Where Are My Beautiful Sheep?!

Couldn’t sleep yesterday night because I was all wound up

(so my Fitbit rated my sleep performance poor).
I guess today I’ll get caught up.

Caught up on projects, that is, because my brinkmanship
has been so winning lately—slinging the gore—
wide awake holding my pistol barrel up.

Old paint hoss hitched to the water pump,
hooves cracked and sore.
I need to get them doggies headed up

(and cut out the strays). And, of course, I’m all up-
to-my-ears in coyotes and my eyesight's poor. Did you hear
me say, I couldn’t sleep yesterday night because I was all wound up?

Well, I’m weary, yes, but at least I don’t have the clap—
gonorrhea can make you plenty sore
down there under your saddle—say no more. I got caught up

on my azithromycin regimen a while ago—
needed when life’s allure
makes it so you can’t sleep, you’re so wound up.
OK, today I’m going to get caught up!

I’m Chevy Chase. And You’re Not.

My poetry’s good and yours isn’t,

said Chevy Chase.
The Morning Star is risen.

Lucifer wasn’t
kidding when they turned their face
against the God who isn’t

on board with hip-hop.
God can argue a case
against the heart, but the Morning Star’s opinion

is, it’s not the reason
that makes us happy or unhappy.
Whether our poetry is or isn’t

as good as Chevy Chase’s,
we’ve already won all the poet races,
because the Morning Star is risen

and everybody’s talking about Jesus
and praying. Chevy Chase has to buy each one of us
a Chevrolet because our poetry is kind and his isn’t.
The Morning Star is risen.

Be a Harlequin and Give No Fucks

Before the event I was worried and agitated—

that’s normal, isn’t it?—
hoping our act would not be stamped x-rated.

That was before I meditated
and got my mind off sex for a minute,
but I still felt worried and agitated

that I’d leak brain juice and be addle-pated.
But why should I worry the least little bit?
My act won’t be stamped x-rated

if I just wear socks that are not mated.
All of us have decided to do it—
not to feel worried and agitated,

but just be harlequins and give no fucks about it.
We won’t have to take our shoes off,
at least, as I once had to do in an x-rated

Buddhist levitation center.
I felt abashed, but I shouldn’t have.
The beauty of my socks can’t be overstated.
So for once I won’t bother to be worried and agitated.

Old Stauncher, You Remain

     Samuel Beckett, Engame

Can I wring a poem out of my rag of grief?

Old stauncher, I’ll call it:

Why must I always be the thief?

How can I hold a brief

for any of the cards that're in my wallet?—

they’re just part of my rag of grief.

Always hoping to get some relief,

even though I can’t go along a watchtower:

Why must I always be the thief?

Thinking just now of my dead friend Steve—

he didn’t like Bob or want to sing like him.

Steve's death is a big part of my rag of grief.

His singing was beyond belief—

no PA, with two guitars and a drum set,

a lot of southern-boy grief

in his Indiana voice—

electrical impulses, neurolinguistics—

nerve-greased songs wrung out of his rag of grief:

Why must I always be the thief?

Venus at the Beach

I’ll never have to go beauty dry.
Beauty will be there for me as long as I live.
I carry my own beauty with me in my body.

That means, my beauty is duty-free.
If I lovingly water it, my beauty thrives
and I’ll never have to go beauty dry.

Even if I’m ugly, I’m beautiful in my own eyes:
if such enticements may thee move.
(the beauty I carry with me in my body,

true beyond smirch of infamy),
come live with me and be my love,
and we’ll never have to go beauty dry.

Star-drops (or grains) in the glass of eternity,
wherever we happen to cast our gaze,
beauty abides because we carry it with us.

We drank all the wine in the sacristy,
and we’ll die but our beauty never will,
because beauty was never ours to get or give,
though we carry it with us in our bodies.

Jiminy Disobeys Their Fitness Goals

Not going for those last five thousand steps

(that’s two and a half miles).
I’ll just stay home and run my fiddle laps.

I don’t want to get my fiddle wet
with sudsy water, but I’ve been known to drool
on its spruce top, going for the next five thousand reps

of Mississippi Sawyer: I kept
up the beat just fine,
while the others swung the melody axe.

