Quarterly Bukowski Moment

March 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

You don’t know what it is like to be Spiritual
until you’ve climbed to the mountain top
and received instructions directly from God.

That’s how it should be for everyone, everywhere.
Some ordeal, like climbing a mountain,
or running through a thousand meters of flaming petrol,
or watching every episode of Gilligan’s Island in a row,
before you can wear the I’m Spiritual brand.

And I’m not talking about things like dying on the cross.
Dying is fucking easy. Living is hard. Do the nine to five
and come home and truly love your kids
through all their whining before their homework gets done
and find out what TV crap their watching, then turn the damn thing off.
Find the ef-fing morale courage to stand up to that bully cop
who thinks his tin shield gives him license
to baton beat the weed smoking, dread-lock neighbor fuck-up you hate so much
for encouraging his dog to shit on your well manicured lawn.

And don’t give me any New Age sweat lodge bull shit, either.
The only sweating that counts Spiritually is at the wrong end
of a nasty, blue-steel gun barrel, when you know you probably
have to take one for the team. And, you know, that in-the-hospital sweat
counts, too. Especially when you sit next to your motorcycle child
who is hooked up to wires and tubes and beepy-things
in that fancy, mechanical, hospital bed.

By the way, I don’t give a God damn rat’s ass
about the every-Sunday-go-to-church folks
who don’t give a flying fuck every other hour of the week.
That includes Oral Roberts and Pat Robertson
and every other well monied, TV evangelist, sin raking S.O.B.
They couldn’t fill a flee’s thimble with true Spirit
and no self respecting, on the job, Saint Peter
is letting them go anywhere but down.

So you don’t know what it’s like to be Spiritual.
You haven’t climbed to the mountain top, yet.
And I don’t mean any prissy Colorado fourteen.
I mean the heaven scratching Himalayas
where there are the ice preserved carcasses
of your failed predecessors, littering the way up
to God’s wondrous vocal cords.

Passionate Nowhere

March 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

My exhaustion originates
in burying dreams.

The boneyard is full of white stone.
It paves the streets of this small town

where the gas station is closed
forever plus a day.

What propulsion will send me
out of here, when the threat of rain

blocks the sky?

WHITE SANDS

March 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

This is how I cut myself open
—dream a dream that I can’t quite make real, then
the wounds open from within and I fall

into my blood that collects in an open clamshell,

fall into moist bone
exposed by the ocean

that washes away the mountains I made,

fall into the shapes of extinct animals
that reside in the calcified rockface stripped bare,

and the night is the undertow that tears my flesh away
as easy as sand from this beach.

MEMORY OF MIDDLE IOWA, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

March 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

It begins at the Trek convention
with the slim girl in the diaphanous blouse
who arrived with the conclusion:
this is the best place to get
the most guys in bed over a weekend.

Her rapture turns into a song
echoed down the hotel’s hallways
and is taken up as the new theme
for a boys-grown-old club
where, for twenty hours,
some guys think they are special.

But the numbness
that invades a marriage
dampens the thunder of orgasms,
until, really, it might as well
be the cough of a passer-by.

And elsewhere there is a guy—
a husband—struck by lightning,
as he puts the pieces together
from the convention blogs
after his business meetings.

She continues to walk
through the dark and dizzy nights
where the cliff-face is at hand
and, perhaps, she’ll fall off—
if not at the convention,
then when she gets home
to learn that it is now a house
with a broken furnace.

HISTORY TAPS ITS FINGERS

March 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

History taps its fingers,
keeps geologic time,
waits for the next ice age
so it can sweep
all our technology shit
under the long carpet
of snow.

The light, darling. The light.

March 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

The woman standing
outside the thirteenth floor window
of an office building in Albquerque,
thinks she is in a Magrite painting,
fears the wind will take away her bowler,
believes cartoons are as real as reality
and that lack of belief
is just as strong as belief.

She does not feel it is her fault
that traffic is tied up for blocks
and emergency vehicles blare sirens,
that lights flash patriotically
and there are professional people
speaking at her from the window.

The view of the mountains and the river
is better from this vantage point
than from her windowless cubical
and the bird songs are far lovelier than her boss
who does not know how to say thank you.

In fact, this is a good place for a picnic
and she wishes her children
and her three ex-husbands would join her,
can’t understand why the deli
won’t deliver, as she has a taste for slaw.

The birds, she realizes, are too attached
to the notion of gravity and create
as big a flap as the fretting professionals,
but there are rain drops rising past her face
and she takes comfort in that sort of beauty.

She is hungry now, like Eve, takes the apple
of her eye from its traditional place
and eats it, consumes in twelve different ways
all the words of the apostles, even Bartholemew,
but not Mathias.

Finally, her daughter, in Paris, sets the paintbrush
in the tin of turpentine, wipes her hands clean
and goes to a corner cafe
for a glass of wine and whatever
the cook will whip up this close to midnight.

U.S. Golden Rule Prayer

March 28, 2008  :: 0 comments

Dear lord grant us
five hundred pound bombs
and laser guided missiles
dropping from the sky
upon our neighborhoods.

Grant us midnight rendition
commando teams stealing
our local leaders.

Grant us electroshock treatment
and water boarding.

Grant us sleep deprivation
and hunger.

Grant us occupiers who ignore
the Geneva Convention on a whim,
on an order from the administration.

Grant us roadside fanatics
who destroy each others’ churches.

Grant us foreign soldiers on our streets
who kill indescrimently whenever
gang members harm anyone.

Grant us predator drones
above our cities and towns
and hell fire missiles
launched remotely from a man
peering endless hours into a TV screen.

Grant us IEDs and market place
truck bombs.

Grant us collateral damage:
childen’s body parts on street corners,
weddings showed by gunship fire,
families gunned down by checkpoints
guards.

Grant us an economy in ruins
and the graft and greed and corruption
of foreign companies.