The fatigue
I have tired
Of the noise
Of the incessant
Drumming of
A heart
Running on
Empty.
Empathy
Silenced, even
A modicum of
Humanity
denied
I have hollered
At the hills
At the miscreants
Ill advised
Ill informed
Hectoring
Others
Not to Get
Vaccinated,
To play Russian
Roulette
Live.
Jim Jones
Could not
Have coached
To the Kool
Aid any
Better than
The fools who
Feed a fear
To earn a
Dollar appearing
On Fox with
Pillow man.
Games have
Scores that I
Do not want to
See. Interviews
With those on
death beds
Wishing they’d
Vaccinated, knowing
They were duped,
Begging other not
The same fate, the
Same last gasp.
Nurses, doctors.
Orderlies—all
Heroes of the
Highest rank
Must witness
The suffering
That could have
So easily been
Alleviated. If I am
Tired, what
Must they be?
Elder days
Elder days are flying
Past me. Elder time
moves so much
Faster, seconds
Pass in milliseconds
As the sand pours
Out at a perceived
greater rate.
Unlike the Youthful days
Where we risked all on
Wages of emotional toll
That were easy to pay
Because the effort bore
Little real consequence.
Time like air just seemed
To be there.
Elder days involve the
Joy of surrender and
Light loads. Admissions
Of ignorance invitations
To explore more, and
Still, those whose youthful
Days were filled with trauma
Relive its horror.
And for those in pain
I commensurate
But cannot take on the
Battles fought and lost by
Others and ones I was not
Drafted to defend.
I walk along the streets of
North Beach, the alleys of
Chinatown, the stretches
Of Ocean Beach and the
Marina. I stop on benches
And I absorb the sunlight
Into weary bones and
Chalk outlined memories.
As people pass, I open
Up my life and pretend
To talk to them and give
Away my memories like
Seed to the flocking sea
Gulls at my feet.
I give away grief to the
Stranger on the corner
Who seemed to need
It more than me.
I give away regret to
The angry boy who
Yelled at people who
Did not look like him.
I give away blind ambition
To those who will later
Lament their sad inability
To truly enjoy and see.
I give away much of the
Baggage that stored the
Marks of defeat and
Victories now amounting
To so little.
I run naked into
The crashing waves and
Yell in primal scream
“A life well lived needs
So little, THINK!”
Elder days will see my
Selfish charity as I wake
And throw off old ideas
For the few promises
Of dwindling tomorrows.
Smell of Texas
Rain falls on New York
Sidewalks, Washington
Square or Red Hook
And its scent differs
Little from LA detours.
Texas after rain smells
Of Millenia, desert rich
El Paso from Meso
America to No Country
For Old Man Mesas.
And the smell is blood
That on its Streets has
Poured from when
JFK was killed to
The Twenty-Two
Innocents of
recent past.
But the smell lasts
In its ocher baseness
Deep in the Trinity
Riverbed begging
For forgiveness for
The horror it has
Begat.
And yet I still smell
Lizards running, red ants
Forming farms, hay, tule
Riverbed bull frogs croaking
Along the Rio Grande where
Pilgrims drown seeking
Freedom from despair.
A cussedness that prefers
Death to science, that
Sees freedom as a
Complete denial of anyone
But the proverbial “me.”
Selfishness bred into a
Fiber of disdain.
But a new smell is permeating
The air. A liberated Texas
A new defined Southwest,
The artists, the poets and the
Scholars are carving out
Canyons of creativity in the
Lone Star state.
Dixie Fire 2021
Violet dawn morning
Lines agitate the pink
Hawaiian sky. A horizon
Fighting with itself to
See who best welcomes
The full sun.
We are not there. We are
Here as flame oven heat
Races across our towns.
Smoke like the door to hell
Singe a curtain across the
Peeks of sky that attempt
To shine through the charred
Canopy’s demise.
We are here. We have run
Before and we must run
Again, fire refugees.
Fire and wind and the
Incessant heat, Dante
Rings don’t do it justice.
We melt as we run and
We freeze in silhouetted
Pantomime fear.
We are here. For now.
As I see the flames’ rage
I just drown.
On your face: In praise of aging faces
You wear the shades
Of make up over
Age spots and
Wrinkles well.
It is not an insult
And please don’t
Scowl or take it
this way.
Look for yourself.
See how you pay
Tribute to your
Aging features.
You wear your
Powder’s charm
Differently now.
Less is more.
The lightness of
The mask allows
The wisdom of
Beauty through.
And that is what
I meant to say.
You are more
Beautiful today.
Yesterday was
Wild and you
Harvested your
Face that way.
What I see is
The morning of
Dawn breaking
Over your face.
Radiance shines
Through like
Amazon sun streaks
Through canopy.