And tonight I’m listening to our fine takes,
nice traces of what a great time
we had running our five thousand laps—

right in my living room, no less—
sawing and singing Run That Rabbit Out of Town.
So I don’t need to count more steps.

I’m proud I have my fiddle chops
and I can saw a fiddle tune.
Ain’t gonna walk five thousand steps.
I’ll just scrape until I fall asleep.

The three of them knew it.
She was Kafka's lover.
Kafka had dreamed her,
The three of them knew it.
He was Kafka's friend.
Kafka had dreamed him.
The three of them knew it.
The woman told the friend:
I want you to love me tonight.
The three of them knew it.
The man replied: If we sin,
Kafka will stop dreaming us.
One of them knew it.
There was no one else on earth.
Kafka said:
Now that the two have left, I left alone.
I shall stop dreaming myself.

Ein Traum, Jorge Luis Borges

Lo sabían los tres.
Ella era la compañera de Kafka.
Kafka la había soñado
Lo sabían los tres.
Él era el amigo de Kafka
Kafka la había soñado
Lo sabían los tres.
La mujer le dijo al amigo:
Quiero que esta noche me quieras.
Lo sabían los tres.
El hombre le contestó: Si pecamos,
Kafka dejara de soñarnos.
Uno lo supo.
No había nadie más en la tierra.
Kafka se diho:
Ahora que se fueron los dos, he quedado solo.
Dejaré de soñarme.

Visitation of Mary, Infancy Gospel of James

Adapted from the Infancy Gospel of James, M.R. James translation, which is derived from Lobegott Friedrich Constantin (von) Tischendorf (January 18, 1815 – December 7, 1874). From New Testament Apocrypha, M.R. James ed., first published Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1924.

Birth of Mary

1.

There was a man Ioachim who was very rich.
and Ioachim had gotten no seed in Israel.
And he searched, and found concerning the righteous
that they had all raised up seed in Israel.
And he remembered the patriarch Abraham,
how in the last days God gave him a son, Isaac.
And Ioachim was upset, and did not show himself to his wife, Anna,
but took himself into the wilderness, saying:
I will not go down either for meat or drink
until the Lord my God visit me.

2.

Now Anna lamented with two lamentations,
and bewailed herself with two bewailings, saying:
I will bewail my widowhood,
and I will bewail my childlessness.
And she adorned her head
and put on her bridal garments
and besought the Lord saying: O God of our fathers,
bless me, and hearken to my prayer,
as you did bless the womb of Sarah,
and gave her a son, Isaac.

3.

And she spied a nest of sparrows in a laurel tree,
and made a lamentation within herself, saying:
Woe unto me, unto what am I likened?
I am not likened to the fowls of heaven,
for even the fowls of heaven are fruitful
before you, O Lord.
Woe unto me, unto what am I likened?
I am not likened to this earth,
for this whole earth brings forth her fruits in due season
and blesses you, O Lord.

4.

And an angel of the Lord appeared, saying
Anna, Anna, the Lord has hearkened to your prayer,
and you shall conceive and bear,
and your seed shall be spoken of
throughout all the world.
And Anna said: As the Lord my God lives,
if I bring forth either male or female,
I will bring it for a gift to the Lord my God,
and it shall be ministering to him
all the days of its life.

5.

And there came two messengers saying unto her:
Look! Ioachim your husband
is coming with his flocks.
And Anna stood at the gate
and saw Ioachim coming,
and ran and hung upon his neck, saying:
Now I know that the Lord God has greatly blessed me:
for the widow is no more a widow,
and she that was childless shall conceive.
And Ioachim rested the first day in his house.

6.

And her months were fulfilled,
and in the ninth month Anna brought forth.
And she said to the midwife: What have I brought forth?
And she said: A female.
And Anna said: My soul is magnified this day.
And she laid herself down.
And when the days were fulfilled,
Anna purified herself
and gave suck to the child
and called her name Mary.

7.

