1.6.15

( this poem is yrs old, but full of rezzies good for new year. )

i want to love
u dont know patience
i love too much
you get mad quick with drink
i choose the wrong ones
you are excellent at dances
i just gotta keep opening
you told off yer shrink
i must feel this so i can love more
you should drink the beer thats alreddy open
i cannot walk again o'er a trapdoor
you are blind
i am blind
you need to rest yer body
i like my blinders
you gotta save yer mojo for a friday nite
i drink smoke and laff the day
you are humble yes
i am lucky
you like to gripe
i got so much goin/all i need/more than i even want
you are usually gay
i sometimes without knowing it
  end up trying to save someone's soul
you gotta quit that
i write poems to save the world
u write poems on dope
i know ya can't lead but by example
u know there ain't no teachers in this world
right, there’s students only
u can exist with or without being adored
why don't u fold yer clothes
  and take them to the drawer
u should regonize the sailor in a tree
i say keep yer cupboards bare

1.6.15

summons

dark beckoned as we drove. in the clouds
a young girl birthed easily a hairless goat into
a coral bladder. miles markers on i startled--

two pottery statues of goats, life-sized if not
life-like grazed stilly, in a brushed front yard
surrounded by a herd of real ones. as it got
on to dark, he said watch those hills for
coyotes.

last time he said it one did soon appear briefly,
by the Classy Lady Concrete Masonry sign.
i watched the hills, alright, racing lime shadows.
all i managed to eke from the eider sand and
cacti was a border patrol jeep, hood-deep
in orange prairie weeds by a divide.

the officer had his nocs in his paws invoking
from lower desert plains coyotes of another
kind. i want a kiss, i thot.

can you please hand me the map? he asked.
youre lookin at it, i sed cryptic, one of my
best smiles on, my left hand already 
conjuring the atlas from our moonlit console.

1.6.15

Market Price

an old money crushed-granite mountain
sports an ascot of mint green and magenta
paisley, still and stately, if eager before
his crusty ridge of baked spiny lobster.

1.6.15

hog heaven

the only bright thing lay ahead of us; coupla clouds
shot-thru by the only two visible beams of light for
miles, laser sharp eyes of an angry god castigated
the green milk of the rio bravo, cooked a chorus of
giant river cane, and perforated limestone bluffs on
either side which Reed, our mustachioed guide
explained are but tightly compressed souls
of long dead, sunken animals. 

a lone cottonwood graced sandy loam on up the
shore with its casual indifference, its lower trunk
rendered barkless, a prone boys wrinkled scrotum
on which graffittoed grooves left by feral hogs &
javelinas tuskatillos spelt ohm in ten thousand
shade tongues.