The Weight of a Horse

These groceries must weigh forty pound.

Ride old Buck to water.
Popcorn finches on the ground.

Wondering, is this true love I’ve found?
Ride old Buck to water.
These groceries must weigh forty pound.

Those finches make a twittering sound.
Tie old Buck with a halter.
Popcorn finches on the ground.

Old Buck shall wear the robe and crown.
Sell him for a dollar and a quarter.
THOSE groceries weigh a THOUSAND pound.

Take a hit, pass it around—
bottle or number, don’t be a hoarder.
Netted herring spilled upon the ground.

The reason why I stuck around
even though the pay got shorter.
Groceries less than a buck a pound.
Peaches ripe plopping to the ground.

Almost Falling Off a Cliff Safely

I’ve done this before—climbed out on a cliff

by the river and set my sandals on
the edge. It would be too scary to stand
there in them, the breeze pushing gently at
my back, blue water below me flowing
away, three brown Canada geese flying
by upriver to my right—challenging
my balance. What the hell, I’ll practice my
Tree pose: first, Airplane: left foot trailing, right
knee straight; then, rising, left instep to right
ankle, hands cupped. That would be grasping my
life with my two feet, trusting my body
completely. But now, three young lads arrive,
and I pull my sandals back from the edge.

The Crucifix of Stone, Miguel Aceves Mejía

as sung by Linda Ronstadt

When I was loving him

When I was feeling it

I saw it all go away

He swore he was coming back

But everything was a lie

Because his soul was no longer of me

In the silent night

We look at each other

Face to face, without speaking

When he told me suddenly

To forget your love

That he didn't want to fool me

He was under the crucifix

From the tower of a church

When the moon lit us

I shook in my arms

Eager to stop it

But pride prevented me

Alone in front of the church

And crying

Before the Christ ... I went to implore

When contemplating my sadness

The stone crucifix

Also began to cry

El Crucifijo de Piedra, Miguel Aceves Mejía

Cuando lo estaba queriendo

Cuando lo estaba sintiendo

Todito mío lo vi partir

Me juró que regresaba

Pero todo era mentira

Porque ya su alma no era de mí

En la noche silenciosa

Nos miramos

Frente a frente, sin hablar

Cuando me dijo de pronto

Que olvidara su cariño

Que no me quería engañar

Fue bajo del crucifijo

De la torre de una iglesia

Cuando la luna nos alumbró

Yo estreché entre mis brazos

Con ganas de detenerlo

Pero el orgullo me lo impidió

Ya sola frente a la iglesia

Y llorando

Ante el Cristo…fui a implorar

Al contemplar mi tristeza

El crucifijo de piedra

También se puso a llorar

Bone Song

          A bone wave-whitened and dried in the wind. Yeats

The spur of life is sweet—                                                 
battling blood lines.
What a blest relief

the state
of death will be, when in my remains
remaining life grows sweet

to oversweet, turning noisome, red,
redder and more red.
What a blest relief

when the transformation is complete
as foretold in the Satipatthāna
Sutta, how bitter-,

bitter-sweet
life pricks in the long run—
what a blest relief

as I’m served my final treats.
I’m real nervous but it sure is fun—
term of life so late.
Blest relief!

____

Again, Monks, as though he were to see a corpse thrown aside in a charnel ground—one, two, or three days dead, bloated , livid, and oozing matter ... being devoured by crows, hawks, vultures, dogs, jackals, or various kinds of worms ... a skeleton with flesh and blood, held together with sinews ... a skeleton without flesh and blood, held together with dinews ... disconnected bones scattered in all directions ... bones bleached white, the colour of shells ... bones heaped up, more than a year old ... bones rotten and crumbling to dust—he compares this same body with it thus: ‘this body too is of the same nature, it will be like that, it is not exempt from that fate.’
Analayo, Satipatthāna, the Direct Path to Realization.

Well, Excuse Me!

Colder this morning. Didn’t want to put
warmer clothes on, so I went back to bed.

