
it will not come out
it stays removed
it used to cause me pain
to remember
so one day i forgot
and it's been that way since
i am certain
when i die
i will go straight to hell
there will be no salvation
i told him i would remember
but the pain was too great
every small
tiny
detail
is remembered
except his name
somewhere
deep inside it lies locked and safely kept
his name forgotten my pain removed
it was a trade
i made
with the devil
himself
for there are things
to avoid
best not
to remember
like the name
of a friend lying dead
in the mud.
you have the right to live
in a society that states you must live by its rules
though those rules
are changing
weekly
daily
in order to keep up
with the madness
of the times
though there is not a need to keep you informed
when these rules
will be changed added
or amended
you have the right to pay
taxes
and then
more
taxes
at the gas pump
at the market
at the bakery
at the deli
doesn't matter
where ever
you go there is a
tax
and you must pay it
tax rates
will
increase
and you will
pay those increases
too
you have the right
to have your children
educated
provided
you pay for their
books
their sports
paper
pencils
crayons staplers
and glue
dreams
so far
are free
but only
on a limited
basis
you have the right
to read
anything you wish
though the media will control
your thoughts
on what is happening
on any
given
day
you will be taught like so many children
waiting to
learn
how to properly
take a nap
perhaps you will
catch on
quickly
and be given
an extended night
of american idol
or perhaps stars
dancing
all this awaits those
who do not ask
any questions
and quietly drink their news
like so much
lukewarm
kool-aid
you have the right
to pay
the exorbitant
salaries
of administrators of
a corrupt government
lining their pockets
with the gold of fools
such as you
and i
as we continue
to vote
these judas bastards
into office
where they rape
all that is left
until there is no more blood
no more sin
with which to bathe
leaving their linens
airing upon
a fouled land
of our making
for allowing
the judas bastards
to live
you have the right
to a jury
selected by the
corporate
machine
knowing which juror
is going to convict you
discharge you
long before
the verdict is rendered
prison sentences
pre-determined
no need
for circumstances
unless of course
you have money
with which to pay
then your crime
shall be deemed
appropriate
for perhaps
a thirty day sentence
at the local
spa
you have the right
to ignore all
about you
as decay increases
the framework falls
all around you
is evidence
of a much needed
restoration
but carpenters
are not allowed
to cut boards
or hammer
nails
you have the right
to placate
yourself
with cable channels
and movies
24/7
as evolution is carried out
during commercial breaks
you have the right
to continue
in mindless stupor
a vacant people
left hollow
as the world
left about them
you have the right
of a distant memory
like so much
haze
of your father's land
so long, long ago
when rights
then
meant such
a different thing.
Leavenworth 1978
Leavenworth beckoned
hard
gray
stone
seventeen years
to reflect upon
innocence
lost
in a tropical paradise
hashish
was
the undoing
though heroin ran
a close second
on the night
the polite
filipino cop
recruited me
i was high
as ever
having just heard
a cover band
for Led Zep
at the club
Bucket Of Blood
subic bay's
finest
the not so nice
government agent
sitting
there
next to the flip
snarled his
threat
of busting me
immediately
if i did not
cooperate
showing me
his gun
his badge
the other
badges
in the room
smiling
put a
surreal
twist
to an
otherwise
hallucinogenic
scene
a year later
many shipments
deftly delivered
noble courier
i asked permission
to leave
such an enterprise
my release given
in the form of
arrest
smuggling
hashish
heroin
some amphetamines
a little LSD
and some low grade
marijuana
that i still declare
was not mine
it was low grade
the rest
top shelf
set up
anybody
sitting
alone
in the brig
waiting
for court martial
and
seventeen
years
at Leavenworth
it occurred
to me
i had all the
names
necessary
to bring the entire
thing
down
why was
i still alive
if not
to go free
morning sun
brightly shined
through small
horizontal
slivers
of metal
solemn procession
as led to Capt.'s
chambers
due to my
increasing
mental
instability
it was in
the Navy's
best interest
to discharge
me
honorably
of course
terrible
thing
the Capt. said
terrible
thing
on my way
out
freedom
from all
this tropical
madness
a doctor promised
i would get
the rehab
i needed
the
polite
filipino cop
was waiting
on the dock
smiling
i had made them
much money
it was time
to enjoy
retirement.