And day by day the child grew strong,
and at six months her mother stood her upon the ground
to see if she would stand;
and she walked seven steps and returned to her bosom.
And Anna caught Mary up, saying:
As the Lord my God lives,
you shall walk no more upon the ground,
until I bring you into the temple of the Lord.
And she called for Hebrew virgins,
and they carried her here and there.

8.

And Anna made a song to the Lord God, saying:
I will sing a hymn to the Lord my God,
because he has visited me
and taken away my reproach.
The Lord has given me a fruit of his righteousness,
single and manifold before him.
Who shall declare to the sons of Reuben that Anna gives suck!
Look, you twelve tribes of Israel: Anna gives suck!
And she laid the child to rest
in the bed chamber of her sanctuary.

9.

And the child was three years old, and Ioacim said:
Call the Hebrew virgins,
and let them each take a lamp,
and let each lamp be burning,
that the child not turn backward
nor her heart be taken captive away
from the temple of the Lord.
And they did so until they had gone up into the temple of the Lord.
And the Lord put grace upon her, and she danced with her feet,
and all the house of Israel loved her.

Betrothal of Mary to Joseph

1.

And Mary was in the temple of the Lord as a dove that is nurtured:
and she received food from the hand of an angel.
And when she was twelve years old, there was a council of the priests, saying:
Mary has become twelve years old in the temple of the Lord.
What shall we do with her now
lest she pollute the sanctuary of the Lord?
And they said to the high priest:
You stand over the altar of the Lord.
Enter in and pray concerning her:
And whatever the Lord shall reveal to thee, let us do it.

2.

And the high priest took the vestment with the twelve bells
and went in to the Holy of Holies and prayed concerning her.
And look, an angel of the Lord appeared, saying to him:
Zacharias, Zacharias, go and assemble those
who are widowers of the people,
and let every man bring a rod,
and to whomever the Lord shall show a sign,
his wife shall she be.
And the heralds went out, and the trumpet of the Lord sounded,
and all men ran to the sound.

3.

And when they were gathered together,
they went to the high priest, Zacharias
And Zacharias took all the rods and went into the temple and prayed.
And when he had finished the prayer, he took the rods
and gave them back to them:
and there was no sign upon them.
But Joseph received the last rod: and look,
a dove came forth out of the rod and flew upon the head of Joseph.
And the priest said to Joseph: Unto thee hath it fallen
to take the virgin of the Lord and keep her for your own.

4.

But Joseph refused, saying:
I have sons, and I am an old man, but she is a girl:
lest I became a laughing-stock
to the children of Israel.
And the priest said to Joseph:
Remember what things God did unto Dathan
and Abiram and Korah,
how the earth opened and they were swallowed up
because of their gainsaying. |
And now watch out, Joseph, lest the same happen in your house.

5

And Joseph was afraid,
and took her to keep her for his own
And Joseph said to Mary:
Look, I have received you out
of the temple of the Lord:
and now I leave you
in my house,
and I go away to build my buildings.
After a while I will come back to you.
The Lord shall watch over thee.

Annunciation

1.

Now there was a council of the priests,
and they said: Let us make a veil for the temple of the Lord.
And the priest said: Call unto me pure virgins of the tribe of David.
And the officers departed and sought
and found seven virgins.
And the priests called to mind the child Mary,
that she was of the tribe of David and was undefiled before God:
and the officers went and fetched her.

2.

And they brought them into the temple of the Lord,
and the priest said: Cast me lots, which of you
shall weave the gold and the unstained white
and the fine linen and the silk
and the hyacinthine,
and the scarlet and the true purple.
And the lot of the true purple and the scarlet fell unto Mary,
and she took them and went unto her house.

3.

And Mary took a pitcher and went forth to fill it with water:
and look a voice saying: Hail, thou that art highly favored;
the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women.
And she looked about her upon the right hand and upon the left,
to see whence this voice should be:
and being filled with trembling, she went to her house and set down the pitcher,
and took the purple and sat down upon her seat
and drew out the thread.

4.
And look, an angel of the Lord stood before her saying:
Fear not, Mary, for you have found grace before the Lord of all,
and you shall conceive of his word.
And she questioned in herself, saying:
Shall I really conceive and bring forth after the manner of women?
And the angel said: Not so, Mary,
for the power of the Lord shall overshadow thee.
Mary said: Behold the handmaid of the Lord.