Went to the clinic earlier for my
health screening. Couldn’t say how old I was
(sixty-seven, not sixty-eight yet), which
probably made the nice nurse lady think
I’m demented. I guess I am losing
my grip on numbers, dates, and the card’nal
directions—anything demanding a
protractor or sextant reading. The stars
still occupy the same positions for
me as before, but I can't interpret

them anymore. But I play my fiddle
fine, so I refuse to apologize.

Bad Superannuated Hipster

I’m a bad superannuated hipster
without cred,
an old resister.

I feel like an imposter
because I love myself more than I love the Lord.
I’m a bad superannuated hipster

who hasn’t hit pay dirt
yet,
just a pocket-resister

all day where the skies are not cloudy
and the desert sand is hot,
a bad superannuated hipster

who should have known better
than to play Romeo to that Juliet—
I just couldn’t resist her

when she came on to me like Shelley’s spirit, Alastor.
But when I tried to grasp the vision, it fled.
I’m a bad superannuated hipster,
a weak resister.

A Visit From The Skeleton

The Skeleton’s Remembered Prayer

Let
me be
just bones

The Skeleton to Vampires

If you don’t cast a shadow,
either you’re a ghost
or the sun isn’t shining.

Skeleton Preface

I think it was three years ago on a trip to Denver similar to the one I’m on now that I started writing poems from the point of view of a skeleton.

It struck me that since I am a skeleton in the long run I could adopt the perspective I’ll have then
and try to apply it to things that I see in my daily life.

The skeleton is very materialistic, made purely of calcium.

The skeleton doesn’t mind being a skeleton—although it misses being a living creature, and it values being a living creature above all things.

The only thing it has contempt for are ghosts. The skeleton has it in for ghosts always.

The skeleton is a complete Aristotelian nominalist, I suppose (I never did understand that realist/nominalist distinction). For the skeleton spirit is pure materiality.

Wandering Rocks

Totally confused about locations.

Where’s Virginia Village and Florida Avenue?
I lived here in south Denver two periods of my life—
high school near Yale south of my La Quinta,
and undergrad when I lived near Louisiana—
in a nicer house that time,
the one thing my mother was ever satisfied with in her life—
she moved to the hospice from that house
thirty years ago.

What a perilous walk north over the freeway,
pausing to try to understand the traffic,
the sixty-ninth year of my life
worth nothing to these hurtling vehicles.
The Starbucks I found on Google turned out to be attached to a Safeway,
so here I am with my 16-oz dark.

Took a long walk earlier today too—all the way from my La Quinta to Yale,
past the YMCA that Google led me to, where I did yoga for thirty minutes—
then back into the hot dry (smoky) Denver sun,
not walking past the high school house on Cherry,
but eventually finding my way back to Evans
and a nap—
that whole walk taking only twelve thousand steps on my Fitbit.
But before I got to the YMCA, I made this voice recording:

So I’m walking in Denver
And I see a strange ditch
Running under a walkway
With a path beside it
I walk east on the path
Away from the mountains which I can’t see
Because trees and houses block them
Anyway it’s very hazy today.
This ditch makes me
Realize again
How little I ever learned
About Denver Colorado
Even though I lived here for
Oh I suppose a total of six or seven years
When I was in high school and college
At that time I did not have the walking habit I have now
I stayed in my room and wrote
Instead of speaking poems into a voice recorder 
No smartphones then

Remembering myself in those days
I lose patience
And wonder how
I ever managed to grow up and become a mature adult
To the extent I ever did
When I was so poorly grounded
In my surroundings.

Doing the Something-Nothing Duck-Rabbit

I used to try to meditate but I fell out of the habit,

so I’m always riding on the blade of a razer.
That’s what happens when you do the Something-Nothing Duck-Rabbit.

The something-nothing duck-rabbit is a Th-Th-The, Th-Th-That’s
all, folks! type of dance.
I used to try to control it with meditation but I fell out of the habit,

and now I’m polluting the shabbat
by stealing the treasures
of the Arc of the Covenant. So when the rabbit

seconds the pig and says the show is over I’ve just got to accept it,
not bet on hopeful tomorrows that don’t stand a chance.
I’ll go back to mediation, or else change my riding habit

from top hat, crop, and scarlet velvet
dress to something a little racier.
Show a little fur, why don’t you, silly rabbit,

before you get too old and decrepit!
A ripe old age is fusty, an early death is tastier.
I used to try to meditate but I fell out of the habit,
That’s what happens when you do the Something-Nothing Duck-Rabbit.