Goodnight, Miss America
Scream, baby, scream
in the heat of the night;
trumpets blaring
saxophone wailing
you see her standing
there
soft lips
shining
firm hips
grinding
bronze skin
glistening
bare
music up tempo
watch her dance
naked
swirling her
long golden hair
while out in the street
some cat he go crazy
wretched with lust
for his bronze
wondrous lady
Burn, baby, burn
in the heat of the night;
bar man
he smiling
black man
he jiving
stale smoke
colors the air
sax man
still wailing
trumpet
still blaring
bass man
still laying it
bare
while out in the street
some cat he go crazy
wretched with
lust
for his bronze
wondrous lady
Die, baby, die
in the heat of the night;
neon light flashes
dime fifty gashes
assembled atop
of the stairs
some mothers
crying
poor fathers
dying
knowing their daughter's
out there
while out in the street
some cat he gone crazy
consumed by his lust
for his bronze
wondrous lady.
Dragonfly
i have watched
your body
seen
the soft glow
of your skin
time
has not diminished
your radiance
it shines
and your body
perfect
glides effortlessly
through time
i have learned
your fears
i understand
the issues of
abandonment
deeply seated roots
in your psyche
your demons
ride
in the night
of your mind
....still
i love you.
unconditionally
i await the woman
who has taught me
such love
to find the love
within herself
expecting nothing
in return
i remain
deep
in love
with this woman
whose radiance
softly
glows
and stills
the dark emptiness
that is my heart
i understand
all too well
demons
of the mind
patiently
softly
i await
the moment
you are free.
Primal Urge
what began
many years past
a howling cry
bankrupting accounts
of all that truly
does not matter
remains alive
thriving
feasting
upon the turmoil
of our time
core fire
illuminates
a note
a word
a flash of color
that would
otherwise
be forgotten
worse yet
never found
were it not
for the answer
to the howling cry
directed
guided
with absolutely
no
idea
perhaps an
inkling
of a thought
jungian
at best
causal
at most
yet enough
to wish more fire
upon the core
the simple beauty
of government cheese
remains embedded
where does
the time
go
lovers come
gone
their cries of passion
spent
lost
within the howl
in the end
there exists
little meaning
but what a way to fly.
visions of the wordslinger
drift about
a reminder of our friendship
he was one of the few
a tall as i
though quite a bit
thinner
in later years
he would chuckle
at my increasing
girth
as his toothpick frame evolved
he was the only friend
i could sit with
for hours
on end
not say a word
having a conversation
beyond words
without sound
rejoicing
both of us
in the simple joys
of the earth
a passionate drinker
he was disappointed to hear
i had become sober
continuing my adventures
alcohol and chemical free
at first
was strange between us
but then the words
flowed
and all began
as before
though i did notice
his partaking
decreased
when i was there
we shared many similar
pleasures
both liked to hunt
fish
both equally adept
with weapons
and a typewriter
both had an eye
for a well formed
breast
no matter
the age
his poetry competed
with his passion for writing
editorials
stories
propaganda
that crazy fucker thudpucker
would arrive
without provocation
and lord only knew
where that would lead
living in a small
mountain town
drinking and writing
as he did
kept him afloat
till the locals
tired
of his crazy nonsense
and words that stirred
the pot
leaving him somewhat
bitter
but the words
continued to dance
that crazy thudpucker
simply would not
shut up
so many books
chapbooks
scribbled on
pieces of paper
kept safe
in a rats nest of paper
ink
his soul defined
he met with me
towards the end
impatiently waiting
to gain enough
oxygen
to smoke another
cigarette
one’s especially made
for people
with his disease
we sat there
him with his
oxygen mask
me with memories
of bar fights
turkey shoots
printing presses
the black ink
that stained
both our souls
“have you ever wondered”
he offered one day
“as you loaded your weapon
where the round
would go...
