Saturday, February 14, 2009

Old Man Blue by Boulder Poet Jonathan Witherspoon Huey




Old Man Blue


Old man

I’ll walk slowly behind you

 

I’m in no rush

consider the bread:

 

whole wheat, pumpernickel, rye expressions,

consider the soups: buy 2 get 3 free

 

chunky goodness

what a bargain—

 

Consider the white haired lady

hunched over eggs—

 

Does yr eye take in her form?

 

Old man—

tomorrow we’ll walk slowly across the plains:

a million acres of sunflowers will sprout from yr brain

 

You’ll dream of pretty women on bicycles with

ice cream cones—

 

The sweet technique of tongue—

the curl, the wrap around tingle vision:

 

Two still squirrels

perched on fence:

 

Old crow unafraid

pecking the snow:

 

One worm in the brain

the other hidden:

 

Look through yr broken window

at vast blue expanse—

 

A single seagull

sun-stained unbelievable afternoon—

 

Whose socks are you wearing anyway?

Why do these trees still have leaves?

Where was I when that douche-bag fractured yr back?

When you shed four units of blood unnoticed?

When they pumped zanax into yr veins unrequested?

When yr uterus was removed?  When you decided to quit smoking?

 

A Dios Mio

Ya’ Allah—

 

 

 

 

If the bodhisattvas

are busy then Jameson & I will have to

see you through—

 

You shouldn’t be with someone

if yr offended by their eyes:

 

If the gaze lacks spirit

if the glance:

 

Hollow/Magicless/Killjoy—

 

Better to sign up with

Somalian pirates

 

& chase luxury cruise ships

& hijack oil tankers

 

Better to sign a 6 month contract with Blackwater

and make a pile of money escorting politicians

 

& to return from Baghdad unharmed

with a new pickup truck and tattoos

  to the open arms of the Catacombs—

 

Better to cough up blood in the women’s room at the Boulder Theatre

to have yr hand held & yr hair stroked in the back of an ambulance—

 

Better to lay in bed drunk laughing at sausage pizza

inventing typewriter fantasies grateful for a little chaos—

 

Better to laugh hysterically until yr too tired to have yr eyelids kissed

to ride yr bicycle in the cold snow slush & have yr ass soaked

 

 

Grateful to the elements:

thankful for being alive for a time—

 

Better to be held:

nostrils filled with sea spray

 

Sprawled on the deck of a ferry

bound for Santorini:

 

To chase fireflies in July

                                                                      & bats in September

 

Green Indiana hills

train tracks & cheap rice wine—

 

Better to sit Vipassana ten days & freak out

Noticing sensation of Royal Air Force Sonic Boom

Over Herefordshire England—

 

& to freak out again

On a double decker bus

listening to the kids speak Welsh—

 

 

 

Better to make $7 an hour beat boxing on the mall

in the Wells Fargo breezeway full of Dushanbe chai fearless & silly—

 

To recite old poems for spare change & eat chocolate covered mushrooms

& waltz into the Sundown Saloon hungry for conversation:

 

Then to abandon the whole scene & climb the red rocks

& dance barefoot in the new spring air—

 

Better to slant yr beret

don yr commando sweater & khakis

lace up yr combat boots & drill with Kasung Brethren—

 

Better to abandon desire

better to rule desire—

 

How many nails for Jesus:

 

Do you blame the gypsies?

Do you blame Oliver North?

Does yr blame fester like a dog’s wound

somewhere in Michael Vicks’ canine dungeon?

 

Do the unborn blame more or less than the living?

Are the cold asteroid cities of the future disingenuous?

Will their inhabitants not dance like Zorba?

Will they not toast the utterly un-opinionated egolessness with chamomile or whiskey?

 

Do

you

find

this

 problematic?

 

Will our grandparents always set the thermostat to 79 degrees Fahrenheit?

Would the world financial system collapse if they didn’t?

 

Ah—

 

Rain soaks tombstones

hummingbirds will return

 

Unborn born and reversed

& nobody will believe

 

except the beggar that thinks he’ll make more

standing on the edge of the Safeway parking lot

 

than he would on the edge of the Whole Foods lot

& that certainly is his prerogative

 

& all the peaceful & wrathful deities have their prerogatives too—

 

& are 13 gallon garbage bags hefty enough to hold

all the Shiner & 1554 bottles I’ve collected in my hobbit-like bedroom?

 

 

 

 

 

Who can say—

not even the sun

 

& Mr. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan sings

“ Fill Up My Empty Beggar Sack”—

 

All the rest

vain slideshow bullshit—

 

Clandestine operations

objectives sought ‘neath sheets—

 

Visions of golden sky-hairs

 

Goose cries

manic conversations

dirty laundry—

 

Halfway asleep thinking of thoughts—

leaves in the wind softly to naught—

 

Dreams fulfilled when they come:

discipline to let them leave

 

Beyond the turquoise horizon sea:

 

pleasure is nothing—

 

Empty forms, Companions

Judgement disconnected

Sorrows absolved—

 

Rib cage tingle & Loss—

with old man aches:

 

Present luminosity

pretends to remain

 

Economics & political display

ancestors dissolve without thought—

 

Sorrowful as it flies.

                                                                                         

All is well.

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