adam and imogene go to vegas

adam and imogene cheever

sported matching tropical shirts

as they strolled down the strip

from the palazzo to the mirage.

imogene's sister had insisted

that the buffet at bellagio

was not to be missed. and adam

was especially fond of prime rib.

then he hit the tables at harrah's

while imogene stuck to bingo –

she's practiced for years

tuesday nights at the VFW hall.

the following day, well rested,

they dressed in their finest,

with tickets for wayne newton's

golden circle at the flamingo,

pre-show meet-and-greet photo

with mr las vegas included.

on wednesday they flew back

to ohio, with memories they'd

treasure forever, and an 8 x10

semigloss of wayne planting

a kiss on imogene's cheek

as she clutched a bouquet

of red roses to her best

sunday blue dress. her sister

irene, was duly impressed

and adam swore he wasn't

the least bit jealous.

after all, it's just part of the

'games that lovers play'

he said with a chuckle.

the dry months

it was so hot that day

in the canyon that

the fallen bay leaves

smelled like they

were already burning.

the creek had withered

to a disconnected

string of pools.

a solitary juvenile

steelhead trout

circled helplessly,

trapped since april,

waiting for autumn rain,

if it should ever fall again.

saturday night at the racetrack

she watches as the racers roar and spit fire

round and round the track, grimaces, notices

the guy in the leather vest and harley t-shirt

staring at the gap of her sleeveless cotton blouse

with the tea rose print where she's showing a sliver of tit.

her husband, sitting on the splintery bleachers

twenty rows below her, so absorbed in the action

on the track, doesn't notice that she left her seat

beside him half an hour before.

she smiles at the guy and he saunters over,

leans in close. she smells  the miller highlife

on his breath as he whispers in her ear.

she nods and mouths a trembling ok,

and follows him out into the darkest corner

of the parking lot, climbs into the back

of his black primered econoline van.

her husband hollers and pumps his fist

as the racecars thunder past the checkered flag,

downs the last two ounces of his beer

and looks at the empty seat beside him,

wondering just how long it could possibly take

for a woman to hit the restroom or fetch him

another beer. and she's missing all the action.

in the village, 1969

the last time i was in new york,

it wasn't at the plaza hotel

with a view of central park.

the view from room 504

at the broadway central

in the village was a light well.

the desk clerk left his perch

behind the counter in the 60 watt murk

and led us to the wheezing elevator.

he unlocked the room for us

and discovered that the previous occupant

had left his clothes hanging in the closet.

i think he was a junkie, he said,

quite possible he's dead.

he hasn't paid his room bill.

he looked over the goodwill coat

and trousers, and a couple of shirts

with a practiced eye, and said

i'll just take these, the room looks ok,

i'll let you guys have it for twelve bucks.

in advance. bathroom is down the hall.

after he left, we found some kind

of powder in a ball of aluminum foil

and a bag of empty caplets.

we went down to the street

some hippies tried to interest us

in buying some crappy weed,

mostly stems and guaranteed

to produce nothing but

a headache so we declined.

they asked where we were from.

san rafael, california we replied.

really? do you know jeff josephson?

yeah, i do. he lives down the block

from me. then we smoked a joint

with them and got a headache.

bird feeding

a red-winged blackbird,

feet aslant on cat tail rushes,

flits from the reeds to eat

rye crumbs from my hand.

a matter of conscience

O, a subversive lad was I,

Refused their cursed lies.

No missiles would I launch.

I much preferred to glide my hand

Along a certain cookie-baking

prostitute's smooth haunch.

how to sell soap

there's a hangout on the roof,

some plastic chairs and cable

spools. it must've been done

when the boss wasn't looking.

zack had forty eight hours,

a plasma television,

and a dead telephone.

and no intention to recharge it.

the pyramid a few blocks away

winked it's red midnight eye.

he cued up the video on the screen:

bamboo skeletons dance a tango

as bandoneons begin to moan

and a white sousaphone

with a flaming tongue declaims

a manifesto in a chipmunk voice falsetto:

free cantalope for antelopes,

but none for misanthropes,

and plenty of planetary razzmatazz

for any lobsters conversant with jazz.

at that moment the door to roof

flew open and roger the boss

stepped out. what the hell is this

he cried, your assignment 

was for thirty seconds of laundry

detergent. instead you hide out up here.

are you on drugs or is it some kind of

psychotic break? do i call the cops

or an ambulance? speak up son,

i don't have all night, i've got a hot date

at the rifle range with a gal who is itching

to squeeze a few rounds off my .357.

zack sat back in his patio chair

and said, this IS your spot,

don't you like it? nobody will be talkin'

bout anything else when this hits the air.

spirit of the stone

history and truth live on in stone.

in the bones of dinosaurs

at hell creek, montana

and the jungled ruins in guatamala,

the bestiaries on the walls of lascaux,

the dancers carved on the terrace

of the leper king at angkor wat.

the taliban know the truth of stone

and defaced a buddha with their cannons.

as did bonaparte's men aiming at the sphinx.

who would remember the nabateans?

or their acropolis on the limestone hill

of avdat in the negev? from peter o'toole's

silly song echoing off the walls of petra?

they left no literature, just their cities carved in stone.

do the bedouin living in their black tents or under

corrugated sheets of iron, still shepherding

their goats on the plain below, still know?

i kissed the stone of unction at golgotha

placed where the body of jesus was anointed

by joseph of aramithea and i was shocked

to find myself spilling electric tears,

adding my salt to the flood that has bathed

this stone pressed by countless lips.

i walked down through the tunneled streets

to the western wall, gazed at the weeds

that sprout in the gaps of its stony face,

waiting for the spirit of the moment to arrive.

i wrote the customary prayer on a scrap of paper

torn from my notebook and placed it in a crack

between the blocks in the customary way.

i prayed that whatever happened,

i would know the truth of it,

and eventually,

i did.

the angel under the house

they kept a marble angel

swiped from a cemetery

stashed in the crawl space

under the house, a relic

of one ill-considered night

now regretted and yet

unreturned, so daddy long legs

crept between her wings

and dust collected in the folds

of her robe. her cold white lips

slept unkissed. the plumbing

under the house was old

and dripped from time

to time, left a dark streak

from her eye down her cheek

as if she wept black tears.