Visitation

1.

And Mary rejoiced and went away unto Elizabeth, her kinswoman:
And Elizabeth cast down the scarlet,
and when she saw Mary she blessed her and said:
Whence is this that the mother of my Lord
should come unto me, for look,
that which is in me leaped and blessed you.

2.
And Mary looked up unto the heaven and said: 

Who am I, Lord,
that all the generations of the earth do bless me?
And she lived for three months with Elizabeth,
and day by day her womb grew.
And Mary was sixteen years old when these mysteries came to pass.

Nativity

1.

Now a decree went out from Augustus, the king,
that all that were in Bethlehem of Judaea should be recorded.
And Joseph said: I will record my sons, but this child Mary,
how shall I record her as my wife? No, I am ashamed. Or as my daughter?
But all the children of Israel know she is not my daughter.
This day of the Lord shall do as the Lord wills it.
And he saddled the she-ass and put Mary on her,
and his son led her and Joseph followed after.

2.

And they approached Bethlehem within three miles,
and Joseph turned and saw she had a sad face,
and he said within himself: Perhaps that which is within her is hurting her.
And again Joseph turned, and saw her laughing,
and said to her: Mary, what’s the matter?
that I see your face at one time laughing and at another time sad?
And Mary answered: It is because I see two peoples,
the one weeping and lamenting and the other rejoicing and exulting.

3.

And when they were half way there, Mary said to Joseph:
Take me down from the ass,
for that which is within me presses on me to come forth.
And he took her down from the ass and said to her:
Whither shall I take you to hide your shame, for the place is desert?
And he found a cave and brought her into it,
and set his sons by her, and he went out
to look for a midwife of the Hebrews in the vicinity of Bethlehem.

4.

Now I, Joseph, was walking, and I was not walking.
And I looked up at the pole of the heaven and saw it standing still,
and the birds of heaven without motion.
And I looked down and saw a dish set,
and workmen lying by it, and their hands were in the dish;
and they that were lifting the food did not lift it,
and the food did not reach their mouths;
but the faces of all of them were looking upward.

5.

And look, there were sheep being driven,
and they didn’t go forward but stood still;
and the shepherd lifted his hand to strike them with his staff,
but his hand remained up.
And I looked at the stream of the river
and saw the mouths of the kids upon the water
and they drank not.
And suddenly all things moved onward in their course.

6.

And look, a woman coming down from the hill country,
and she said to me: Man, where are you going?
And I said: I’m looking for a midwife of the Hebrews.
And she said: Who is she that brings forth in the cave?
And I said to her: It is Mary that was nurtured up in the temple of the Lord,
and I received her to wife by lot,
but she is not my wife,
but hath conception by the Holy Ghost.

7.

And they stood in the place of the cave.
And look, a bright cloud overshadowing the cave.
And the midwife said: My soul is magnified this day, for salvation is born unto Israel.
And immediately the cloud withdrew itself out of the cave,
and a great light appeared in the cave, so that our eyes could not endure it.
And by little and little, that light withdrew itself,
until the young child appeared:
and it went and took the breast of its mother Mary.

Jumping the Eternity Gap

When I’m gone, who’ll be left to love me?
I’ve always been my own biggest fan,
but no one loves me like my mother loved me.

Life’s a bind and death’s a wait-and-see,
uncertainty on either hand.
When I’m gone, who’ll be left to love me?

When I was just a baby,
I was in rare demand—
no one since has loved me like my mother loved me.

My first assignment was to climb a tree,
or wade the sea, feet deep in sand—
if I fall or drown, who will come and save me?

My life’s another’s luxury—
I’ve learned to pay out on demand
to be loved far less than my mother loved me.

Always with the stars above me.
Of loves, say which is the brightest one!
Does everyone love themselves as my mother loved me?
When I’m gone, they’ll be left to love me.

Relevant, or Revenant?

Everyone is reacting to images in the media.

Much of the time, we are fighting each other
about things we could look up in an encyclopedia.