...i have
no regrets”
the wordslinger
lives on
his words continue
to dance
that crazy fucker thudpucker
speaks from his grave
and the silence
we so often shared
is felt every day
was unremarkable
in every way
though it did begin
with a question
as to why
i kept a small bag
of frozen potato rounds
in my freezer
on this
unremarkable morning
i encountered the
small
bag of rounds
and wondered
as i had
several mornings
the past month
why i just
didn’t eat them
given
the bag was very small
and not enough for a complete
portion
i told myself
i would wait
until
i had purchased more
of the same brand
and then mix them
together
made sense to me
the store where
the rounds were purchased
is down in the valley
near my parents
home
an eighty mile
round trip
a far way to ride
for frozen
potato rounds
......
the day after
my face froze
and my right eye
would not close
the doctor advised me
to place ice
on the nerve
behind my right ear
in fact
he jokingly said
a small bag
of frozen peas
would work well.
i asked him if a bag
of frozen potato rounds
would do the trick.
nicely,
he replied,
nicely.
came swiftly
what was
once
no one’s
business
but our own
has now
exploded
upon
the masses
millions
billions
of ill gotten
dollars
won
by a people
that have never
known
the road
the commercialization
came loudly
trumpeted
across pages
of magazines
across video feeds
of news media
hungry
for a sampling
of our lifestyle
without
the nasty wind
and bugs
and shit
that will hit you
when you ride
this media
now completely
destroying everything
good
along the way
leaving sheeple
enjoying
feeling
belonging
to something
they will never
know
or
understand
this media
sucks everything
giving nothing
not one of them
has ever known
the heart of the road
the commercialization
bastardized
castrated
enabled by trailers
motor homes
efficient noise
reducing
standards
eunuchs
passing
laws
all
ignorant
of the real
beauty
inside
the heart
of the road
has now become
the reason
to ride
a money machine
cannot be silenced
as easily
as passing
laws
to eliminate our
sound
the road
remains
it beckons
to those
worthy
of its call
there is no need
for fancy
trinkets
or commercialized
lifestyle
just money
for fuel
and once
in a while
a repair
along the way.
its nice out tonight....
...low rumble of beast
coursing through bodies
your body
wrapped with mine
our bodies
together
six inches below us
ground races past
a swift dance of
lifetimes
dancing
dancing
over and over
occurring
ending
then taking form again
the road rushes by
a gray blur upon the mind
it stretches on forever
how many lifetimes will we find
night sky is clear and bright
the moon hanging sleepily
upon a velvet sky
casts its glow
our shadow on the road
two souls feverishly attempting
to escape, to join
to believe
passes by
in a moment all we are is gone
it begins again
and we dance once more
rumble pierces
something primal
within us grows
boundaries
real and imagined
take over
then collide and disappear
freeing us
we are free
...the road
six inches below
speeding past
sound of wind
rushing by...
...all around you
is life...
...all around me
is life...
dancing
swirling
we fly beneath the velvet sky
lifetimes beginning and ending...
an irony not lost
on this long
nights ride.
lazily
moving the air
in no particular
order
an owl screeches
a car howls
and the night tastes
sweet
as a melon on the vine
small crescent moon
hangs low
in the sky
not much illumination
these nights
i wait
patiently
for a full moon
rising
illumination will again
wash across
my yard
nights birds sing
an awkward song
of hope and sorrow
their tunes
floating across
a darkness that melts
as their song grows near
on nights like this
when nights birds sing
and illuminated light
is dim and bittersweet
i taste
i savor
a moment in time
the rhythm
the softness
of a memory
as soothing
as the night
in no particular order
i await illumination
and love
full
sweet
as a melon on the vine.
