The poetry of capitalism

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But add avocado to that and your morning

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A travel guide I wrote

When You Are Crossing Borders

When you are crossing borders

Do not consider the wet mop

Dancing at your feet

Resort to stories you can tell

The weather, the souvenirs

When you are crossing borders             

People run across the freeway                

Waiting at the median, staring in

You’ve seen the way they look

Edited, in magazines, but this

When you are crossing borders

Diesel, needles, pus and sorrows

Are not allowed in the hotel

Down at your book, translations

Of drinks they don’t drink

When you are crossing borders

Grab your child’s hand tightly

So she can feel your pulse

Teach her lessons, conversations

She will never have

When she is crossing borders

Trickling up from the unconscious

Heed Nothing

Tear up child

Weep obliviously

Heed nothing

Orchestrate trees

Master stars and

Earth in 5 key points

Get the humor of

Tragedies and cry

In the comedies

Become kindling

Smolder, flames

Of a controlled burn

Unleash to run

Along a rooftop

Of burning sky

Croon lyrics

Of a moving still

Unwritten song

Raw ice of gloom

Crack free of me

Let my bones thaw

Tear up child

Weep obliviously

Heed nothing

Parable of the Cypress Cone, Figs, Gravel

Parable of the Cypress Cone, the Figs and the Gravel The gravel allows no footprints on the ridge road of mountain Above a widespread ocean amongst manzanita, sage, cypress Where limbs lift along its slope where road ends, gravel to dirt Distant bird in silhouette onto night soars affluent circles        Sitting a long time, into sunset cold, finished with my long walk Where the gravel, where the bird, where limbs, slope, ridge Ground littered with cypress cones—closed until fire comes Cone to my upper lip, me and your breath of God Ignore me, Father, bury your ears in disputed deserts Deny me your oceanic eyes, that once washed me Make me to walk the hot coals of your teeth, drown me In the subterfuge of your tongue, lodge me In the minx anger of your furrowed brow, strangle me Of breath by your bold memory, crashing your curling Blame as waves against the balustrade of my calm Suck the blood from my heart by the vacuum of yours You have cursed away my figs.  I have screamed down the rest Through the years, for the maggots, under a drunken sun Once heavy with figs, my branch:  Waiting on the ground Full of plump, giving fruit.  Now, on the other side of storm My branch:  Sapless sticks, clean of fruit, asking the sky Wishing to sleep again on the slope under a blanket of cypress Where squeezing a resolute cone while bird aloft, you and I Where the walk ends, cold and ocean close, and gravel is silent

He had been my friend. He died.

I Did Not Go In

   For Ched Neuhaus

I did not go in to see you, Ched

There in your white room

I was told your head had swelled

And color had engulfed you

They exit in tears, seeing you

Hooked up like you had never been

Ched, in your white room

In the paper I learned you left

Before sunrise, without your helmet

I saw your skid mark, and the pole

There is a rumor of foul play

In the ward.  Some debt you had over

Drugs.  So much has changed

Since we were boys

Forgive me for not joining you

I wanted to recall our past

When our lungs filled and fainted

With laughter in the cul de sac

Biking to Jerry’s Liquor for candy

Aba-Zabba contests, watching the fish

As boys do

Remember our slumber parties, Ched?

The living room wrestling matches

With Hoheimer, Burleson, Domke, me, you?

Halloweens—the hiding, running?

And how about the Sandy’s window?

Or the time we fought and the next day

We were friends?

I visited your grave, Ched, and cleared away

Crab grass crawling across your name

It had been ten years since that morning

Yet the sun burned warm above the mountain

And over your plot; we would have laughed

Together like we could not

When you were in your white room

From a page in a Lego catalog

Skeletons

Aren’t we all descending

Exploring the depths

Swimming for sunken treasure

Clamping mouth to hold breath

Watching out for skeletons?

Aren’t we all avoiding

The green snake, mouth agape

The giant squid, a snappy crab

The pressured floor, currents

And throned skeleton?

Aren’t we all loaded

Breathing lungfulls of algae

Combing ancient sea troves

Buried and we're scraping

Scraping sand like skeletons?

Failed foreign policy forced my fingers to the keys

The American Corpse

Decomposing by the year:

The American corpse,

Stuck on the ground in its emissions

Flesh and bones and weeds

Desecrated by the terms:

The American corpse,

Sprawled lewdly on the earth

Deposed for its ravenous means

Rooted through by a bush:

The American corpse,

Illuminated by sexton’s lamp

Immolated by its own disease

Yet the sad red streets of the world:

The hard, enrubbled, oily streets

Streets enraged, though prayerfully

Waiting up late, on their knees

For January’s proclamation:

Hollered with unbosomed glee

Chants attend the inauguration

Ghostly elation at the scene

The wept over corpse:

The American corpse,

Composing itself, on its knees

Then standing again, like a dream

Dirt still underneath my fingernails

What We Raise

Of sweat and cedar

I built a garden

Raised above the lawn

By the filth of road

Where greens and reds

Will rise from dirt

Raise our glasses

For what we raise…

     anchors
     courage

     standards

     children

     spirits

     consciousness

     cane

Raise the alarm

For what we raise…

     forests        

     fists
     eyebrows

     weapons

     sea levels

     the banner of war

     cain

We are the dirt and

Hands clasped for color

In our own company

Thorn and rose

Raising questions

For the skies

We are both…

Raising gardens

Raised by wolves