Old Man Blue
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
what a bargain—
Consider the white haired lady
hunched over eggs—
Does yr eye take in her form?
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
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:
Better to sign up with
& 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?
Will our grandparents always set the thermostat to 79 degrees Fahrenheit?
Would the world financial system collapse if they didn’t?
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—
objectives sought ‘neath sheets—
Visions of golden sky-hairs
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
Rib cage tingle & Loss—
with old man aches:
pretends to remain
Economics & political display
ancestors dissolve without thought—
Sorrowful as it flies.
All is well.