there's a place up ahead
that's where I like to be
where the sky meets the highway
and the horizon meets the sea
where my pain is lost forever
and my freedom is in reach
its the place I like to head for
its the place I like to be
i want to fly
so high
like an eagle in the sky
i want to fly
so high
like an eagle in the sky
there's a lady who is listening
to the call of the sea
to the sounds of the night time
in the place i like to be
and she sees beyond horizons
yet reveals not what she sees
she's a temptress, she's a lady
full of life's dark mysteries
i want to fly
so high
like an eagle in the sky
i want to fly
so high
like an eagle in the sky
i'm gonna travel till i find her
gonna travel till i'm free
she has sent for me this lady
this lady of the sea
dark temptress of my passions
it's my soul that she sets free
there's a smile in her eye
and I know it's just for me
i want to fly
so high
like an eagle in the sky
i want to fly
so high
like an eagle in the sky
there's a place up ahead
where the eagles all fly free
where the dawn of the day
illuminates the sea
where the lady of my passion
rises up and comes to me
in the place up ahead
where horizon meets the sea
i want to fly
so high
like an eagle in the sky
i want to fly
so high
like an eagle in the sky
like an eagle in the sky
so high
like an eagle in the sky.
the grossly overweight
fat lady
slabs of flesh
hanging
on either
and all
sides
comes into my
shop
wanting to be
a belly dancer
she tries on
the largest
of my satin pants
rips them clean
through
as she cavorts
in front of a mirror
blushing
apologizing profusely
she leaves a twenty
on my counter
never to be seen
or heard from
again.
in the flash
of a dance across your eyes
i see a hint
of much more
than a lovers
lonely cry
i reach out
and the dance disappears
only for a moment
i will wait.
It comes when
you least
expect it
hitting
hard
below the belt
taking and
giving
no quarter
leaving you dried
faded
as a flower
in the mid-summer day
withered from the rays
that once nourished
i suppose we all
bare
our souls
at one time or another
bare
our minds
less frequent still
there is that mate
we long for
dream for
live for
and
if we are fortunate
experience if only briefly
the nectar that we seek
Mother Earth spins
across the heavens
while toddlers bathe
in grime and filth
the air they
breathe
a desolate
graybrownblackyellow
haze
lingering about them
innocents all
they will feel the
pulse
of the earth
one day
when they breathe
their
last
breath
remembering
the filth
in which
they bathed
dried flowers
at the
fair
have always
seemed
odd to me
so have warnings
to people who
obsessed
with their destruction
inhale freely
while the rest
die in silence
i found my moment
of true happiness
and joy
my mistake
i now find
was in keeping it
close
when i should
have
by all accounts
left it there
where i found
it
no harm done
no harm done.
is a challenge
on a good night
so many
hedonistic
fantasies
played out
on screen before me
lost souls
lost lives
sitting
sometimes hours
on end
no passion
no life
no loving
only vain attempts
at comforting
their decaying souls
on a good
night
the rooms pace
crawls
as it's tenants spew
their desires for all
to see
in the room
mini skirts
tight pussy's
large cocks
hard cocks
shaved women
all
dance naked
in a glorious
orgy of words
played out slowly
strenuously
without a trace
of passion
desires
fetishes
double ended dildo's
abound
as the room's
participants
chat gaily
of nothing
tossing inhibitions
like so much
flotsam
aside
ego's
soaring
roaring
the noise of their
worlds
colliding
there
on the screen
in front of me
swirls past
a hermaphrodite
who wants to blow
buddha
while fingering the ass
of amun-ra
go figure the
parody there
if you have the time
so many souls
lost
yearning
for the elusive
moment
of passion
they'll never know
the rooms
tenants
assembled for the night's
feast
stretch
yawn
begin their dance
of passionless love
the room fills
with desire
a void
as large as the
emptiness
of its tenants souls
it rears its head
i severe the head
before it consumes me
in a flash
it is gone
replaced
gracefully
with a blank screen
the room
here
has come to an end
there
it goes on
forever.
end of the day
at the costume shop
phone has stopped ringing
door buzzer
deathly
silent
frankenstein's mask
eerie
in the darkness
wolfman's mask
lets a snarl
escape
it's lips
flapper costumes
gaily
shake
to an unheard
rhythm
a smell of molasses
drifts to me
from near the southern
belles
i notice time
has ceased its
movement
the clock
on the wall
no longer works
a pirate's wench informs me
it is ten till midnight
and captain hook
if you please
requests my presence
leave
this place
i turn the key
in the lock
hear the merriment
behind me
"be careful with the tiara's"
i shout into the darkened night
“remember last time?”
