Winter solstice innovations

There's someone under

that thick synthetic plaid

on some kind of improvised

sleeping pad.

Man or woman unrevealed,

head nestled on a stained

white vinyl office chair

tipped on it's back

that does double duty

as a pillow and a dolly

for his or her possessions:

goodwill boots and shopping bags.

Second block, second sleeper,

upright soft skin suitcase

unzipped so the sleeper's

head is sheltered in the suitcase

from the pre dawn December

wind - which has whipped

the golden ginko leaves

off the street trees

and sprinkled them

festively on the man or woman

hidden under a blanket 

with his or her head

snuggled in the

once upon a time

smart and stylish

carry on nylon luggage.

Body of evidence

That lips remember

more than toes,

for that kiss

purchased with betrayal

for a moment's bliss.

That half a century

can be dissolved

by the scent

of orange groves

on late april nights.

That warm arms

are more comforting

than well meant words.

That our world begins

and ends

-at the boundaries

of our skins.

That the scar on my left knee

from a farm house tumble

still itches when the weather is

as hot and dry as that 

summer in the valley day.

That I have to mute the radio

if certain songs come up

before tears steal my vision

and my throat.

That I can only fly in dreams

but I still recall the fall

when the branch of the cottonwood

snapped

and I landed on my back

breathless, alive, unhurt.

Lead Story

Back in those days of Brylcreem and chrome

and linebackers breaking bones,

and Gordon's double martinis

to wash away the troubles of the day,

lead was in the cheerful pink paint

on baby's bedroom walls and toys,

and the infinite blue skies were full of the sweet stink

of premium gasoline fortified with tetraethyl lead

and Marshall Dillon outdrew the bad guys,

hit 'em with his Colt 45 right between the eyes

in TVland’s Dodge City, Kansas alias Melody Ranch,

just north of Los Angeles where it was always high noon,

then downed a shot of rot gut

at Miss Kitty's Long Branch Saloon,

(a CBS soundstage down

Highway 99 in Studio City.)

Meanwhile, in a tiny Hollywood shop,

on Santa Monica Boulevard

Eugene Stoner and his assistants,

Jim Sullivan and Bob Fremont

crafted the embryonic Armalite AR-15.

The requirement was for a weapon

that could pierce a steel helmet

at 500 yards. The Army didn't like it

but the Air Force did, especially Curtis-

bomb-em-back-to-the-stone-age-LeMay.

Marshall Dillon, Hoss Cartwrigt, and Paladin,

Rowdy Yates and Maverick

kept the small screen blazing

with their six-shooter Colts and rifles

and we all gathered round

the blue glow in the living room

as they faced off in the dusty street out in front

of the saloon and Miss Kitty waited patiently,

and the poker players paused their game

to watch from the wooden sidewalks.

And we all knew how it would end

because the good guys always got the drop.

And the bad guys were bank robbers and rustlers,

not unhappy teenagers or political fanatics.

You could tell who was who

by the color of their hats.

For His Majesty Rama IX

I dressed in black

for the midnight flight

and black was all

I packed.

to join the reverent

mass convened

in love and sorrow

for the fallen king.

Lancome and Prada

vanished from

the giant screens

above the plazas

and the small ones

on the Skytrain.

Instead they streamed

the solemn funeral

procession as

the golden royal chariot

bore the golden urn

to the golden crematorium.

And the people clad in black

gathered in the shelter

of the lotus-crenelated walls

of the grand palace

watched and wept

in the morning

sun and shadow

as the chariot

pulled by two hundred

men dressed in red

rolled so very very slowly,

sadly, to the final site.

By dusk, the black tributaries

of mourners had swollen

through the streets

and alleys to the parks

and temples, the squares

and monuments, the streams

became rivers pooling at the places

where they waited for hours

to place sandalwood flowers

on the ceremonial pyres

in honor of His Majesty

and his life.

And I thought about

one of his projects

that we had visited

a few years ago,

where coffee and melons

and cucumbers

and other good things

had replaced the poppy.

A rainstorm had suddenly descended

so we dashed under a shed

and watched the rain

bounce like diamonds

on the pavement.

And just as suddenly

it stopped and steamy vapors

drifted up into the trees.

He was a kind and good man

dedicated to his people

and they to him.

my favorite images of the king

are the one where he

was playing a saxophone,

and the one with his faithful camera

and his finger poised in thought.

another tale from the trash bin on the corner

He's standing there.

next to the trash bin on the corner.

unsteady, kind of shaky on his feet.

breathing through his mouth.

Worn out jeans.

rubber-handled pliers in his back pocket.

flipping through a magazine

resting on top of the bin.

One page at a time. quickly.

turn turn turn. lick a finger. turn.

his hands tremble badly.

he struggles to turn the pages.

keeps at it. every single page.

until he gets to the last page

and puts the magazine

back in the trash bin.

He walks across the street,

each shuffling steps a pain?

barely makes it before

the signal changes.

I want to know what magazine

was so compelling, what feature

was he searching for?

so i retrieve it and have a look.

The cover's gone, but i turn the pages.

An ad for Kohler fixtures.Subzero refrigerators.

a story about a Japanese-style house

in the mountains of North Carolina.

Leviton smart lighting controls.

a glass house floating above Silicon Valley.

a window that incorporates a fireplace.

a young woman dressed for Vogue or Cosmo.

The footer on the pages

identify this magazine

as the September/October 2017

issue of Dwell magazine.

Eeny meany miney mo

The finger of catastrophe

and miracles is playing

eeny meany miney mo.

Itchy on the trigger

or teasing with a tickle,

the unsuspecting

never expecting

to be torched

or tossed or spared.

Prayers on the wind

climb high with the embers

hoping that God remembers

that mercy sometimes

requires a finger on the scale.

what you hear

all the lyrics

that i hear

now sound

apocalyptic.

but when the sun

hit the poplar trees

this morning

the wild parrots

screamed as usual.

for them i believe

it's a chorus

born of joy.

to us it sounded

like a ruckus.

the calendar

feels like a clock,

the unimaginable

coming round and round

at the stroke of midnight

as we begin each day

in darkness, waiting

for the dawn,

in faith that it will come.

and the light will shine

on blood and flowers,

and sparkle on the waters

and the towers

of this new babylon.