Your eyes open
With more and
Deliberate strength
And charm.
Words leave your
Mouth with more
Confidence, wit and
Unencumbered flair.
As I gray and hair
Has created a parted
Bald sea on my head
I Moses ahead.
And the joy of life
Is in seeing those
You love face aging
With aplomb.
Let youth have its
Have; let’s enjoy
Life without regret
Or Concern.
Let your face and mine
Face a mirror of time
And thank time for each
Wrinkle earned.
Looking back at philosophy’s gates
Young, I believed I understood
Philosophical works of great
Worth.
Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Hegel,
Locke, Hobbes, Nietzsche,
Wittgenstein—I grabbed
What knowledge I could
And left the unknowable
Behind.
If I understood anything I
Knew as Socrates said “I
Know that I do not know”
And maybe by asking
Questions I can at least
Know what I do not
Know.
And the gates of knowledge
To which I narcissistically
Thought I had a key remained
Locked though I opened them
And walked in.
Leafing through the pages of
Books, I refused to read others
And only looked to the next word
In the original text.
A youthful exuberance created
A passionate façade that made
Others think I knew what I was
Talking about.
Humility would come later and
Fear at not knowing overwhelmed
The ego that sought solace in
Not being found.
But I saw what I saw, and I felt
What I felt. And the morning
Kettle boiling whistles in utter
Disgust.
Admit you only saw the outline
Of the cave young boy. Admit
That ideas whirled undigested
In your brain.
Admission is confession is a
Legal malaprop to those who
Know and I will admit but
Refuse to confess.
So, old man tackle the text again
Now that you can admit and
Confess that you gathered
Only a bit.
Forgive the young you and
Hand it to the old you now
Who once again asks entry
Into philosophy’s gates.
Letters of regret
Acquaintances tell me of
Letters, long and detailed,
Written by the disenchanted
Sorcerers who deconstruct
Pasts and truly wonder
Why their greatness was
Passed over.
As if talent
Were as easy as gossip
Passed along and embellished
Creating in minds truth not
Based on fact but gossamer
verbiage as vapid as yesterday’s
Tea bag in the cup that has
Sat and dissolved into a
puddle that stains all that
It touches.
And such are the
Unread letters of regrets so
Plainly evident that the reader
Pities the sender for both the
Time and effort at revealing
The reasons for failed dreams
And endless baptisms of
Nietzschean eternal recurrence.
If only the effort at preparing
For regret had been spent
In envisioning something not
Yet come to pass or creating
Futures instead of spending
Time rehashing misspent time.
Loving, believing, and trusting
In themselves is arduous work
for those who never look in
the mirror.
Rereading Camus Again
The Absurd comes back
Into view when I read
The pages of my favorite
Work of Albert Camus.
The cycle of humanity
Seeking meaning and
Value and never being
Certain it is found.
I introduced my lover
To the Absurd, “swim
in the curative grey
Water of ambiguity.”
Conflict of the soul
A path to nothingness
Or the essence of true
Freedom unbound.
On the Road, Bukowski,
Ginsburg, Burroughs,
Anais Nin—all answers
To the Absurd.
Sartre’s Nausea, No Exit
Define my today as I
Sit at the café table and
See strangers pass.
Ambiguity and the
Absurd are posed
Questions and
Uncertain answers.
To be or not to be.
To live is to embrace
The challenge of
Living every day.
I hear the voices of
The poets and their
Muses through the
Weathered hours.
Prose: forceful and
Alive, Strangling
Answers from the
Daily toil of life.
Oh, the repose of
One who believes
They know.
Oh, the will to
Freedom a torch’s
Undying glow.
Oh, the mountainous
Challenge of the
Creative soul.
Oh, the finished art
Derived in responding
To the Absurd.
I reread Camus as I
Reread Don Quixote
Free dreamers, creative
Life forces.
I reread in silence at
Pace with silent music
Filling the air and something
Out of nothingness appears.
Exiting War: Afghanistan 2021
Break ups are hard
But never more so
Then at the end of
A war.
Black and white still
Photos or moving
Pictures make the
Point.
Eyes of alleged victors,
Downward glances of
The vanquished, and
The living dead.
In a victory where the
Spoils include imprisonment
For women and children
Who keeps score?
A taste of freedom can
Only be quenched by
Its denial for all who
Want more.
Myths abound at the
Start or end of war.
gods created and
devils defined.
Religious altars raised
And others destroyed
For gods are jealous,
They are.
And in the hearts of the
Victors and the vanquished
Alike is the knowledge that
War never dies.
Angel baby: the Lowriders in La Misiòn
Lowriders take life slow, that slow and
Easy that Tina Turner starts Proud Mary
With, low and slow but with pulsing
Power in each despacito movida.
You can’t control the world but you
Can make a world of your car and
Dressed it up and take out for folks
To awe and admire.
