Crossroad

Jimmy coasts up

to the crossroad.

A crow sits atop

the eight-sided red sign.

The road to the left

goes to Armageddon,

the one to the right

goes to the newly

constructed

national prison.

On the road

straight ahead

the eastern sky

is blackening, night falling.

The pink glow

of a slot machine

palace beckons,

where the house wins

ninety-nine times

out of a hundred.

The crow dances left,

bobs right, flips around,

aims her beak

towards the gleam

on the western horizon.

Jimmy figures his odds

are better at the slots

than legendary locations,

and accelerates dead ahead

towards the Nazareth casino.

As he passes,

the crow chuckles,

squirts a crap on his hood,

and flies off to her cozy nest

where the western sun

is reddening into night.

We invest our souls and dreams in stone:

We invest our souls

and dreams in stone:

the ten admonishments

Moses brought down

from the mountain,

the silk-shrouded Kaaba

that we circle seven times

at the Great Mosque in Mecca.

The walls that seek to seal empires

from influence, barbarians,

and strawberry harvesters.

The prayers we slide in the gaps

between the limestone blocks

that remain of the Second Temple.

The standing Buddha

that the Taliban tried to erase 

with cannons could not eclipse

the millions of Buddhas carved or cast

honored with candles and incense

and draped with yellow silk sashes.

We prize the eternally incorruptible

property of gold, but it never

touches the heart like the electric

current that ran from the nape of my neck

to the wings of my shoulder blades

when I kissed the cold marble

that covers the slab where Jesus

was laid and rose from the dead.

Pharaohs and emperors,

eminent statesmen and presidents,

bronze generals on bronze horses

all aspire to outlast

the strange creatures

limned in the Burgess shale.

Will they even last as long

as the rotund Venus figurine

carved from a Mammoth tusk

in the Pleistocene?

Does Lincoln now gaze sadly

up the Mall at the Capitol

where lesser men scrabble

for loot and booty?

Memory will not preserve

their battle as long as the wasp

and spider trapped in amber

a hundred million years ago.

We surely have a date

with some insensate stone,

a collision with some asteroid

arced our way by Jupiter's

slingshot. It's happened before.

I once had the pleasure to see

and touch the fossilized skull

of a Triceratops that occupied

the entire top of an industrial desk

locked in an obscure storeroom

of the Earth Science Building at Cal.

He never saw the fatal asteroid coming.

If another one falls, we probably will.

Perhaps some Eve and Adam 2.0

will gaze in wonder at whatever remains

of cities half-devoured by jungles or

smothered under ash dunes and cinders.

I look each day at a smaller wonder,

a fossilized leaf I split from a layer

of Eocene silt that now sits under

a palm-sized plastic Triceratops,

beside the laptop on my desk.

A message received:

all life is by chance

and sometimes by chance,

rendered in stone.

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.