valentine

a notebook tumbles

down the freeway

flapping pages.

some lost staccato

rhythm punctuating

memories of roseanne.

we made snapdragon

flower finger puppets

with tiny voices.

threw rocks

into the shit pond

behind the milking barn.

whispered about what we heard

the sixth graders say about

what boys did with girls.

we had a vague idea

of the mechanics,

but not the mystery.

she got lichens

in her long dark hair

climbing a tall oak,

spilled her froggy chuckle

when she found an

ensatina salamander

clinging to the bark

high up in the branches.

roseanne could climb a tree

as good as any boy and was
more adept at catching bluebellies

with her darting hands.

the farm was sold

before we ever made it

to sixth grade ourselves.

but i climbed an oak so high

that i could reach through

the topmost leaves

and touch the sky

and carved a heart

with an arrow through it

and m.c. loves r.o.

in the middle.

no farmhouse

no snapdragons,

no barn, no cows,

no shit pond.

that oak is still there,

although i doubt that

that i could climb it.

dry time

i gave her

a bottle

of certified

holocene water.

filtered through

mastodon  bones

and smiling

saber cat teeth.

a bouquet of

spinifex grass,

nourished,

with triple filtered

toilet water.

yosemite bloomed

with saguaro cactus

in ten gallon hats,

and peacemaker .45's

slung low across their hips.

long horn skulls.

bearded ragged barefoot

crawling men.

with blistered lips

and tongues.

the corn was dead

by june.

i dreamt that we

were pterodactyls

and you wanted to fly

………upside down

and so we clasped

our talons and fell

spinning through blue vapor,

towards

the blood warm sea.

a moment on highway 58

december after christmas,

counting stars and ants,

tumble weeds…….

knife-carved lovers' names

scarred on picnic tables,

the ghost-chalked cottonwoods

of the tehachapi cement mill

recreation grounds.

i stood across the road

trying to thumb a ride

to furnace creek.

the sunset lit

the abandoned

richfield station,

gleaming on the pumps

still quoting regular for

twenty nine point nine a gallon.

my coat was too thin

for december

desert mountain wind.

i had a story:

about a beach of sugar

washed with

coca cola waves,

titanium spiders

scuttling across

discarded credit card offers

………..peace treaties,

couch pennies,

and broken promises.

the audience responded

with the uneasy squeak

of chairs on a waxy floor.

untitled 404

this brain's equipped

with salt and vinegar

flavored memory chips.

where the hammer

pounds that fickle tyrant:

unconscious mind.

i'd rather be where 

fact slips into fiction

or doubles back,

a bus ride to paradise

with a lifetime carried

in a paper bag.

flying with the snails,

casting daisies to the devil.

tracing the dimples

of venus with my tongue

before the last black sand

trickles through the glass.

come with me,

with drums and butterflies.

take off your pants.

we'll chalk mandalas

on the ceiling, and

fantasies on the floor.

naked as a buckeye

draped with monarchs

a fluttering of black on orange.

or shall we be like crickets

singing to the frogs

who wait patiently to eat them.

recipes for dreams and blood streams

Because

it was all Daniel

in the lion's den,

and miniature loaves

of Wonder Bread. Black

widow spiders in the vines.

and I didn't have a broom

to ride to see the Wizard of Oz

so I'd have to walk.

Past indian chief

hood ornaments

and Coca Cola bottling plants

with a window onto Main Street.

Unaware of the avocado rugs

and burnt tangerine refrigerators

and Farrah Fawcett hair

and nine Middle Eastern wars

I had to look forward to.

Because my soul

was destined to be

a California river,

in flood or dribble

and extermination standoffs

and sweet nights in the desert

or under sun-striped

redwood shadows

on June fuck afternoons.

Meanwhile, the blood code

passed me by, these molecules

of my body arranged like this

for a very temporary while.

Like a thirty minute sunrise

before the spectrum

shrinks from the sublime

indescribable hues

to the daily monotony of blue.

With an appointment

at the crematorium or the graveyard.

(date to be determined.)

I dreamt of elk.

and smelt their fur

and felt their rut

before the bleating

of the clock erased

the meadow and the street.

Ah, the orbit and the axis

shared with prostitutes

and plankton,

what could be more sweet?

Soon enough to be forgotten

like a candy wrapper in the street.

remainders, reminders, and epitaphs

shoes and luggage,

brands.

bags of cans that bend a man's back,

marquees, flyers, graffiti:

I'm this, I'm this, I'm that.

a vegetable?

a bicycle?

a party or a capricorn?

what movies do you like?

I see..........

I can't concentrate

it seems that

............I'll explode

and leave behind

some bloody

scraps:

news

and overheard conversations

billboards,

xeroxed ramblings taped to street poles

airports

couples

failures

daily wonders

cold snaps

you?

mobile homes and phones

a shattered boombox

patched with bandaids,

and a keyboard missing

the escape key,

are crammed against the wire

of a stolen shopping cart.

the skeleton

of a baby stroller,

a deflated red balloon

hanging from a string,

eight crayons

in a marlboro box:

three reds two blacks

two blues and a gray.

the guy with haunted eyes

and nice shoes

crouches beside the cart

mumbling insanities

into a dead cell phone.

-captain. captain.

i told you.

there was a face on it.

the wall, the wall,

the wall of jericho.

she had a trumpet,

the virgin queen.

the bride behind

the veil. i told you.

it was a trumpet,

a long stemmed lily,

and the face on the wall

was red black and blue.

i saw it. so did you.

now it's here in the alley.

he strokes a spotted puppy

who wiggles and shakes

which jingles a set of

army dog tags on his collar.

holds the phone

in front of the pup

and says, tell him boy,

tell him. the dog barks.

a voice on the speaker:

john, are you there?

where are you son?

where are you?

the phone wasn't dead

after all.