Don’t we find the media tedious?
Wouldn’t it be better
if we turned the hideous

nonsense off and had a tranquil, solitary moment reading—
not the news, please!—far rather
an article in an encyclopedia

of Jungian psychoanalytic trivia—
we’ll see our mothers
again in the guise of the Medusa,

our fathers in old graveyards in Moravia.
We’ll be sleepwalkers then, can’t follow our own druthers
about watching this vampire-panic in the media—

famished ghosts slurping the bloody bever,
the brew that lets us scream in human
language and post it in the media,
shutting the encyclopedia.

Mr. Hyde Heaves the Rock

My shadow-self is my enabler,
and I am his. It’s convenient to be impotent.

Remember Oakland QB, Kenny Stabler?

Kenny Stabler can’t peddle viagra
because he died of colon cancer at 68,
just my present age—shadow-self enabler

that I am. But you’ll have to clean the aperture
on your camera lense
if you want to capture all of Kenny Stabler

stumbling back and slinging one of his signature
deadly-accurate passes to Biletnikoff—
affectionately dubbed the snake-handler.

But this is all dissembling
nonsense—just a lot of distracting verfluffda—
more of my shadow-self’s enablement

of my wish to be never the matador, always the
bull (or vice versa), never (or always) reluctant
to confront the enabler of my coward-
self. How evasive was Kenny Stabler?

The Most Beautiful Sound I Ever Heard

Always embarrassed by my fat hams—

is that too personal to say?
I’ll wait for any answer that comes.

Did anyone shoot me a glance
when I was sitting on the edge of that stage
with the other gym-rat bums?

I was just starting to climb the fence,
and West Side Story was all the rage—
shocking, the fate that comes

to Tony and Maria. And I wasn’t in the band
the night I watched beautiful Baton-Rouge
Kathy sing on that stage while I rested my hams

on a folding chair, with nary a chance
in the big sexual hodge-podge—
the big sock-hop that comes

around. I mean, the high-school prom!
It’s taken a lifetime to assuage
my worries about my feminine hams
(while night voices thrum).

Preparing for the Avalanch

How I wish I were indigenous!

How long does it take to put down roots?
Can everything be replaced,

including the blighted rose?.
The briar puts out new shoots,
making me feel I’m indigenous

to this place, in my new day
and in my coffin suit.
“Everything can be replaced,

yet every distance is not near,” they say.
I’ll play five toots on my nose flute,
even though I’m experiencing breathlessness

up here on the great divide. A transitionist
would say it’s pretty cute
of me to show my smiling face

out here at all, when I’m a complete recluse.
I’ll own the truth.
I have no claim to be indigenous.
Nothing can be replaced.

Noisy Dreams to Sell

            The English may not like music, but they love the noise it makes.
            Sir Thomas Beecham

Can I write poems that are perfectly quiet?
What people hate about poetry is the barking.
If I wrote a book of perfectly quiet poems, everyone would buy it.

It would be like writing on the sky—not like
those white-smoke-pooping Cessnas rolling and banking,
but like a huge celestial marker wiping everything quiet

(but you can’t spot it from the airport).
It would be like nature itself, demure but feisty—
Put Diana herself in your book, everyone will buy it

and you’ll be rich enough to dwell year-round at the Hyatt—
no, that would be sharky
(though a shark’s teeth may gleam and be perfectly quiet).

I hope you’ll think my book is a laugh-riot,
but if you read it you’ll hardly feel you’re harking
back to the primal silence—so, nah, don’t buy it,

but thanks for allowing my wish to croon in public!
My voice puts an unkillable drone on silence
so the songs in my book-of-dreams can never be quiet—
they ding like a typewriter bell, groan like the Cyclops.

Mapping Our Fuzzy Cat-Mice

Morning so nice!

Should I write a poem,
or map our fuzzy cat-mice?

Our broiler went on the fritz
and our charcoal grill’s on loan,
so one nice

morning, a guy came to fix
it, and moved our whole range out from its home
under the tile splash.

We had to blink twice,
when what should we behold but a shit-load
of fuzzy cat-mice

under there. Now the cats carry around the house,
thoser wobble-eyed mice with tiny rattles
in their heads. If I had the right device,

I could map the journey of each cat-mouse,
over time, from room to room,
to back under the range again.

