refrigerator magnets and homespun silk

the sun ain't up yet

when i shuffle down the hall

and get the coffee going

make sure i put

the water in the back

-----and the coffee in the filter

a dream about dinosaurs in pajamas

talking on the radio

lingers in my predawn 5:45 half mind

i stare at the refrigerator

-most of the visible surface plastered

with snapshots held by magnets:

carolyn in texas

cambodia, jerusalem, alaska,

yosemite, enumclaw, washington

at the age of twelve.

she wore a red polka dot dress

and glared at the camera

looking fierce beside her little brother

perched on a tricycle.

nieces, nephews, grandaughters,

inlaws, old friends alive and dead,

the legendary ted, who drank himself

to death in bangkok.

the refrigerator magnets

from 49 states, the national zoo

route 66, the little bighorn battlefield,

koala crossings, the '89 world series,

lyndon johnson's family home.

a calendar magnet for the giants schedule four years ago

the obama campaign image.

yeah the one with hope writ large survives.

weddings we attended in silver springs maryland

and the one at the petaluma KOA,
my kindergarten class in brisbane in 1957,
i'm the one wearing a black t-shirt and faded jeans
i still wear much the same.

a page from a desk calendar, august 23rd, 1992

with a hand written note that says

it snowed in yellowstone today

the coffee's ready and my dream is slipping

back into the attic trunk along with

all the cobwebbed memories

of other night time fabulations

i ease down on the sofa, click on the television

gaze at the burmese puppets hanging on the wall

the miniature gilded temple sitting atop a bookshelf

a group of photographs arranged in front.

in the middle a photo of my grandmother from about 1907

she's wearing a white frock and a bouquet of daisies dangles in her hand

what a happy smiling child she seems to be.

i look out the window at the driveway, the newspaper is late again

so i pick up this week's new yorker and read the same paragraph,

hell the same sentence, over and over again.

the puppets and the big embroidered elephant from burma

stare back at me, the many buddhas smile,

i need to ask about the white marble one in the glass cabinet,

everything in this apartment has a story.

the many silk weavings hanging on the walls and doors

the home spun indigo-dyed cotton sarongs

the hallway filled with photographs from floor to ceiling

what about that navajo sand painting in the entryway

across from the big photograph of her father's farewell flight:

looking down at a PanAm 747 flying in above the goldengate bridge.

right next to that a full hill tribe woman's ensemble

bright colors stitched in red,
encrusted with hundreds of pale seeds

i think i'm awake now, the paper's here,

the television blathering heads are

rambling on about the latest shootings in oakland,

who's ringing the opening bell at the stock market,

the usual foggy morning clearing in the afternoon,

the fifteen minute delay at the toll plaza.

and now my darling has arrived.

she balances a bowl of cereal on her chest

and tucks her toes under my leg to warm them.

i rub her feet and smile back at the buddhas.

the sun is up and it's almost time to go to work

just as we are about to leave, as i start to shut off the tv,

a breaking news report, a man has stopped his SUV

on the upper deck of the bridge. he claims to have a gun

and explosives. all the lanes are stopped, we won't be getting

off the island quite yet this morning.

rats in a piano

imagine two rats trapped in a piano,

dancing on the strings,

would they compose a song?

imagine me,

sitting on a bench

along the waterfront

after a five o'clock martini

watching the aftermath

of the big parade

a sea of flesh, coarse or delicate

garbed in low cut black and orange

sunburned and tattooed

a jogger in his

cowboy print underwear

runs down the sidewalk

past the phony rocketship

oblivious to the

screams and laughter

of the cheerful drunks

who stumble and mumble

blissful non sequiturs

the giants and governor moonbeam,

triumphant………..

implausible

monster harley davidsons

roar down

the palm-lined boulevard

does anybody know

where they are going? or care?

time enough for regrets tomorrow

the guy in the bar was saying:

no leads for that fucker,

he messed me up

three stools down

a woman spoke into her phone:

i'm not even trying to compare

because we were friends

for like

…….a year

he says:

time to make some changes

it sounds like romeo is back in town

november ain't so sad today

the streams await the rains

that soon enough will flow

etching patterns in the sand:

but the elegance of fractal mathematics,

can't explain the structured chaos of my brain

a brief visit to the angkor kingdom

two identical pairs of shoes, blue, abandoned

sit side by side atop the sizzling laterite stairs

flanked by lions whose stone faces

have been softy wiped by weather, time and thieves.

snake-shaped railings resting on the knees

of gods and demons flank the causeway across the moat

some of them have shed a few of their seven cobra heads

three japanese girls strike fashion poses beside the demons

the girl in the middle wears a shirt and shorts

spangled with the stars and stripes

the stone face of the last great king looms above the entrance arch

to the last great city where a million people thrived

before the empire faded and the jungle fed upon the ruins

but the sandstone breasts of dancers carved into the walls

are still as round as they were a thousand years ago

i see a temple mountain topped by construction cranes

surrounded by a jumbled field of stones numbered with white paint

a puzzle waiting for assembly

the terrace of the elephants and the terrace of the leper king

face a long boulevard and the twelve towers of the cord dancers

where acrobats once walked on ropes and now the minibuses

cluster in the shade of sheltering trees

where vendors wait for thirsty visitors with coconuts and soft drinks

and their children flock to us, imploring: madame!

buy a scarf from me, you need these postcards, this book.

i have in french or english. where are you from madame?

buy a shirt from me, a hat, cold water

until our tuk tuk driver, Mr Baby, resting in the shade,

sees the swarm and comes to take us to the next place

out beyond the forest, out through the countryside

where water buffalos stand in ponds and the nursery rice is greening.

