king james

i've got a paperback

king james i found

on a shelf between

the military histories

and jaqueline suzanne.

i wallow in isaiah and

console myself with psalms

and feast on the words:

lips and tongues and fire

bruises, hands, and wool.

stones. fingers. gold.

rivers of blood and wine.

swords and vengeance. lambs.

serpents, smoke and loaves.

desert roads and crowns.

dreams.

beasts and vines and vows.

robes.

kings and locusts. bread.

cedars and oils and breasts.

lions and visions and shrouds.

the jackals and jezebels

beggars and thieves.

the faithful, unfaithful,

the promise of peace.

of course it's also a field guide

for what's transpiring

down the block

behind drawn curtains

and deadbolted locks:

the oaths and lust

and the coveting of

thy neighbor's wife.

i'm waiting to see

the four horsemen,

although i believe

they'll be driving

ford mustangs,

not riding steeds.

rain

he was a lumberjack,

now he shelters

from the rain

in an oil-stained

backpacker tent

on the sidewalk

at the corner

of market street

and main.

he sleeps in peace,

with neither style

nor weapons.

the rain falls gently,

slicks the granite entry

of the federal reserve,

glistens on the kiosk

touting long legged

women wearing uggs.

the baristas

in the cafe next door

fill the travel mugs

of the riders

arriving on

the 7:54

the Wells Fargo ATM

this morning wished me

a happy birthday.

on the white bus

Some kinds

of aloneness

are required

or we'd all be

glued together.

Planted in our 

numbered seats

on the prison bus

headed for the border,

staring through

the window mesh

that hides us from

the sidewalk gaze.

Our shadows

in the vineyards

slowly fade,

but we'll be back

to wash the dishes.

in the woods

in the somber woods,

the spectrum dialed down

to twenty shades of gray

and the ever present black,

vines creep up the walls

of moldy shacks.

the pines are all the same,

six stories high and no thicker

than a bible spreadeagled on its back.

in a pit, i see a pooh bear high chair

with cigarette burn scars on the tray.

something sticky brushes past my ear

and i hear a muffled cry,

is that someone is being whipped?

or having a very satisfying orgasm.

wedged between the spindly trunks

of dark tamaracks and dripping firs,

squats a single-wide mobile home

with black plastic sheeting draped

across the roof and held in place

with two by fours and cinder blocks.

smoke trickles up from a crooked stove pipe

lashed to the siding with cargo straps.

the animal moans have stopped.

a blurry figure peers through a window

clouded with dirt and condensation,

then glides towards the door,

which opens with a shudder.

it's a woman wearing a paisley robe

cinched at the waist with a man's striped tie.

her red hair streaked with black and silver

hangs in long loose curls.

she tosses it back over one bare pale

shoulder, where the robe has slipped.

hello pilgrim, what can i do for you? she says.

i thought i heard someone crying,

i reply. Is everything alright?

oh that's just manny,

he's an excellent mimic,

isn't that right, manny?

i follow her eyes to a raven

perched on a pile of rubbish

pulling on some sinews and

scraps of flesh attached

to some large creature's bones.

that's right, rebecca,

manny croaks in a rich baritone.

oh. well. sorry to intrude.

no problem, pilgrim,

i don't get many visitors.

just brewed a fresh pot of coffee,

do you like french roast?

why don't you come inside

and have a cup, sit a spell?

uh, sure. that sounds nice.

if you're sure it's not an imposition.

not at all, sometimes i like

a little imposition.

isn't that right, manny?

that's right, rebecca,

manny chuckles,

and flies up to her wrist.

come on manny, let's go inside

and give our guest

a nice warm welcome.

she steps back into the trailer,

holds the door with one hand

and sweeps the other with a flourish

towards the dark interior.

welcome to my enchanted castle, stranger,

my name is rebecca, what's yours?

richard. nice to meet you.

charmed, i'm sure.

getting lost

pining for amazement

pencilled in a dream:

a crooked line 

across the trail

pressed against

the railing of a balcony

wailing this harmony,

a sinatra stegosaurus song.

dancing like frankenstein,

barefoot on the thorns

of trumpet vines

lurking in the lawn.

is that what real feels like?

a noodle stuck in a colander,

getting lost in alphabets

and ice cream truck jingles

borrowed from

yesteryear's revolutions?

staring at the ceiling 

in the morning

wondering if the world

has worsened overnight.

the moonlight that was

tinted bluer than reality

the other half of day

still shouting yellow.

everybody's got some bones

dancing in the closet,

histories gagged

in myth and gloss,

softly idling

til the hours when

uncertainty creeps in,

will the sun ever rise again?

wanting to be lost

where we lounged

beside the lake

watching willow leaves

drift towards the turtles

basking on the logs

chained together

in front of the dam.

and we slid into

red oblivion

swollen in the moments

stolen from the pangs

of monday truth

and sunday sin.

valentine

a notebook tumbles

down the freeway

flapping pages.

some lost staccato

rhythm punctuating

memories of roseanne.

we made snapdragon

flower finger puppets

with tiny voices.

threw rocks

into the shit pond

behind the milking barn.

whispered about what we heard

the sixth graders say about

what boys did with girls.

we had a vague idea

of the mechanics,

but not the mystery.

she got lichens

in her long dark hair

climbing a tall oak,

spilled her froggy chuckle

when she found an

ensatina salamander

clinging to the bark

high up in the branches.

roseanne could climb a tree

as good as any boy and was
more adept at catching bluebellies

with her darting hands.

the farm was sold

before we ever made it

to sixth grade ourselves.

but i climbed an oak so high

that i could reach through

the topmost leaves

and touch the sky

and carved a heart

with an arrow through it

and m.c. loves r.o.

in the middle.

no farmhouse

no snapdragons,

no barn, no cows,

no shit pond.

that oak is still there,

although i doubt that

that i could climb it.

dry time

i gave her

a bottle

of certified

holocene water.

filtered through

mastodon  bones

and smiling

saber cat teeth.

a bouquet of

spinifex grass,

nourished,

with triple filtered

toilet water.

yosemite bloomed

with saguaro cactus

in ten gallon hats,

and peacemaker .45's

slung low across their hips.

long horn skulls.

bearded ragged barefoot

crawling men.

with blistered lips

and tongues.

the corn was dead

by june.

i dreamt that we

were pterodactyls

and you wanted to fly

………upside down

and so we clasped

our talons and fell

spinning through blue vapor,

towards

the blood warm sea.

a moment on highway 58

december after christmas,

counting stars and ants,

tumble weeds…….

knife-carved lovers' names

scarred on picnic tables,

the ghost-chalked cottonwoods

of the tehachapi cement mill

recreation grounds.

i stood across the road

trying to thumb a ride

to furnace creek.

the sunset lit

the abandoned

richfield station,

gleaming on the pumps

still quoting regular for

twenty nine point nine a gallon.

my coat was too thin

for december

desert mountain wind.

i had a story:

about a beach of sugar

washed with

coca cola waves,

titanium spiders

scuttling across

discarded credit card offers

………..peace treaties,

couch pennies,

and broken promises.

the audience responded

with the uneasy squeak

of chairs on a waxy floor.