Prose: May, 2012

Poem Five

   Arizona is a cancer the spread of which will destroy us all, 

   the American child forbidden.  

        I sincerely doubt that I can ride far enough

        to get away from its stink.  

                                (Five miles east of Gallup, May 21, 2012)

ASHES

A wildcat crossed the life tonight, 

I think it was looking for cats of its own.

Shadows of thought, the whistle

of a train in water, the groan

of a 'gator on the tracks, and

a drunken santa claus

in the road with a chainsaw,

saying:

       "Buy that tree from me 

        I will cut it down, 

        and I'll strap it to your roof."

Centennial mile, peripheral style 

narrowing down like a hole to hell,

and wildcats wishing

for a night on the town, where

the whiskey is free, the cigars

brought in on a boat.

First poem

Open country

that fast and open

country

not far east

of where we started

there are no trees

out here

that fast

my open life

still romps

and

I am surreal

in all my going

I am open country

too.

Second poem

god please forgive me

for I have already forgiven myself

the far away notions of my state

of mind, I am now moving again

me and my landscapes

are back on the clock.

an old structure, wind worn

sun baked waiting

personified, who knows  

about that place

it is somewhat eternal

it is entirely circumspect

it relies on no one.

Gallup. 

    We used to came here in the early seventies,

    my family.

There was a large tourist draw,  a mass gathering:

Come and see the Indians at Red Rocks!

Indians in rodeos, Indians dancing.

    Come and see Indians slide down  ropes

    extending from the high tops of poles.

There is an Indian man sitting in front of me,

his ears and the skin on the sides of his face

is shiny wet- 

    is it grease, of fire and song? See Him, 

    my Indian brother riding His War Pony.

We are still at war, and our collective life

    is on top of the ocean, 

    is under the earth, 

    throughout the air.

    The sky is a headdress.

Poem Five

Arizona is a cancer

the spread of which will destroy all of us, 

and I sincerely doubt that I can ride far enough

to get away from its stink.  

Poem Six?

Mile 58 eastbound-out-of-Gallup-seizure

(and if only we all could go away and come back like that).

Why is this so long winded? This. 

I am following something 

I am on the trail of something

I am east bound. 

The seizure

the poor man losing his head

soaring and waving his arms,
in the window of this bus. 

Irony unfettered.

Mt. Taylor Once

America's work ethic is killing itself, 

we are so willing to work,

hard work, dedicated work.

This really is 
     all about looking out for #1.

America's work ethic  is killing itself.

Somebody call 911.

Mt. Taylor Twice

Used to look good
 from any angle,

but now it is cold shouldered, 

it is ignoring me

and I can't even slow down

in order to try and make up.

Waves of return, oceans of coming home,

my form rolling across the sea

touching but not interpreting,

brushing, but not touching.

My own home has described itself

as something other altogether.

It has been that long, I have been gone

that long.

But somebody had a gun to my back,

and it's not my imagination, if I could

I would climb into those cool blue forests.

I would contemplate this something 

or somebody again. I would take  a good look

and I would study things, I would slow down

and settle right in.   

Grants

Patricio's Cafe, Gonzales Auto Parts,

El Canoncito Inn and Rest Stop.

Redi-Mart:
"Breakfast burritos

and Hatch green chile." 

Albuquerque I

The man next to me drove trucks for forty years

and recently had his liver swapped out for a better one

about six months ago. Nice man, with his reinvented liver

and his south valley tone of voice. 
     "Sure, the 70s was a great time to grow up in Albuquerque!"

I meanwhile feel disenfranchised from my own hometown

I am rolling into there right now, and it doesn't have that feeling

of home, it all seems so long ago life other than mine

somewhere far away, long ago, without me, I am.

Albuquerque II
More lights, nothing new

the place we used to call downtown 

and the same faces

   sitting, hoping, begging

   harassing, claiming, stating.

My dreams have included scenes

of utter disclaimer, fear, and "oh my god I grew up"

   like this, and somewhere in this town

   I have a brother, raising Cain, god bless him.

My time here is varied and rich

with my childhood, "oh god don't make me grow up!"

  I felt that way here and I saw myself

  like this, like this, like this.

               Bus 008, Amarillo, last call

               streaming beauty, and I was there,

               less lights, everything new.

               I called this place home

               before trading it all in

               for this something, still. 

Driver: Albuquerque to Amarillo 

"Smoking! If you think the last driver was afraid of you,

I'm not. 

     If I catch you, 

     I will leave you

                                 somewhere....

Alcohol! I know people drink on this bus. 
I drank on this bus, too, 

before I was a driver.

    If you're going to drink, please

    stay in your seat. And please, 

    don't come talk to me, 

    because I don't want to catch you, 

    and you don't want me to catch you, 

    because I am going to leave you

                                                            somewhere."

"I Have Arthritic Knees"

    So we rolled like that,

    left home, going home. 