Good Morning, Donald Trump

Trump resembles the
Viet Cong. By fighting him
we make him stronger.

Venue Custodian's Lament

All these poets now.
If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.
God, I hate poetry!

Thumper’s mother said
it: all these poets standing tall,
all these poets now,

so they’ll be picked out in a crowd—
they sing and shout and have a ball.
God, I hate poetry!

It’s that divine-afflatus
stuff—they’ve all heard the call,
these poets now,

the ones who are prowling at my back door:
there’s Walt himself in denim overalls,
and all these others now—

they really have a sweaty brow,
shvitsers all
these poets now.
God, I hate poetry!

The Unsaid

Poetry is what the poor have left to eat.

The poor are not full
after we've parcelled out the pig’s feet.

We say we create
new food for well-fed
people to eat,

but that’s not right—
only the dead
remain to nibble the pig’s feet.

Is you is or is you ain’t
a zombie?—what Satan said.
Poetry is what the poor have left to eat

after all the ravenous ghosts are swollen up
with their blood,
pig’s feet

long devoured—and the gleaners
have eaten the froggies. The unsaid.
Poetry is how the weary fall asleep
after we've turned down the bedsheets.

Peaching the POTUS

What’s all this about peaching the POTUS?
Never mind.
Let’s not waste any Colorado peaches.

You and I never listen to the speeches,
so we have no idea
how peachy and funny the POTUS

can be. Thank God, Nancy Pelotus
seems to be pretty canny
about how to keep the Colorado peaches

out of the nauseous
spectacle, flung into the nasty
viperous leering face of the POTUS

with its bratty peach-fuzz
dimples, its whinging for the camera—
peach juice

running down its sticky chin—toad
galaxie
declared. Never mind peaching the POTUS.
Let’s all just feast on the peaches!

Desserts Deserved in the Desert

Feeling my belly firm under my soft canvas shirt—
I’m not very other-directed—
wondering when I’ll get my just desserts.

Hanging out in this wilderness of words,
I can work it either direct or reflected
when I’m feeling my belly firm under my soft canvas shirt.

And you can say I’m just lining up turds
(I want those words retracted),
but what could be more tautological than a deserved dessert—

my cantine in the desert,
the Lord’s birth reenacted—
feeling the muscles firm under my soft canvas shirt,

but crying because I feel such hurt—
jaw-rocking aching like an impacted
molar—my punishment for all the lonely deserts

I've walked through, if’t please the court?
Will today be the day my debts are collected?—
feeling my belly firm under my soft canvas shirt,
wondering when I’ll get my just desserts.

Few Days

Walked home from Tires Plus.
I’ll be driving to Denver
in a few days.

My newest phase:
trying not to be clever;
walking home from Tires Plus

with not much to fuss
about, I'll say—dozing in clover
these few days.

It plumb amazes 
me, the cracks I stride over
walking home from Tires Plus,

the glazes
on the donuts in the big square
box behind the counter. Just a few days

before my trip to The Oasis—
Denver,
Colorado, that is (why my car’s at Tires Plus).
Few days.

Shout, Lula

Shout, Lula, shout, shout
on your way.

Tell me what you’re shouting about.

Through a clogged downspout
somewhere,
shout, Lula, shout, shout.

Turn on, tune in, drop out—
you’re a cow—
tell me what you’re mooing about.

You'll pack more clout
than an old grandma.
Shout, shout,

work it on out,
and SWING, Lula—
what you’re messing about.

Beat your feet—
your shouting feet—my Lula gal. 
Shout, Lula—shout, shout.
Feet say what you’re shouting about.

Eternal Blessing, Yes?

Why say never

more or never again?
What I love about myself will last forever.