Once you learn how to polish and
Make up a car, you can’t do anything
But scrub, chrome and polish
The beautiful design.
A low rider is a poem in movement.
From its original equipment to its
Modified parts. It gets prettier
The older it gets.
On the Road could not have
Happened but for the car.
The nights of reflection
Under the stars.
Jack understood the modern
Wagon and its ability to give
Joy simply by allowing the
World to go by.
On the Road ain’t nothing but
A low ride cruise by white
Kids trying to find what
Is the eternal Hip.
And on this Saturday as
I see the row of low riders
Going down to La Misiòn
I join the cruise.
The winged black 59 Impala
Busting and blaring out the
Oldies that are like Verdi
Asphalt opera.
“It’s just like heaven being
Here with you. You’re like
An angel, too good to be
True. But after all, I love
You, I do. Angel baby
My angel baby.”
No Parisian smoky café.
No basement NYC bar.
It’s an Easter parade
With audacious cars.
The 56 Convertible Impala,
The 68 Malibu Super Sport
The 54 Mercury Monterey
All motor gods.
A low rider culture with
Its rhythm and rhymes
A civilization created by
Those left behind.
A Retort of Sorts
“For the poet is a light and winged and holy thing, and there is no invention in him until he has been inspired and is out of his senses, and the mind is no longer in him: when he has not attained to this state, he is powerless and is unable to utter his oracles.” Socrates words from Plato’s Ion.
I shared Socrates’ words with the quiet stool
Next to me, the sullen, pock-marked, reddened
Face that topped the space above raised his spit-
Lined glass, a price for conversation offered
And I accepted the proposed contract with
Interest and as the bartender topped the
Glass to the rim the face smiled and
Acknowledged the consideration
Rendered and proceeded to
Expound like an engine on empty
After having its tank filled.
You look like a javelin with your
Thin body so I’ll call you Sword.
Socrates looked like a badly stuffed
Pillow so I’ll refer to him as Trouble.
Trouble always starts something when
He tries to tie poets to gods or the divine.
Poets are forgers. If inspiration was the
Seed why all the sweat to get it to fruit?
Writing isn’t oracle work. It isn’t wait
Until madness comes and start again.
Poets are foundries of impressions burning
Through ideas as they melt and cinder.
A line of poetry, if it is good and has melded
Truth and beauty, throws sparks of fire.
Poets play with fire. They rub words together
Until words create something not there before.
A poet is not a light, winged, holy thing. She
Is a goddess on loan with interest owing.
Plato? Socrates? Never knew who was the
Ventriloquist and who was the dummy
While we believe that words come from the
Magical and divine sources, that is not to be.
Words and poems and stories come from
People just like you and me. Trust me.
The magic is not in the creation of the
Poem. Words expound. Readers explain.
If a poet wrote a poem and no one read
It, would her work still be that of a poet?
And would it matter? For the writer must
Forge ahead regardless of the audience.
That poets could keep people from seeing
The earth as earth, worried the philosopher.
What dribble! The fecund reality of daily
Life inspires the poet’s work palette.
If I could not read the hard wrought words
Of poets I would just a soon start to die.
Leave the light and airy madmen to write
Prose to see toothpaste or fruit jars.
The tilled words of a poet’s labor will
Lift the wearied souls of humankind.
Socrates should have worried less about
Poets then the philosopher kings inspired.
So, Sword never go looking for Trouble
Is the lesson I hoped you learned tonight.
Poets looked to the sky and earth with
Freed and abundant inspiration.
To make the heavy burden lighter, to
Make the time, incessant time, bearable.
To this the poet sets her sights because
she is saving herself as she writes.
He laughed as he finished and downed
His drink. In that moment he appeared
To me a light and winged and holy thing.
Secondary
Crossing borders between Mexico
And El Paso are a hold-your-breath
As power asserts itself over your
Person roadside tribunal.
Even if we said we had nothing to
Declare they still pulled us over
And directed you to secondary.
Secondary, an afterthought, a loss
Of the freedom given to those
Waved through at primary.
As huddled children, four to a seat,
We stay quiet as the green uniformed
Fear went through our belongings.
Brown people left and right at secondary.
It was a rare sight to see someone other
Than these in the line.
Secondary is a word wasted on the
Procedure. Why not “suspicion?” Why
Not “hunch?” Why not “just because?”
Mother keeping quiet and holding her
Gaze, teaching us the same technique
To avoid further delay.
Some days the gaze caused concern
And out the car we would be made
To sit, wait, further detained.
As cars passed and saw us being
Searched the eyes convicted us
Of crimes in their heads.
Secondary presumed guilty
Wait to be given the once
Over and released.
Each time it happened nothing
Was ever found except the bit
Innocence once in the air.