You spoke of Mouton

From the great years

’45, ’61, ’82…

It was not endearing, you knew

I had stopped drinking

10 years ago

I salivated nonetheless; a test

Like a Pavlov dog

At the mere mention of cassis

And earthiness and smoke

Leather, mineral–that certain

Cigar box scent;

Tiny ripened cherries

It was still

Like an invasion

Of my privacy–somewhere

I couldn’t go

Where most others

Were allowed;

They told me

I should no longer

Hang out with that crowd

But there you were–

An army of one;

A former kindred fellow

With legions of wine tales

To tell, I just

Ate my scrambled eggs

With bacon, instead

Knowing that old flavor

Would always do

More damage

Than good.

Eat everything in sight

Until there is no more

Then slaughter another cow

Gather more fruit

Harvest more grain and corn

And bake loaves;

Cook the steaks and chops

Make a fruit salad

And celebrate with another feast

Like you do, everyday

Until you are full

And empty and full again

And know, in this life

The cycle of eating

And consuming and

Eating anew

Will likely

Never stop.

What you are telling me

Is

That it’s always

Going to be the same–

Dark to light to blue

Anticipation, hope & worry

Birds and squirrels and

Neighbors fighting;

Dogs too–

The same clank of fork and knife

On the naked plate

The spoon you never use–

Garbage bins akimbo

In the street

7am migration

To 7pm homecoming, dinner

silence and flowerpetals;

Tea poured until

Its amber madeira hue

Blends with the room

The town

And the Universe

Made of comfortable tones

Misunderstanding

And every imaginable opportunity

for enlightenment

gratitude and

surrender.

The new car smell

In Guil’s Volvo

Was like a dream

Of perfect impermenence

Transported through the golden hills

With a sense

Of leathery vinyl freshness

Like innocence itself

Even though I knew

It would soon be lost

To soiled shoes

Burnt oil fumes

And cigar smoke;

The scent of mint condition

And clean contentedness

Actually made me

Feel young again.

I ask where

The rain went

And you have

No answer, cite

An incorrect news report

Mention the delays of change

The errors of expectation

“The incomprehensibility of it all…”

I know you’re right

But it upsets me

There is so much sun

Explosive blue, sparking asterisks

On the sea, as though

It was still summer

But it is not–

So close to acute October–

A pack of female joggers

Stands on the noontime corner now

Beckoning for the World

To see: light, desire–all

That is essentially unavailable

In red, blue and white

A black man

Crosses the camouflage lawn

On an indignant diagonal

Looks at me, looks away;

He wanted to ask for something

Maybe the time, a light, or some change

He was carrying a bunch

Of white sage, possibly

For a ritual burning

But I could be wrong;

Wrong about the weather

Wrong to have called

And lazy to be wishing

Things are any different

Than they are.

There seem to be

Two sides to people–

The side you know

And the side

You don’t know

I wonder if this is true

Of animals, too–

Dogs and squirrels

And birds, for example

Are there unknowable sides

To all the creatures

That make life

A constant guessing game?

Which dog is that, barking–

The light dog

Or dark dog?

Is that the happy bird singing

Or the melancholic one?

Which aspect of the squirrel

Is that, shaking its tail

And squawking on the telephone pole?

It’s hard to know

What part of a creature

Is being shown

At any given time–

Maybe if I keep

My own dark side light

Theirs will become

Lighter, too.

Clouds mass

Like indian riders

From a lost tribe

In a faded western–

A day vast and deep

With underpinnings of steer manure

In asparagus fields;

The lemons and oranges

In a final citric orbit

Past the brave descent of sun

From summer to September

Towards acute October shadow–

A harvest of anticipation

The land retreating

Into itself

Having given too much

To fire this year

To draught and to garbage

In its vales, fields

And gulleys; the inflated

Plastic bags tugging at limbs

and bushes

Like angry children…

It is time

To return to rain

And its cleansing hand

To let the earth be new again

In its farms, prairies

And chaparral jungles–

The rejuvenation from depletion

The feeling of undivided wind

On the highest ridges

The warble of the wrentit

Simply going about his business

Of collecting seeds fallen

On the ground.

Maybe everything

Will come home someday

After it’s been lost–

Maybe the handsome

Mexican TV announcer

Was right in all his vehemence

And conviction

About those UFOs

The crowds saw and caught

On cameras and videos;

Images computer verified

Or the fact

Of Hadrian’s Wall

Still standing from the Roman Era;

The Triple Julia Set at Stonehenge

Which appeared in broad daylight

With no one there;

Other explained and and lovely

Crop circles of DNA patterns

Arcane mathematical puzzles

And complex musical notes

In barley, grain

And placid fields of oats…

One important question:

Are people doing these acts

Or some greater intelligence

That’s trying to communicate with us?

It’s hard to live

With the unexplained, unresolved

Or profoundly mysterious–the need

To have to know

Is like a recurring itch

I cannot scratch–a shiny

Hovering metallic disc

Seen by hundreds of onlookers

That was apparently not

Of this earth–

Beautiful, evanescent patterns

That have a meaning

We don’t yet know

And may never, until

We stop trying

To figure everything out.

 

Mean &

Fast &

Armed &

Vicious &

Loud &

Rich &

Tattooed &

Angry with a Reason &

Off road &

Impersonal &

In Your Face &

Bigger &

Shinier &

Glamorous &

Wrinkle-Free &

Longer lasting &

biodynamic &

Temperature-controlled &

Non-carcinogenic &

Better Flavored &

Deep discount, On sale &

Grand Re Opening &

Satisfaction guaranteed

Or

Your money back.

Don’t write the poem;

Let it speak for itself–

The quality of light untainted

By designer shades and drawn blinds

The play of indifferent shadow

Amorphous shapes

Claiming blank space

The dog that wags

When you approach

But you don’t know why–

Or what he’s thinking

Unless it’s something about

That raisin scone you’re harboring…

Don’t write the poem

About bagel-thieving squirrels

In neatly trimmed trees–

Ones that look down scornfully

On gardeners going about their mowing

With annoying diligence and efficiency;

That will be seen by everyone

Without a literal explanation

As an average part of the day–

Nothing extraordinary

A quotidian unfolding

Of what is and what needs to be

But if you write the poem

It may assume a forced veneer

A narcissistic sheen

A reflection of self importance

And perspective

That is more about you

Than anything you see.