“don’t you worry, mate”
the wench replies
“you’ve capt. hook’s word
his honor
and queen victoria’s grace”
good enough for me.
in the soft dance of trees
naked against the wind
in the smiling glance
of a child
pure to any sins
i will find you
moments of night
captured still
frame memories
of love and grace
a place stays warm
where time is shared
not by moments
but by visions
of ecstasy
it is there
i will find you
pulsing dance of life
swirling dance of love
collide and become one
where sky meets sea
and horizon melts away
a place opens safely
for those in need
i will find you
two bodies naked
tied together by memories
of passions now past
lie sobbing, holding their pain
miles apart
together for a moment
they vanish
without a trace
in the soft dance of trees
where the sky meets the sea
i will find you.
Children’s Magazine
the co-dependency lady
with the children’s magazine
calls to ruin my day
she whines about her
drunken friend
unable to produce the
children’s magazine
because she’s
too stressed
to cope with it all
she whines about her
new
competitor
in the market
another
children’s magazine
that stole all her
faithful and
loyal
employees
not to forget
advertisers
from her
as well
the co-dependency lady
with the children’s magazine
promises to pay my fee
even it if is
two
three
times higher
than others
to produce her
children’s magazine
she flatters me
says all
the right words
puts in long
hours
with me
while her children
stay home
alone
no mother for them
only a children’s magazine
with their mothers name
as publisher
on it’s masthead
the co-dependency lady
weasels
all around her
eventually
she will weasel me
“she won’t pay you”
my wife states
assuredly
“that’s why everyone
left her”
“after eleven years
of publishing
a children’s magazine
you would
think
someone
would remain faithful”
my wife is right
except for the drunken
friend
the co-dependency lady
is all alone
no husband
no boyfriend
no children
and hardly
a magazine
she’ll pay me
i tell my wife
it will take time
time to sort out
the personalities
inside
that drive her to
this madness
but she will pay
a publisher of
a children’s magazine
whose own children stay
home
forgotten
whose employees
desert her
leave her
to her ruin
whose only
friend
tells me in
confidence
“i don’t give a shit
i do it for the money”
is a curious person
to observe
observe i do
until i grow
tired
weary
of the co-dependency
lady
her circus of lies
paranoia
deceit
i finally
leave her
and her drunken
friend
who together
cannot produce
a half decent
children’s magazine
as their children
sit
alone
at home
without them
i leave her
the second after
her check
clears the bank.
Santa Fe, N.M.
thursday
night
all still
bright
snow on ground
red dirt
washes
a purity
in air
old indian
woman
chanting
sing song glances
turquoise
buckle
escapes
the moment
laughter
echoes brilliantly
snow falls
on ground
red
from dirt
old indian
woman
chanting
sing song glances
laughter
erupting
from red earth’s
past.
