Motorcycle

Larry got a motorcycle.

I got hard labor.

I’d say the two of us were equally guilty.

He lives next door.

I heard it go chug,

as I worked to cut sod off concrete.

Puffing and sweating,

I doffed a wet hat,

as he shot up the hill past my driveway.

Precocious

When the simple boy develops his beard

he squeezes the bulb of his bicycle horn

with virgin melancholy.

It is a pure honk,

all goose, and like a goose

with a broken wing in the high North,

dying first for want of company,

hating the newly mature, dark stubble,

the coming winter of his manliness.

His mother is keeping him sometimes-shaven,

preventing his becoming the ominous Wildman—

the small, primitive, animal eyes, the narrow face, 

frustration looming out like a berg—

full-bearded he would frighten the neighborhood,

earning at least this share of respect,

but as it stands, he is only seedy,

stuck with his bike and his bicycle horn,

finding out, oh so precociously,

the telling conversion of joy to sorrow.

Still Schooner

She's in the doldrums again,

this sorrowful schooner, drooping,

sails hanging fire, lifeless rags—

ash on tortured turquoise.

The crew is beyond boredom,

hardly coming on deck for the world,

and only to see what will not happen.

You need a motor in these untroubled waters.

That's the message she's been getting.

There's no denying the dirty diesel,

or stinking, two-cycle, busy outboard,

the bluster and implication of trying.

And yet, when she's uninspired so,

all death-like and indifferent, still,

it isn't so much a breeze she wants,

as merely to be left alone,

ironing a hole in the endless blues.

On A Bus In The Bristol Terminal

I wish this bus were not this bus

but full of fat Black gospel singers,

sending it way down deep on its tires,

swelling its roof and sides with song.

I wish this thing were out in the country

rolling and rocking at sixty miles an hour,

driven by Jesus and Moses and God,

passing everything slow and sullen.

I wish this bus had a destination

pearly and golden and fuller of sound

and color than imagination,

and I wish it would soon get started.

Transportation

Whenever he felt his heart slip down

and go holus-bolus into his cock,

he knew it as love and gave it to her,

a throbbing tug in a churning lock.

She, with her complicated machine

for getting seminal goods to the ocean,

took over until her own heart rose

and expelled it on a flood of commotion.

What they achieved in these comings and goings

was said to have enhanced the nation,

though as anyone with experience knows,

the object was mainly Transportation.

Like Dead Jesus

Like dead Jesus in the arms of Mary I lay with you,

sleeping,

the storms of Earth turning my unconscious mind,

senseless

as a drugged octopus in soft currents,

sunken,

like a baby napping, loose-lipped at the naked breast,

suckled

and sated, as a box of kittens behind the stove,

sightless

as Judas in the grip of the rope,

swiveling,

an epileptic in the aftermath of spasms,

surrendered,

like a drunkard in the embrace of good relatives,

stupefied,

as an entire congregation lost in a long sermon,

snoozing,

in the oppressive knowledge that we must rise again.

Train Sounds, Tucson

We live where the train sounds far away

in the middle of the night— 

the soft whistle, 

faint rumble, 

the clunk and clatter,

image of it rolling

suggesting hoboes’ 

contentment riding,

from nothing, to nothing, for nothing,

whereas the pillowed head has to pay.

Triolet

The pottery shack by the train tracks

Is blown through by the train’s horn.

A place to work and to relax,

The pottery shack by the train tracks

Acknowledges some of the pots crack,

But no reason to remain forlorn.

The pottery shack by the train tracks

Is blown through by the train’s horn.

Quick Start

I spring out of bed

and hit my elbow

hard on the dresser

before the clock.

A hare confused,

I am not racing,

except in the heart

and funny bone,

Fall back in bed

and shut my eyes,

a fierce little poem

ringing throughout.

This is the fastest

in my quick life

I ever got up

and down to work.

Forlorn Bee In Kew Gardens

I haven't been perfectly happy here,

starting each day like a new engine,

a pellet of fire, humming song,

floating around in the sun, a life,

smelling of nectar from six continents,

landing in riches beyond reason.

It seems to me I have missed something,

that a struggle might be more meaningful,

a cracked wing, or a hive starving,

a drought that would show how great I am.