I think that would be a pretty nifty
artifact, though not quite a poem.
Some morning so nice
I’ll start mapping our fuzzy cat-mice.

Bob Dylan Said That

     "Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
       Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." Edward Lear

You can’t expect too much from any one thing,
even the best thing you ever saw.
Nothing is too much to expect.

. . .

I got a wonderful Christmas present, but it got wrecked
when a mean kid put his paws
on it. I was lucky it wasn’t the only thing

I got for Christmas—I asked Santa Claus to bring
me a pony, but when I got a pair of blue overalls
instead, I wasn’t disappointed because I expected nothing.

Then, just when I was fed up with being a plaything
of fate, I got a job performing cattle calls—
the cattle appreciated my singing

in a way I never experienced when singing to a paying
crowd—though I sing with a drawl-y twang,
expecting to go far with my country-western thang.

But it didn’t take me too long come
home to the fact that, though I may sing quite well,
I shouldn’t set my fan-tic heart on singing
when the least I can expect is one nose ring.

. . .

You can’t expect too much from any one thing,
even the best thing you ever saw.
Nothing is too much to expect.

Eternity Gown

What will it take to get me to quiet down?

Just now the smoke alarm went off.
I’m wearing my birthday gown

and running up and down
the stairs. Amazed I still haven’t contracted a cough
(it’ll take less than that to get me to quiet down).

It’s because my spiritual town
is filled with things like the Norman Luboff
Choir singing Paper Doll in their birthday gowns.

God, I hate that song!
That, and a friend kind of went off
the radar last night. I quieted down

a little when I saw he was among
friends at Abbott Hospital.
Life rides a gurney in a hospital gown,

and there won’t be a happy ending to this song—
litany of our life—
when whatever it takes to quiet us down
happens and we’re wearing our eternity gowns.

Little Dead Godfathers, Jorge Luis Borges

Still propping up the galleries

of the Paseo de Julio, empty shadows
in eternal altercation with sister-
shadows or with hunger, that other wolf.
When the last sun is yellow
on the border of the suburbs,
they return to their twilight, fatal
and dead, to their whore and their knife.
They endure in apocryphal stories,
in a way of walking, in the scratch
of a rope, in a face, in a whistle,
in poor things and in dark glories.
In the intimate courtyard of the grapevine
when the hand tunes the guitar.

Los Compadritos Muertos, Jorge Luis Borges

Siguen apuntalando la recova
del Paseo de Julio, sombras vanas
en eterno altercado con hermanas
sombras o con el hambre, esa otra loba.
Cuando el último sol es amarillo
en la frontera de los arrabales,,
vuelven a su crepúsculo, fatales
y muertos, a su puta y su cuchillo.
Perduran en apócrifas historias,
en un modo de andar, en el rasguido
de una cuerda, en un rostro, en un silbido,
en pobres cosas y en oscuras glorias.
En el intimo patio de la parra
cuando la mano templa la guitarra.

Google Rocinante!

            In many ways, Rocinante is not only Don Quixote’s horse but also his double: 
            like Don Quixote, he is awkward, past his prime, and engaged in a task beyond his 

            capabilities.

You don’t have to watch the news to know what’s happening,
even if you only listen to Spanish-language radio
and you don’t know Español.

You’ll get to know all the poll
numbers, when you're hanging out on the Google patio—
you don’t have to watch the news to know what’s happening.

And, of course, you’ll get to see the face of our evil-troll
president—that terrifying daddy-o.
And you won’t need to know any Español

to comprende the grunts and hisses of all the jackals
that are gorging on our hid-eo;
you won’t have to watch the news to see them ravening—

just pay attention to what you spend your money on!—
that’ll be groceries and the rent on your home, Hidalgo—
how you say en Español?—

they’ll get their filthy mitts on your pensión,
but you won’t care because you’ll be jubilating in calico.
Turn off the news to see what’s happening!
Translate it into Esperanto!