The Arrogance of Creativity
years ago
she asked me how i could
stop
so suddenly
turn off
the words
the syllables
the syntax
the rhyme
how could I so
easily
shrug it off
as so much rubbish
now best suited
for lazy days
i would tell her
i cannot turn it off
it doesn’t turn on
it doesn’t turn off
it
just
is
all the time
day and night
that’s the bargain
you must carry
if you wish to turn it
on
and you do wish
to turn it
on
she urged me
to continue
to go further
to not
give up
i told her
i was afraid to wish it
afraid to turn it
on
but at last
i submit
she was right
she was always
right
i turn it on
it roars across my mind
filling empty
thought
with knowledge of what is
what isn’t
knowledge of this
of that
of all order of things
it spirals across the network
body revolts
but then
adapts
the power finds
it’s place anew
it settles in and begins to feed
it’s how i sustain it
i’ve tried to say
it feeds on me
my life
it changes
becomes one
with it
no longer in control
i can only hope
to hold on
i did it for her
she wanted me to do it
get it back
so i did
the creating
i tell her
is easy
turning off
is the trick
it doesn’t allow for off
for it must feed
i heed its call
immerse myself
completely
it must feed
i cannot shut it off.
in the absence of silence
the mind dances
to rhythms sharp
deep
intricately woven
patterns of noise
blending
together
a child’s cry
a mother’s lament
joyous laughter
cries of pain
all merge
form
a mosaic of life
in the absence of silence
the pain of lovers
lost
yields to
the beauty found
in their last
embrace
the sound
of their hearts
beating
as one
across the void
inseparable
their cries
in the darkness
blend
their pain
slowly
vanishing
the remembrance
of the last
kiss
quietly tucked away
in the corners
of their minds
in the absence of silence
a new day dawns
quietly
at first
gaining momentum
the tear’s
the joys
begin their dance
as one
the world
revolves
the universe expands
truth becomes
the eternal
quest
the lovers
the child
a mourning mothers
cries
call out to the darkness
where all
can hear.
santa fe n.m. II
so much
tension
is felt by
the loyal
coffee house
philosophers
rumors of a
president to be
impeached
have gathered hostile
forces
and, lord, how the
preaching abounds
a victim
found
the joyous crowd
envisions the great
emancipation of all
mankind
the evil man
shall hang
shall die
virtuousness will
reign once more
all debts
unpaid
shall be paid
all promises
broken
shall be fulfilled
guilt
the grand
resentment
of man
shall be banished
forever
in silent
entrapment
yes,
so much
escapism
from tense population
an entropic
solitude
lingers above
silent
deadly
smoke billowing
from political fires
unattended
by a culture
enmeshed
by their coffee house
philosophy
i am touched
by moonlight’s
poise
cool swan
of morning
eager rays
of light
new day
dawning
coffee house
philosophers
begin
again.
the ripple lies
across your mind
the haven you seek
gone
answers
...sought
though there is
nothing
wisdom lies
all about
every
thing
a ripple
an echo
across your mind.
connecting without being connected
harvesting the crop
that was never
planted
riding the tide
to a sea
of no return
a ship
remaining silent
in its passage
mute
to the pains of time
aloof
in its infant joy
the captain calls below
“where to sail....”
distant thunder grows
pale light illumes
time to chart
the waters
where none
flowed
before.
day one
baby boy is gone.
the house is quiet.
there are no teenagers
stumbling down the hall
losing their balance
outside
there is snow.
the first snow
appears
silent
my yard
a white blanket
not even the neighbors
cat
is out in it
i notice my car
covered
in the driveway
has tires equipped
for maximum mileage
not much use in snow
a mental note is made
to visit the tire store
monday.
the eight point
buck
greets me
as i make the turn
home
standing
there
owning
the road
nostrils flared
steam
rising
eye’s piercing
he lowers his head
i increase my pace
one day
soon
he will win
our alpha challenge
but today
my bike and i
are allowed by
but only
by his grace.
vancouver b.c.
departure
a friend
close
known
trusted soul
whom i have shared
eager moments
brutal words
encouraging wisdom
strength
through its passing....
i’ve always
known
life
as a stranger
when i did
perchance
happen upon a
military
friendship
i would absorb
the others
soul
as my own
knowing
in time
we would pass
onto parallel lives...
living
for the moment
has brought me closer
to the truth
of friendship
kinship
love
that a human
can bring
but departure
remains
cold
hard
there is a wet
taste
in the air
time to move
down the road
leathers protect
only so much
the road home
will be harsh
for a few
short
miles.