What makes it worse is that, given a choice,

I would still be so— lucky, melancholy.

Travel

The marvel of travel

is transportation,

the destination,

to begin, unlikely,

the motion,

the arrival,

more travel and

the fact of being

in another place—

all that is there

and happens there.

Little is left to imagination.

The new situation is real

and we…

We find ourselves bodies,

transported entirely,

away from home,

a place of ghosts.

Stunned In The Garden Of Luxembourg

Stunned in the Garden Of Luxembourg

by the sunshine, color and warmth of Fall—

the flowers, fountains, grass and statues,

the yellow trees a live margin of splendor,

I remark the absence of gripping winter,

which abstract, intellectual notion

is all I have left of Canada.

But what if they came and chopped off my head?

In a foreign land they might do such a thing.

Would that, perhaps, make me Miss Canada

more? Yes, as a matter of fact, it would.

As I waited to hear the big blade glide,

I would think about skating with frozen toes,

feel the cold drip on the end of my nose,

long for the click of a dead battery

on a day when the only thing moving was muscle,

pine for gale-born sleet, big drifts and white-outs.

Then I would think, Oh! Canada! Oh!

There was truly a safe place to die,

and full of reminders of being alive!

Going South

I tend to think of Antarctica

as a cold and gruesome place.

You live in a tent the wind flaps,

and snow and ice get on your face,

And in your eyebrows, beard and lashes,

when outside walking with limited sight,

perplexed that today, or another soon,

will prove your ultimate south.

You are going south.

And what is the tent anyway but money?--

though you're glad to get back inside and rest,

and listen to the screaming void.

The Terrible Table Of Actors

The terrible table of actors thrived

on itself, on the art of hurling insults:

publicly would abuse one another,

waving arms and bulging eyes.

One could never have joined them socially,

so fierce and enlivened a crew they were:

any sign of restraint, good will or respect,

would have been hooted as saccharine lie.

The bunch of them worked as an organism,

a creature of tightly amoebic design,

flailing on one side and then the other,

gathering in pitchers of suds by extension.

They expanded in size until closing time,

when the lights would come up like harsh enzymes,

lyse the thing and disperse its parts,

which would drift off, solemn as friends of mine.

Hierarchical Problem Solving

She's arcing, Sir,

down on number t'ree,

a great big jeasly jumping blue spark,

zapping across wit a fierce crack

and losing a certain amount of power.

She's arcing is she?  I thought as much.

Well get back below and fix it at once.

In fact, what the hell are you doing up here?

Report to me when she's normal.

She isn't arcing any more, Sir.

Right, and so what are you doing up here?

Reporting The Bag Lady On The All-Night Bus

The bag lady was dressed in them,

asleep on a cross-town bus at 3 A.M.,

her face fallen forward onto the slick,

unkind covering of her old bosom in black plastic,

A bag with holes punched out so it covered her middle.  For a

halo she had on her hair one of clear cellophane, an aura

that had once carried apples or carrots or other such things

intended for weighing at a supermarket.  And for wings,

She had on either arm, a mid-sized, supermarket, white one,

which, drooping, somehow aided her going around London,

a sunken old angel, exhausted and unconscious,

possibly dead on this bright red bus.

She hadn't moved for as long as I'd watched.

I got up and pulled plastic away from her blotched

old face; really, to see if she was still alive.

The bag was hot where it touched her nose.  I've

Enough sense to let the sleeping lie, and so when she stirred

but didn't wake, I returned to my seat and again observed

the paradox that she made of fashion:

Did these bags relate to her as might a passion

For emptiness? Or were they bags of hope--

in a harvest so vast she could only cope

if she had come well enough prepared,

a windfall that, for once, would be shared?

As the rest of us came to our conscious stops

and descended to darkness in short, dull hops,

the bag lady, dressed in her bags, went on,

alive in a dream in the bleak pre-dawn.

His Voice

Such a vibrant, plangent tone

                 he made to speak,

you had to listen.

Frog-like, it was, a raspy groan

that made you sorry.

There were no words comparable

in depth of feeling

to his tonal pain,

such a perfect pleading that

Everyone had to agree.

Heavy Dancing

When she kicked up her heels by George

you hoped the floor was on good timbers.

