the vacation

hannibal smith

sold elephant shoes

and anteater hats

to tourists from kansas

down at the wharf.

-just like the zoo!

or republican

wife swapping parties

no one need know

what you've done

just blame it on ozone

or jet lag, funny

mushrooms they put

in the food at the hyatt?

back home,

it's just the vapor

behind the curtain,

the studio lights

and microphone,

the script:

fear and fluff and

weather delivered

with shining hair

and teeth. the camouflage

of power ties and cleavage,

up-to-date wrecks and rain,

feeding on tears

and celebration

all the scandals

and vandals,

and puppies!

cuddled not fried.

the barbarian binge

left behind with a generous tip

for the maid, insurance

to keep her from blabbing.

gypsy

she said

-i'll give you mars for a nickel,

you can retire that itch

from the street.

it's scorpion month,

so i'll give you

the others for free.

my neighbors are just,

white sightless crawfish

crawling on the bones

of the men who vanished

in the embers circled by stones.

they gorged

on the violins' tears

caught in the orbit i conjured

with flying silk and floating hair,

remembering:

other camps other fires other songs

gone fishing

rod and a bucket in hand, canvas hat;

the halibut seeker

crosses battery street

on tuesdays and fridays.

the doorway men sleep on cardboard

and cradle their forty-ounce colt 45's

the parrots are screaming in sue bierman park,

the software developer people gossip and gawk,

talking up schemes for embarrassing moments

at the karaoke night planned for the evening.

fisherman walks straight ahead, they don't see him,

they swivel and stare at a girl wearing high-heeled boots

when she slips on a patch of wet leaves

and flashes a glimpse of her victoria's secret.

the parrots dive on a pigeon and squabble over the stump

of a half-eaten bagel -noah's best- on the sidewalk.

the fisherman reaches the dock and rigs up his rod,

today might be lucky, if so,

he'll be in good company

with the red-tailed hawk

riding the updrafts on the face of the tower,

who likes to eat squab on tuesdays and fridays.

sputnik

when chrome was chrome

the meteors cried.

when sputnik winked

and pierced the heart

of cassiopeia,

we sat in the johnson grass

and smelled the sand.

waiting. too late. no beep.

the silver orb had burned up

months before.

we sang:

it was a one-eyed one-horned

flying purple people eater

instead.

chased fireflies.

picked june bugs off the screen door.

spit watermelon seeds at each other.

shrieked.

ran beyond the reach of light.

and stopped.

flatland

The oranges are still green

in flatland, the ghosts still dusty

on the dirty side of the road.

The tumbleweed bony-hilled

sour milk-skied sun-scorched

old motel land.

Orphaned cotton bolls

trapped between the grey clods

of barren fields, the weary oaks,

the cool scent of ditch water

when the sun goes down.

The husks of failed businesses

that must have been

someone's dream.

The cheery colors of the

national franchised chains.

The oleanders in the median strip

of highway 99 are gone;

along with drive-in searchlights

whirling in the night.

But back seat babies

must still be around,

because the billboards scream

about the evils of abortion.

The night is kinder, the blight unseen,

out on the two-lane county roads

with walnut orchards on one side

and alfalfa on the other,

the scent of raisins drying

under the vines, and moths

fluttering in the street light

at a crossroads market.

It's a blood memory:

the remnant of the mosquito bite

that infected me in 1952

with encephalitis, brain fever.

one night at the drive-in

out at Noble avenue and Road 156.

Now it's a weed patch

with a rusty sign:

Sequoia Autotheatre

and hanging from the marquee

there’s a new sign,

Available:

eleven acres zoned

for highway commercial.

how to spoil a plot

your vacuum cleaner is plotting

with the dishwasher, saving all the dirt

hiding under the bed,

the gin dregs in your tumblers,

sharing all of it with the toaster

who was never able to keep secrets.

so now the couch and carpet know

and they're laughing as they pass it on

to your neighbor's dog.

who tells the goldfish and the towels.

it's all recorded. on the radio of your car

from where it's transmitted

through the underground network

of powerlines and water pipes.

only the sewers declined

to participate in the scheme.

so you do at least have the comfort

that your shit is safe. for now.

i understand the phone company

is working with the government

to tap into that mess. this might affect

your credit rating and taxes.

divorce is not uncommon in these cases

or worse. beware. if your guns

are talking to your spouse's cellphone

in the wee hours of the night,

you might not be breathing

when your alarm clock goes off at six.

there are precautions you can take,

in the evening, before you go to bed

sneak up on your television,

be sure it doesn't see you, because

the schemes get hatched

while you are presumably asleep.

so if you slip into the room unseen

and quietly pull the plug,

the conspirators will have to rely

on dixie cups and string.

and those are really easy

to intercept. just get your own

piece of string and paper cup,

tie in along the line, and presto,

you're as good as uncle sam

peeking in the windows

of baton twirlers, used car salesmen

plumbers, waitresses and cabbies.

always protect yourself with foil! it may be

old fashioned, but it's always worked for me.

epitaph

the tombstone was a piece

of broken sidewalk

in a patch of california poppies

a neon purple spray paint epitaph:

his soul is with the dandelions

and the stardust and the bones

of pterodactyls now, soaring over

the naked stones of cities

where he once roamed

with one eye on the traffic

and the other on the girls.

he should have kept both

eyes on the limousine

with the driver on the phone,

he'd still be here

outside the starbuck's

selling songs and poems

to mom and pop from fresno

here to eat some crab

and score some souvenirs:

bobble head dolls

and bumper stickers,

mementos to take home.

he didn't though,

so now he's gone,

buried under a slab

of concrete scavenged

from the site of where

the latest street was torn up

to replace a leaking

gas line pipe. his girlfriend

from the gift shop

goes out to his grave

every week or two

with a bag of plastic figurines:

dinosaurs and saints,

baseball heroes

and racecars,

whatever she can swipe

when the asshole manager

gets distracted playing

shooter games on his phone.

the allosaurus rides a harley

the shortstop hugs the virgin mary

hello kitty wears a crown

of shooting stars and poppies

and the shopgirl croons

sweet idiot, where are you now?