What I’m in a tither
over, what pricks and gives me pain
or pleasure. Why say never

sane and ever
sore? I’ll pick up my pen
again and write that what I love will last forever.

That cripple, flashing knives to sever
my jugular and let my blood run
free, will never

lay his bony mitts on my sole endeavor.
I gain
purchase with my feet—they’ll dance forever.

My Savior, my bless’d Redeemer!
I need fear the grave
never.
I'll love myself forever.

I Can't Dance

            Some folks can, some folks can't
            Some folks wish that they COULD dance.
            I can't dance, I guess I'm just one of the unfortunate few.
            But just for a little bit, baby, I'll come on and dance with you. Gram Parsons

I danced
at the Irish Fair.
I felt like I COULD dance.

So why WOULDN'T I dance?
Because my pair
of dogs can’t prance?

I don’t KNOW HOW to dance,
but I kicked like a hare
anyway. I danced

up at the Entrance
gate, to a pipe band playing The Minst-
rel Boy. I felt like I was danc-

ing fine, and a girl gave me a sweet glance
and said, “Good job!” Others
tried not to stare.

Bon chance!

I sing in my own ear.
I'LL DANCE!
I feel like I CAN dance.

All the World Seems in Tune on a Spring Afternoon

When performing, I need to be both present and absent.

I could agree that Whitman needs a rest.
A flushed pheasant

is not what I want to impersonate,
nor a pheasant fully dressed.
When performing, I need to be both absent and present

in the flesh, so to speak, recent
vagaries addressed
of flushed pheasants—

no way to remain decent
(and in the park, no less).
When performing, I need to be absent

in my presence and present in my absence,
the load in front of the butt on my chest
all shot into a pheasant’s

tender breast, now exhibiting its entrails—
all done at no one’s particular behest.
When performing, I need to always yell “Absent!”
when I'm flushed like a pheasant.

Kind of Like Playing Asteroids

Got our workload set to about a billion ergs

converted to steam-boiler units.
Too bad we have to dodge these sharp icebergs.

Wondering what danger lurks,
we dodge a berg about every twenty-eight minutes.
We had our workload set to about a billion ergs

before we were overtaken by the Turk-
ish Revellee, as we sailed upon the lowlands
low, taking on brine and dodging icebergs;

then boarded by berserker
Norse sea-pirates. Pilot, let us make for the headlands.
Cut power, cut power to slow down the icebergs!

Because the icebergs aren’t moving, we are—
good thing our skull-hull's made of granite—
ideal battering ram for icebergs.

The icebergs shatter into jagged shards
as we steam through—tall, beautiful Titanic—
workload set to about a billion ergs
to melt those soft icebergs.

yogena cittasya padena vācām

            I must tell you

            this young tree  WC Williams

chanting Hari ŌM
knowing I’m a heart-and-lung machine
because I can chant with more breath and fewer pauses
now that I’m going downhill
on this Bald Mountain trail
in Tettegouche

walking this narrow earthy rooted pass
through banks of fern
birch trees
oak

reciting these words into my voice recorder
makes me take closer notice 
of my surroundings
because I'm trying
to tell you
about them

Have We Had About Enough?

Clippity clippity clippity clop.

People I’ve met have been right kind.
Time must have a stop.

Lake Pontchartrain for a backdrop.
“Clippity” is pronounced “clippitĭ,” if you're inclined.
Clippitĭ, clippitĭ, clippitĭ clop.

But you impersonated a cop
calling to inquire about my sweet babe.
Time must have a stop.

I don’t know what I hoped
to gain by my behavior:
Clippitĭ, clippitĭ, clippitĭ clop,

or even hippitĭ hippitĭ hop
for my dear Savior.
Barefoot on basalt,

all clippitĭ must stop -
poetry is donkey-mind.
Clippitĭ, clippitĭ, clippitĭ clop.
Stop!

Phaethon's Song

I am the universe.

Can it get any better?
Can it get any worse?

I’m a comet trying to stay on course
on a plunging tether—
I am the universe.

