I'm Not Homeless

for Totally Optional Prompts

Frank lives in the high desert between
Notch Canyon and Chester Flat.
At Jenny's Spring he wipes the cold water
from his face and says, "I'm not homeless"

to the slickrock shadows. Snow flies
through the junipers, melts on the black sand,
Frank hikes to the pavement to hitch a ride
before the winter wind churns in

and wails bitter like a temple monkey.
A double-bottom Freightliner hauling hay
to dairy farms on the coast picks him up.
Frank says, "I'm going to visit friends",

the Freightliner talks about lockups
that make a passable winter camp.
In Eureka Frank meets Seventh
and F Street, finds a days work

at the marina, "I'm not homeless," he says,
and hitches a ride to Coos Bay.
Spring rains cause the earth to move,
spawned out salmon to feed the downstream,

and Frank travels to Jenny's Spring,
"I'm not homeless", he says to the slickrock shadows.

Facing Forward

I'm indifferent to the graves
where ancestors lie idle,
boasting, telling stories
on each other, big talk

going nowhere. I'm not
constrained by the old roads
leading here, so much dust
to brush off, so much road

noise to fade away. I drive
facing forward, watching
for the purple cow eating flowers
in the River-of-Stars,

where Sweet Alice Spring
plays a water drum,
big talk going nowhere.

Slippery Details

for Totally Optional Prompts

After troubles and false starts
our slippery leaders learn
how to run an occupation,
it's like a soap opera

with a twisty plot. Call it a war
against evil, and our side is heroic.
Have secret evidence they can't reveal
because it's secret. Bomb in the night

when blood flows in the dark
and flash-bang makes good theater.
Spin the slippery story until the end
is the beginning. Put concentration camps

and secret prisons outside the country,
and don't jail the twisty heroes.
And most of all, bring coffins home
in the secret shame of night.

All the rest is slippery details,
and they're secret.

Harlequin Duck

I live a confounded life
on a salt-air rocky beach,
I say that without detailing
ancient Mongolia, without invoking

twenty-seven Hindu gods, without
chiseling Mayan script on blocks of basalt,
without proving the Irish basis
of confoundment, which is found

in stories passed down from fourteen
generations. Out there
in the kelp bed a harlequin duck
lives between tide washed rocks

and the oyster in the moon,
find food, find a mate,
evade predation. I am well fed,
have no predators.

Free Pomona

Marjorie sits in an overstuffed chair,
blanket on her lap, she wonders why
her hands are cold, wonders how
she got here, sees her absent

sister sitting in the next chair.
I walk in the room, she says, “Look,
there’s Ernie,” her long departed uncle,
drifting off to sleep she mutters,

“free Pomona.”
Marjorie sleeps in an overstuffed chair,
blanket on her lap,
her hands are cold.

A Dinghy on the Shore

for Totally Optional Prompts

Our leader is a dinghy floating down a river
of the nation's blood, sweat, and tears.
The river's broad current keeps him afloat,
the dinghy's proud for not sinking.
The river pushes on, irrigates wheat,

hauls lumber, reflects moonlight
at a beer party on Saturday night,
and the dingy grins and takes credit.
After Hidden Narrows the dingy pulls over
to the shore and watches the river

go into rapids and bang against
the rocks. The dinghy pokes a stick
in the mud and plays with crayfish.

Desert Patch

I wake slow to a freezing fog
that drains heat from my cottage
like there's a fan in an open window,
the floor is under a blue-cold wrapper,

then outside the street darkens
under snow clouds. The image
is grim so I look to a picture
on the wall, rippled desert sand,

strong shadows from strong sun,
dry heat rising from bitterbrush
and greasewood hummocks. The desert patch
is surrounded by a gray mat

and picture frame, a moat and great wall
holding me back in a pocket of cold.

No-Think

for Sunday Scribblings

This might be the last time I write,
my whole town is under a gigantic swirl
of storm-cold No-Think that beams energy
waves to control its victims. No-Think

has electronic watchtowers,
some are cleverly disguised. I see No-Think
victims driving down the street,
Blank-Stares holding remote controls

to their heads, talking to No-Think
voices, getting orders, some Blank-Stares
in the grocery store have wires
going right into their ears. Blank-Stares

are addicted to No-Think energy waves,
and have to pay extortion to No-Think
or they'll be disconnected.
I don't talk to Blank-Stares, I sit

in the back of the noodle shop until it's safe
to go out, I feel the storm-cold
on my back, No-Think doesn't control me,
the storm-cold is on my back.

Catnip Lake

for Totally Optional Prompts

I'm painting a picture of Catnip Lake
in early spring and it doesn't look right.
Dusty sage slopes up to a basaltic rim
on the left, brown tules are on the right

and three horses in the distance
wait for sunset. It doesn't look right
and it's getting worse, the wind shifts
and blows a patch of ice into the tules,

herding a flock of ducks into a small slice
of open water, low clouds gather
and block the sun. It turns seriously cold
so I pack up the truck and crunch

the gravel road around Gooch Table
and back to the procession on the highway.
I come back when it's warm, the ice is gone,
the tules are greened up, there's a full moon

and three horses appear
at the water's edge in moonlight.

Sand Hollow

Along the path, columbine
and primrose. Returning to my hut
I recall marsh grass, dead snags,
a woodpecker hammering

back in the dark woods,
the crunch of crushed rock,
and three girls
riding bicycles.