Some thoughts on Fig Monday

 A world reckoned

in dollars per barrel,

replaced the blood

of lambs and doves

on the altar.

A world now wrecked

for the sake of men

who’ve forsaken

their obligation to all

or any covenants

with God or simply

humanity -broken.

The tables that need

to be toppled today

are the gargantuan

beasts in the

boardrooms

and war rooms

of the present day

gods of Mammon.

Are the planks milled

from the trunks and

flanks of fruitless fig trees?

Polished and gleaming,

each place setting

adorned with crystal

goblets of spring water

ready to bless the

doctrines and documents

that send explosives

whistling from the bellies

of bombers and fighters,

destroyers and carriers

to blast schools and plazas

and hospitals, just like

the rehearsal in Gaza.

God stopped demanding

blood sacrifice long ago.

All trees can bear fruit

if we give them water

and use actual bullshit

to enrich the soil instead

of the slavering beings who

eagerly forfeit their humanity

for power and riches.

By dawns early light

The red-stained horizon

quickly brightens from

brass into blue and

the thrushes rush

into brave songs

proclaiming desire.

The hiss of the freeway

whispers a traffic report

into the sweet hush

of vernal-ish sunrise.

A dog barks at the 

garbage truck’s moan.

I’m not going to turn

on the television yet.

The newspapers that plop

onto the driveway before

the blinding sun peeks up

are enough. Quiet. Like books.

Bourbon Street

Her voice sounds

more whiskey-soaked

than lacquered

with daiquiris as it

floats out the doors

onto Bourbon Street.

Covering a forty-six

Year-old song by

The Pretenders:

Got brass in pocket

Got bottle, I’m gonna use it

Intention, I feel inventive

Gonna make you,

make you notice.

Yeah, how could I not?

Especially when you get

to the chorus that proclaims

I’m special, so special.

That’s a wry assertion

to make on Bourbon Street.

Where half the businesses

feature some kind of invocation

of voodoo. Voodoo chicken

and daiquiris, Free samples.

Jello shots, Voodoo pharmacy,

voodoo dispensary. Voodoo t-shirts.

I wonder, if they have

some kind of voodoo fix for

The blood thirsty, fist pumping

maniacs on Fox News?

Dolls and pins?

Beads are still hanging from

the wrought iron balconies,

the party lingers on long after

the embers of Fat Tuesday

have dwindled and cooled

into the ashes of Wednesday

And the night air is scented

with the vapors and spliffs

of spring break.

We know, we walk past

the posters and stickers

plastered with skulls,

the girls dressed in sparkly

micro minis and the bros

are already quite primed

for primo party time

In the French Quarter.

Another relic lyric from the sixties

blares from another doorway,

“Been a long time,

been a long time,

been a long lonely, lonely,

lonely, lonely, lonely time”

And now we are escorted

into a high ceilinged room 

with overhead fans and

white cotton table cloths.

Waiters in black suits and bow ties

filling goblets and answering

questions about menu selections

and wines or entrees with many

a Yes Ma’am or Yes Sir.

I want a Sazerac and oysters

if they have them raw

on the half shell.

Crab and crayfish, blackend

redfish, the traditional bounty

of the gulf and the delta.

Is that not what I should

ask for here? Perhaps not?

I haven’t forgotten the possibility

of immanent mortality that

drew us here in the first place.

We ride up St Charles Street,

under the wide oaks that cover

the street like an arbor.

Perhaps the same tunnel

that sheltered slavery’s whip

on naked black backs

and the fine horses hauling

carriages and ice wagons

In a time not yet lost

from memory and sorrow.

We bear that in mind

when we now pray, every day:

God, help us, to find our way,

to vanquish evil, in our hearts

and our actions, our consequences,

In this day, this hour, this moment.

Bourbon Street promises

a party, a time that you’ll

never forget or perhaps

never remember. It’s voodoo.

With beads and free drinks.

And songs that attempt

to resurrect yesterdays. 

What's in a name?

My phone says the dainty white

star-shaped flowers beside the path

are named Fremont’s Deathcamas.

The blue-flowered ones

are Pacific Hound’s Tongue.

“what's in a name?”

Oh much more than scent.

John C Fremont, the explorer

the so-called Pathfinder

has dozens of species named

after him, the avid collector

on his Western expeditions

in California, Nevada and Oregon.

Counties, cities, even mountains

are named after him and 

his frequent guide, Kit Carson.

Perhaps there should also be

some other locations named

after something else they collected,

murders and massacres. Like the

Sacramento River Massacre.

of close to a thousand people.

Participant Kit Carson later

called it “a perfect butchery”

Perhaps a monument to

the Klamath Lake Massacre,

or the Sutter Buttes Massacre.

The bright gleaming leaves

on the viridian underbrush

are fresh sprouting poison.

-oak. Like the golden

oak leafs that Army majors

wear on their collars. Until

they’re promoted to lieutenant

colonel. Then they go silver.

Like Colonel Korn, who was

assistant to Colonel Cathcart

in Catch-22. They decided

that only soldiers who

don’t ask questions

are allowed to ask questions.

You see a lot of interesting

forbs and sedges, shrubs

and flowers, on King Mountain.

And think about what's in a name.