Well, I’m riding a hearse
with tires made of rubber,
but I think I’ve seen the worst

now I’ve become the source,
and object of all trouble—
striding the universe

on my sun-horse,
scrambling hell-for-leather.
So much the worse

if I scream myself hoarse,
so I can’t sing “Willie’s a Rover.”
I am the universe.
It can’t get any worse.

Loving Yourself

A person learns a lot in sixty-eight years,

but some of the lessons keep having to be repeated.
Those are the lessons which your fears

prevented you from learning when they were first
presented to you. It’s just that you were defeated
by what it’ll take more than sixty-eight years

(and ninety-six tears)
to learn, that’s all, rated-
x for adult content, some of ‘em, others

related to your fears
more directly—fear of being left and deserted,
fear of drawing too much attention, fear

of being sharply kicked in the rear
end by someone you really hated.
Still, after sixty-eight years

you know a lot—you’re in the clear
on how to love yourself and play the fiddle.
Shouldn’t that be enough after sixty-eight years
of bucking your fears?

Hating the Internet (Who Doesn't?)

What I most hate—
axe-grinding
on the internet.

Come early or come late,
I’m finding
what I most hate:

vituperat-
ers, I call ‘em—
they rule the internet

with their smug, nerve-grat-
ing whiny
blather—hateful

refusal to get
what others are trying
to say on the internet—

not a great
place to conduct rational
discourse. Sorry, I’m a hat-
er of the internet.

Desert Bird Watching

Are there things I’m not doing that I should be doing

(change too fast-occurring to collect data)?
What things SHOULD I be doing that I’m NOT doing?

First, I must tell the yes-ing from the no-ing—
I always have an inflated
notion of the things I should be doing.

So, is there debt accruing
when I don’t do something that I should be doing (like pay my alma mater)?
I should be doing something that I’m not doing,

but what it IS exactly I’m begging
to know. I go out and hoe my taters,
and there may be OTHER things I should be doing,

like herding cattle and Cat Ballou-ing
(flashing spurs and fighting gators),
just to mention a FEW things I might be doing.

Those rare Mojave quail, I hear them cooing,
because I finally got out to check the radiator!
I’m finally doing the thing I SHOULD be doing.
Boo to NOT-doing!

Sixty-Four Square Miles of Elbow Room

I walk all over my eight-mile-square neighborhood.
I guess that’s not too modest
to say. I know that all my walking does me good.

I don’t always eat as I should,
sometimes settling for a third daily repast,
but I walk all over my eight-mile-square neighborhood.

You’ll think it’s rather crude
of me to say this, but I’m a saved Baptist.
I know that the Lord’s Gospel does me good.

Bearing as I walk the Holy Rood
of Christ, chanting ŌM with the Rasta-
farian dude who owns this eight-mile-square neighborhood,

I’m at last able to see the good
in everyone, no matter their bad habits—
knowing that all my praying does me good,

that I just have to be a praying fool,
that’s all, that I can play the violin and boil some pasta,
that I can walk all over this eight-mile-square neighborhood,
that all my walking does me good.

Fibonacci Rowans

Orange

berries
of our
mountain ash—
planted by the same
birds whose songs we hear this morning.

Now,
and 
for years 
to come, the 
rowans have enhanced 
our summer backyard scenery.

They

tell
no small
tale of time,
of generation,
of nature’s steady randomness.

Dark
leaves—
pinnate-
ly compound—
each fifteenth leaf at
the round apex of seven pairs.

All
things
grow like
this, even
the structures in our
bodies and in our feeble brains.

No Regrets

Crazy all the trouble I went to.
(But it was really good practice.)
I was touched, what else could I do?

There were hospitals I wasn’t sent to.
I was forever setting up rehearsal
schedules—such trouble I went to!

I just wanted to see things through—
neither you nor I would brook refusal.
I was touched. Maybe you were too.

My work was subject to review,
but I never got all red in the face,
in spite of all the trouble I went to:

because my editor was you,
and you were famous for your “clobber edits.”
I was KO'd, what else could I do

but take it? Then did you fly
away like a hungry seagull
In spite of all the trouble I went to?
You were touched, what else could you do?