Sleep, Big Baby, Sleep Your Fill

            W.H. Auden, A Lullaby

I’m an infant narcissist.
I don’t really care about anything except my own body.
I expect the worst—

worst bliss, that is—
something better than a bourbon toddy.
Infant narcissist,

just a flick of your wrist
sails the fly that catches the trout.
You expect the worst

luck but you get the best—
Walking With Nobby
(Norman O. Brown, that is)—

by Dale Pendell is on my list of most interesting books.
So why don’t I read Love’s Body?
Brown’s brain had the worst

luck, plaquing over till he lost
his sense of smell and finally had to be assisted in the potty.
I’m an infant narcissist.
I expect the worst.

To Coyote, Jorge Luis Borges

For centuries, the infinite sand

of how many deserts has suffered
your numerous steps and your gray,
insatiable jackal or hyena howl!
For centuries? I lie. That furtive
substance, time, does not reach you, wolf;
yours is pure being, yours the enchantment,
ours the dull successive lives.
You were a bark, almost imaginary,
at the limits of the Arizona sand,
where everything is limit, where persists
your lost lonely cry,
symbol of a night that was mine.
Let this elegy be your vague mirror.

Al Coyote, Jorge Luis Borges

Durante siglos la infinita arena
de los muchos desiertos ha sufrido
tus pasos numerosos y tu aullido
de gris chacal o de insaciada hiena.
Durante siglos? Miento. Esa furtiva
substancia, el tiempo, no te alcanza, lobo;
tuyo es el puro ser, tuyo el arrobo,
nuestra, la torpe vida sucesiva.
Fuiste un ladrido casi imaginario
en el confín del arena de Arizona
donde todo es confín, donde se encona
tu perdido ladrido solitario.
Símbolo de una noche que fue mía,
sea tu vago espejo esta elegía.

What Are You Going to Do?

     A cynic is a disappointed realist. George Carlin

A cynic is a disappointed realist—
the world is ugly and the people are sad—
but what did I expect, when I became a realist?

Always kind of a New-Deal-ist—
democracy’s not just a fad.
A cynic is a disappointed realist.

I tried to be a spoke-in-the-wheel-ist,
but I got thrown off my bike and skinned
both knees—not what I expected when I became a realist,

but better than being a served-my-last-meal-ist
after being found guilty of a crime
I didn’t commit—in keeping with being a cynical realist,

but wouldn’t it be better yet to just say “Uncle” and become a Baptist,
turn to Jesus in a world gone mad?
Would this be inconsistent with being a realist?

What was I pledging my allegiance
to? Or, better, what was I afraid
of, when I settled for being a disappointed realist?
I really don’t want to be a cynic!

Railroading Into Cat Tail Marsh

Taking photos of curving cats’ tails—
cat-tree marsh—
carpeted-platform trails.

Both cattails and cat’s tails can blow like sails
in the breeze, in cat trees or in marshes—
I can take photos of cat tails,

but a cold wind nails
my face as I cross Selby bridge—
ice-carpeted boot-sole trail—

snow-track reality failing
once for all to harsh my happy illusion
I’m grooming the carpeted-platform trails

of blesséd love—satisfaction washing
over me like light from a mountain-larch-
tree grove (maybe too far north for cattails)

when I think of my work these last few days.
Winter offers a witch’s
warmth, like my waving cats' tails—
paw-prints between, not beside, the rails.

House on Fire

The smoke detector in our attic is beeping.

We replaced the battery,
but the bleeping

thing keeps on chirping
intermittently. Oddly,
the blesséd thing stops beeping

for about six hours after we press the bleeping
Reset button, which causes
a brief whistle, followed by piercing

silence, knowing our sleeping
will be rudely
interrupted again in a few hours by that beeping.

I looked on Google, hoping
to get a clue, and, apparently,
the only thing to do is replace whole bleeping

gadget if it’s exceeding
ten years in age. We could blow dust out of it
with compressed air, but I’m losing
confidence. I want to set my bleeping . . . 

Don't Know Much About History

I villanelle my dilemmas.

That’s what a villanelle is for.
It unravels all the dramas.

