One Like Me

When my eyes hurt, I drop ice cream
on the floor, I forget where I’m driving,
I’m having a bad day, I suppose
I’m catching some dread disease.

Nothing fatal but my voice will change,
my skin will turn green,
I’ll need a froggectomy before I croak.
I climb in my taxi and give rides

to the restaurant, the airport, the marina,
and when locals don’t flag me down
I park by the sewage farm and write
my verse, I’m a hack poet. Heading home

I drive the ‘wrong way’ down Wishkah
because it’s a good way to meet people.
Buddha even cares about one like me.

Black Rock Desert

The desert wind is not quiet
the maddening sun has no kiss
forlorn color is no riot
a playa is not Beatrice

weathered mud is not intense
a broken ridge has no time
dusty sage has no presence
despair has neither rhythm nor rhyme

drifting sand has no past
dust devils have no rain
a midsummer dream will not last
black rocks neither excuse nor explain

and a better place I’ve not found
to throw my ashes on the ground.

Portal Ku

chickadee flutters
through doorway
tense cat

~

sparrow bangs
window glass
dust feathers

~

morning sun
streams through window
mouse watches doorway

~

coyote
searches for lunch
face in window

~

spring rain
swells stream
through doorway

~

drifting cloud
passes window
just once

~

wine jug
opens door
both ways

Asleep On The Floor

At my age it’s best to
have a great thought
and fall asleep on the floor.
It was a novelty to

have a great thought,
I didn’t write it down.
It was a novelty too
I knew I’d remember,

I didn’t write it down.
I can’t remember what it was.
I knew I’d remember.
I don’t have a clue.

I can’t remember what it was,
my mind is just a blank,
I don’t have a clue.
Have another glass of wine,

my mind is just a blank.
At my age it’s best to
have another glass of wine
and fall asleep on the floor.

Con, Licky and a Dog Named Meanness

After breakfast I go out the door
to meet Concrete at the cardboard box,
Meanness is trotting along,
tail wagging, pink and black tongue

hanging out, in a light rain
we go into the trees and climb
to a lookout in the old Magnolia,
when it’s safe we climb the garage

and meet Licorice in his black suit
and top hat, we struggle with the meaning
of light, straighten nails and build weapons,
spend the rest of the morning shaping

the earthworks and inspecting worms.
After lunch I leave on a journey,
alone, I take a dark path
over distant mountains to struggle

in the dust against barbarians,
travel silken rivers on night missions,
learn fickle truth about the pointless,
and listen to desert songs.

After dinner I sit in a rocker
with a glass of wine,
struggle with the meaning of light,
bend words and build weapons,

and watch the Moon rise through trees,
with Con, Licky, and a dog named Meanness.

White Throated Swift

Flying bugs must be nectar sweet
for a sickle-wing swift
to spiral and dive
like three ballerinas and a flute.

The Room is Dark

The room is dark, perhaps just dim,
the cat's asleep on the table again,
through the window the day is gray,
hazy gray and dull as clay.

No breeze to whiff the window lace,
no sun to light the lady's face,
the lady's face turned within
where the room is dark, perhaps just dim.

Inside Out

My wall is made of glitter glass
of weather wood and mortar mass
formed into a shelter shell
that saves me from the rabble smell.

It saves me from the weather war
where wind-birds chase the water pour
from winter freeze that’s frigid fast
attacking me with bitter blast
from crispy burn and dusty dry
of summer sun and scorching sky.

It blocks out all the critters that crawl
not one can gnaw a hole in my wall
not one with all his feelers and legs
can come inside to lay his eggs
or drag his beak across my skin
or poke me with his poison pin.

It blocks out all the meanness mammals
the flocks of gulls, the mouse that scrambles
I never hear their bellow and bawl
no owl howl, no coyote call
I never taste a flavored fog
never feel a flipping frog

no beetle buzz, no feather falling
I never smell a flower calling.

A String of Horses

for Sue

I didn’t drown in the Boise River,
didn’t starve in Michigan woods,
didn’t freeze in a Utah desert.
I have scratches and dents

but I’m still moving on,
still raising dust down the trail.
That I’m still alive is a bonus,
a gift, and I’m not so dismayed

as to hawk it at a yard sale,
drop it on the floor, or give it back.
I wasn’t willing to die young
and I’m not ready to die old.

The present troubles are galloping
a string of horses through my remains,
and I’m pulling together a steel corral
where troubles can freeze, drown, and starve.

I’m a ship with a steady crew
and we’re putting out to sea,
fair weather or foul,
to kick up a little ocean dust.

Hermit Ku

singles fish
shopping mall
empty pool

~

one heart
fills the night
coyote song

~

sandpiper
leaves mudflat
peregrine

~

dropped carrier
book opens
wine ripples

~

marsh breathes
twilight buzz
one frog

Carnival Parade

It’s a carnival parade with pink lemonade,
camels are singing, bellbirds are ringing.
Let’s play in the trees like monkeys on speed,
the griddle is popping, shrimp are hopping.

It’s a bottle of red, let’s drink it in bed,
have a carnival of our own, together alone.
I’ll sing all the night in the green moonlight,
rename the stars and put them in jars,

and when it gets dark I’ll float an ark
and sail through a crack in the inky black,

right into dawn’s golden stab,
the bayonet of Damocles
that scatters parades,
chokes laughter’s music
into pained gurgles of contrition,
awakens the man in the corner
who remembers everything said
on the hot iron,
the dagger that recalls
and retells.

Drift

Zigzagging between the sage and juniper
at Hasting’s Pass, a river of snowflakes
rides a chill wind, bounces off my jacket,

scatters to frozen ground, swirls
into low spots. A scatter of hugs
counters the wind’s bite.

The trickery happens when no one
is watching, the scatter conjures
a drift, where there was not one before.