    Listening to a 

    man 

    to a man from Modesto 

    tell me about hitchhiking through here

    to California, in the 1950s:

            "We only had few bucks on us,

              and we  ordered us some chili,

             it was only twenty five cents for a bowl, 
             and you know what?

             It was so hot, it near burnt a hole

             in the seat of my britches, 

             we had to order crackers,

             over and over again."

Glisten

Lightning is flashing up there.

There, towards the east slope: 
Madrid
Galisteo 
Cerrillos 
Pecos
Cuba
Mora

(Dark centrifugal highways, nowhere else to turn).
It is during the night, I suppose 

that men answer their deeper lies

returning like grandfathers

begging to tell the truth. 

It is at night, when scenes re-emerge

telling tales, telling signs, 

all of those petty petty lies. Men

crossing every threshold

only to beg for forgiveness, 

once they are alone

like I am tonight.

Roll, let's roll, let's roll.....

I am neither the young man

nor the grandfather, and that lightning is laughing at me

up in those sacred blood of christ mountains

and I am caught here, caught again-

    I love my home, I love those mountains,

    so I am asking you: 

    How did I get here? 

Amarillo Texas (Carlos)

Sleepyhead, now you've done it.

Arizona is lost without you, 

or haven't you heard?  

Since you came here

as though running from something, 

and not as though

running towards something, 

you will likely be looked at 

with something like crossed eyes. 

    They burn the lunatics there

    they send them home packing

    in pine boxes made of stolen wood
    and hateful prayer farmed out,
    the souls of 10,000 murdered apaches
    gently stepping aside. 

Third Poem (Steve)

Holy clusters tooth staining tumor causing

gathering by the side bus shadow travel

and the thin legs of one girl in particular 

in my mind too young to be this far from anyones' home,

much less her own. 
       
The driver's name

is Scott. I bet he has seen a thing or two.

        Has he ever seen a man pull his eye ball out
        with the thumb of his own left hand? 

  
Sixth Poem

Sky: where deep, cutting blue

becomes part of the inner eye,

literally clean, clear, with sharp wind

and rocky mountain skyline;

comes the flat, off yellow 

haze, no more big west.

I have now entered 

the main slab of Texas; 

the trees are shrubbish

and hunkered, the grass is yellow 

and thick, diamondbacks snakes,

gopher snakes, no cactus,

and only feral hogs.

Trailer Life

So falls Wichita, so falls Wichita Falls. 

Seventh Poem (Ft. Worth, TX)

The Ft. Worth skyline makes me think of "Cops,"

the "heat" is swarming. 

Slowly rising buildings shimmer, and the bus is late,

we will be in Dallas for hours, unrequited.

To think I might be dead, or running 

along high altitude rail road tracks 

or pushing the speed work at 

Coconino High with doctors and Olympians. 

Just this morning (almost):

Cooking for and feeding the homeless,

and serving them-myself; 
sleeping with ear plugs,

fearing psychopaths,

challenging unjust authority

and addressing courts;

drinking at the Buffett,

or killing time with 7 alley cats,

bickering five spots off unsuspecting 

third street commuters;

sticking my nose 

to the very edge of the pavement.

        
Caroming off verticals, flying.

Poem One-A

And what of the south?

Well, I'll tell you what:

Water. Grass. Thick Air.

Black men and black women, 

white men and white women,

hunger, sate, live humans, 

I am not too concerned at the moment.

I could have been anywhere I wanted to be at this point of my life,

at one time. I am where I am, in the eastern remnants

of what used to be Dallas, for at the first and possibly the only time,

I asked where the street was,

where Kennedy was shot 
     (and no, that little park I'd seen

     while stretching my legs between buses

     was not the grassy knoll, even if grassy, in fact,

     with a legitimate hump to it, even if not a knoll).

I am not concerned, for this is Dallas

as it used to be, even as I contemplate the place

the City Dallas becomes something entirely different

and I never wanted to know Dallas. 

Dallas, and the south, are slipping

into and out again, of my consciousness.

There is so much to my 

consciousness, now

that I don't even trust it, in fact,

don't even care to know

where I am going. 

Wherever it is

it is always changing,

and I've learned that I can't keep up.

End Road

It can't be stated.

It is unspeakable.

Prison like and formidable

my home is an end road

the sort that  we all sometimes go to

in order to run through

it all over again. 

End road

pavement grows patchy

weeds broken glass

a flattened and rusted can.

I am not in this for good

I am in it for the money.

Let's not mince words

you know it's only a waste of time.

So cut to the chase and

show me the money sucker.

Rolling in like that  

checks and balances

being what they are

I returned one last time

I think in order to organize.

And I still have little to no idea.

Louisiana

Softness of greens, good food, hazel eyed sky,

and a new steeple.

Single lit room on the second floor

of the building I live in. 
Tonight it is plain, it is the deep south.

I seem to have found my way again. 

    How? Where am I now? 

Final Poem

(Where you going, little feller?)

                                                 AND THAT'S IT FOR THE BUS RIDE.

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