Never forgetting about the promise—
the surprize rhyme behind Door
Number 2 (choosing doors is one dilemma,

plus always trying to obey the rules of grammar).
I sit here in my peaceful chair
while a million fatal dramas

are being enacted, with enormous
consequence for life itself that I barely dare
contemplate, spelling dire dilemmas

for humankind that we’re mostly ignoring—
though aware
we’re probably on the brink of catastrophic drama.

But a villanelle makes nothing happen.
That’s what a slide rule is for:
to calculate in drachmas our dilemmas
(unfolding Dharma).

Going All-In

Whisked away to a verdant hillside to listen to a harpist.

I put all my money on that strong-voiced queen,
only to be stood up by my therapist.

The baleful notion I’m too much of an optimist
enters my mind as I drift into a dream
of being whisked to a verdant hillside to listen to a harpist.

But what I really am is a ventriloquist—
my lower gut does all my talking for me,
especially when I’m singing to my therapist.

And I know my spiel won’t get past the receptionist
if it’s going to be nothing but just honky and twangy,
sent over the air by our verdant-hillside-strumming harpist.

Everyone saw me ante up to be an imagist
poet—I hollered in the squills like Amy Lowell,
and then I had the honor of being stood up by my therapist!

What astounds me most is how much Jesus-juice
is crackling in my bones, though I seem
calm—abiding on my verdant hillside with my harpist—
even after being stood up by my therapist.

Test Lab

I just throw stuff at the refrigerator—

the noodles may stick even when they’re al dente.
See you later, alligator!

You were always quite the masticator—
chewing everything down to a paste with your dainty
nippers, white as a refrigerator

door. When I celebrated my Sader,
the only thing that didn’t stick was the potato gnocchi.
See you later, ball-o’-tater!

I can’t be a lactator—
my chest’s no ripening gourd of plenty—
but there’s milk in the refrigerator.

I threw a piece of English cheddar
at the refrigerator and it bounced into the pantry.
See you later, cheese-abuser!

Every cook needs a stick-o-meter—
something that tells them when the dish is ready.
That’s why I just throw stuff at the refrigerator.
See you later, hasenpfeffer!

The Man Who Wasn't There

I doubt, therefore I am.
Most philosophers doubt even that.
I guess I’m just a doubting ham—

first cousin of Sam I Am.
Sam I Am was lean not fat—    
I fast therefore I am.

Far less quiet than a clam,
I have to tell you of my doubt—
I guess I’m just a mumbling ham.

I want to say, “lorazepam”—
my doubting doesn’t do me proud—
I fret, therefore I am,

but I’ll keep calm and carry on,
stand up and shout it right out loud—
I’m a doubt-proclaiming ham!

if you doubt hard
enough, you’ll have nine lives like a cat—
you’ll be the death-defying ham.

Watch me now with my blue socks on
insubstantiating to the crowd—
I vanish, therefore I am—
just a non-existent ham.

Reprobate Thoughts

Can I be completely

intentional and deliberate
in my responses to others—

so much of my life spent
being shyly avoidant,
yet believing I was completely

(not sweetly)
kind, considerately
concerned for others—

when, in truth, I WASN’T?
Not confederate!—
never wanting to be

exclusively (hostilely)
separate
from others,

but nothing entitles me
to credit
for being particularly generous to others.

Now I’m siding with the sisters not the fathers
and praying for warmth to incubate
a wish to feel reasonable
concern for others.

Becoming a Fish, or, What Do You Mean, Mr. Eliot, Sir?

I have heard the mermaids singing each to each,

mermaids gliding in a sea of green.
Each mermaid sings to another within reach.

What do mermaids have to teach
one another, much less us tailless ones? Still, we
heed the mermaids singing each to each.

We’re going to have to pick up every stitch.
When I look out my window, what do you think I see?—
only mermaids singing to others within reach.

It takes a lot of sutures to attach titanium mesh
to gums boneless and for years bereft of teeth—
I sure heard mermaids singing each to each

when the surgeon turned on the nitrous and I could breath
it in! And I said in my own heart: Heart, you’re free
to sing to any other mermaid within reach!

Mermaids have scales, but are capable of speech
and song. One mermaid of all others is the queen.
I have heard the mermaids singing each to each.
Each mermaid sings to another within reach.