A downward-flicking, hardwood-licking

flash of feet she let go, and shrieks

That nobody below would sleep through.

George was bigger than she was, too, 

and he augmented and complemented

as he grunted and bellowed and hopped,

So everything got in phase and wowed.

The Perfect Clerk At Value Village

The boy is dressed in wares he sells: 

shiny pants, a peculiar vest, dressy

loafers with pointy toes,

not current but suiting him, pleasing me,

to me he looks like a rocket scientist,

thick glasses, pimples, long brown hair.

On his right pants pocket hang two empty hangers,

reflecting how much he’s concerned with style,

and he likes his work, anyone can tell:

when the woman he’s serving asks for a discount– 

a button’s missing from a pair of jeans–

he says, I’ll find out, and calls Claudette.

The rest of us wait, curious as cats.

Claudette comes over, all pissed off, 

and tells her, No, we don’t take off extra 

for missing buttons. And the woman says, Fine, 

I’ll take them anyway, forks over 3.99 and leaves.

When it’s my turn we have a smooth transaction,

wishing each other have a nice day,

which it’s plain to see we’re both having.

Ode To A Rebellious Climbing Tree

Oh! Perversest Climbing Tree!

Bold and defiant, living wood!

Radical dendrite! Radical bole!

Radical leaf and radical root!

You silent, unlawful renegade!

You are a tree with a mind of your own

that has steadfastly taken the only place

a climbing tree was prohibited,

Seized it with passion, in broad daylight,

held the ground grassless in your great shade,

where proudly, you sport the absurd sign:

CLIMBING TREE PROHIBITED.

Best Wishes

The old drunkard with the missing mind

comes up to me on the train, swaying,

swaying till he gets his tongue in motion.

Side to side it goes with the car,

trying to line up a word with his jaw

threatening to bite it.

But his unanchored eyes have the first say,

it is urgent he communicate,

urgent that I understand,

We are together, if only for now,

and if only by chance, 

if only, if only.

And so I listen:

Bez of luck to ya,

thank him and leave.

  Homebody To Roaming Sister

When you are up on your dromedary, Dear,

and shaking your aspergillum

at natives needing you down to a man,

yourself not knowing the least bit of fear

in being so far from Christendom,

  trekking on your Saharan plan,

  I’ll be thinking how silly I am

to be back here baking berry pies,

feeding the fire and drinking scotch,

  stitching quilts and bottling jam,

glad of a roof against rainy skies,

and not seeing you on the news watch.

At The Widow's Birth

You really are dead then are you Frank?

I said to him, sort of annoyed by the fact,

as his head rolled over and faced the wall,

and he kind of coughed, and indeed he was.

Oh Frank, you been such a struggle to me,

I said to his by-then stone-deaf ears.

There was no point in talkin' to him I knew,

but I couldn't help it when he was alive,

And couldn't now, for the back of his head,

with its wispy fringe of snow-white hair,

was exactly the same as it was to me then,

and him payin’ about as much attention.

Bed

I hereby tip my hat to the chap 

who invented Bed (that was very clever),

probably some troglodyte with a passion for sleep

as deep as my own, who folded over

a couple of fronds on a platform of sticks,

and found it compared so favorably

to lying in the rocks and wet below,

with the snakes and spiders and leeches,

he said to his friends, Try this.

They took it the rest of the way to feathers,

wool and silk, good shelter, clean sheets,

pillows, lamps, a little reading,

a rug on the floor and window blinds,

and everyone sighed:  At last! Bed!

Rooting for Coconuts

I lived in the olden days

when time was told by springs and wheels.

I do not wonder what computers are for

but wonder at changes in soul.

How will people removed from us feel,

removed from the old, not just in time,

but also in space, like coconuts on the Pacific,

floating in self-contained, little cities,

energized by miles and square miles of sail,

catching light from the stars and moons

to energize their solar engines and

shine on the faces breathing there?

How will they feel as they drift away,

light years and generations away,

concepts away. No doubt, as we do

at times, lost, and then found again,

awed, bored, full of lust and sloth,

materialistic and blackly rebellious,

Inventive, semi-religious, false,

humble, generous, good, sentimental…

One thing alone is certain though,

they will root for those drifting coconuts.