palm trees spike across the plains like fuzzy lollipops

as we roll past roadside stalls where gasoline

can be purchased by the liter in refilled soda bottles

the country houses walled in rough cut planks or woven mats

perch high on stilts. adorned with sky blue shutters and bannisters

perhaps a scooter and a sleeping dog a hammock

and some chickens down below

out beside the driveways, figures dressed in cast off clothes and stuffed with straw

wearing baseball hats or motorcycle helmets ward off evil spirits from the fields and home

at the temple called citadel of the women, the bandits have all fled

and we pause in the new visitors center for a cool iced coffee

before walking down the sunbaked path to see the ramayana scenes

rendered in pink sandstone, shiva on his throne

indra in his chariot pulled by three elephants

every surface crawling with leafy detail 

on the long ride back to town we stop at the land mine museum

american and russian bomb cases stand on end in rows

beside the entrance path. glass cabinets inside

the museum are stuffed with a menagerie

of mines, grenades and rockets

the admission fee and souvenirs support a school and home for child amputees

fresh victims of the unexploded ordinance still lurking in the ground.

i bought a landmine-shaped bar of soap - made in new jersey

that night a storm blacked out the lights and cable television, the air conditioning

so we sat out on the balcony, listening to the choruses of frogs,

the geckos chirping and burping, dogs barking in the distance

warm and moist, starless, dark.

wagging the doggerel

don't look now

but there's the guy

who wrestled the rhinoceros

and saved the baby from a trampling

no dear, that's preposterous

he's the one who plays piano

like thelonious, but

no matter how euphonious

that's the phoniest rug i've seen

outside the lounges in las vegas

phnom penh in the year zero plus thirty five

a ordinary high school, in a quiet neighborhood

-until the comrade citizens divided up the classrooms

with crude brick walls and hasty mortar

and renamed it Security Office 21

the torture cells are spacious,

a single metal bedframe without mattress,

an american ammunition can for a toilet,

shackles forged from rebar.

linoleum tiles in a white and yellow checkerboard,

the walls are scuffed and stained.

this is where they tortured

the doctors, teachers, engineers,

anyone who spoke a foreign language

their wives and children,

anyone suspected of being educated

-like if they wore glasses

thousands upon thousands

now the prison is the tuol sleng genocide museum.

it's still a quiet neighborhood, sizzling under a hot blue sky.

the visitors move quietly from room to room,

except the few who ignore the admonishment

to be respectful, no laughter or loud voices, please.

perhaps the giggles are just nervousness.

the ground floor mass detention cells are filled 

with hundreds of photographs mounted on display boards.

men and women, old and young, children;

some with a number tag across their chest.

there's the special clamp the guards used

to keep the prisoners' heads still for the mug shots.

the prison rules are posted on a sign:

The Security of Organization

1. You must answer accordingly to my questions

-don't turn away.

2. Don't try to hide the facts by making pretexts

this and that. You are strictly prohibited to contest me.

3. Don't be fool for you are a chap who

dare to thwart the revolution.

4. You must immediately answer my questions

without wasting time to reflect.

5. Don't tell me either about your immoralities

or the essence of the revolution.

6. While getting lashes or electrification

you must not cry at all.

7. Do nothing, sit still and wait for my orders.

If there is no order, keep quiet.

When I ask you to do something,

you must do it right away without protesting.

8. Don't make pretext about Kampuchea Krom

in order to hide your secret or traitor.

9. If you don't follow all the above rules,

you shall get many lashes of electric wire.

10. If you disobey any point of my regulations

you shall get either ten lashes

or five shocks of electric discharge.

the next site is Cheung Ek, the killing fields,

nine miles out of town.

Cheung Ek had been a farm.

now it's almost a park, green, serene

with a tower in the center

in a modern buddhist temple style.

the tower has seventeen levels of shelves,

skulls on the lower levels,

then the long bones in the middle,

a miscellany of small bones at the top

paths wind among the trees from pit to pit

where the mass graves have been exhumed.

where the earth is bare,

scraps of cloth and teeth, sandals

poke through the surface after heavy rains.

back in town, beyond the gauntlet

of new banks and cell phone shops,

the Russian Market waits

with stalls of silks and souvenirs,

kitchen implements and motorcycle parts

snacks and t-shirts, a dim emporium

for those who need or wish to shop

-and have the appetite.

the highest point in the city is Wat Phnom,

the founding temple restored once more,

crowns a man-made wooded hill

where monkeys trying to cadge a snack

chase the visitors on a switch-backed path.

A sleepy elephant waits beside a tree

for tourists to book a "once in a lifetime ride"

or snapshot opportunity.

Inside the temple, is a fragrant darkness,

with muted frescos on the walls and ceiling

illuminated by flame-shaped fluorescent lights

and those tall yellow temple candles.

citizens and travelers sit with heads bowed,

murmuring or silent, feet folded underneath

or to the side, hands pressed palm to palm

breathing slowly in the dim room

atop the hill, the city's shaded heart.

secrets of the universe

These?

oh they're dandelion greens. you can wilt them with some bacon fat, they're not bad

but I'm not going to eat 'em, they're for my iguana

and he likes 'em plain. iguanas are totally vegetarian you know. except for a few crickets.

but no soybean products for him; or me!! forget about it.

that monsanto corporation dickin' around with the genetic modification

making frankenfood and shit......it's just---- too creepy..

there's always weird stuff going on in secret

like, do you know about the phantom time hypothesis? the phantom time hypothesis?

no?

wel-l-l-l-l, dig it. the early middle ages never happened.

these historians made it up..... it's all fake.

a con-spir-acy.

when they made the gregorian calendar,

they just concocted all the stuff that supposedly happened, for like, 300 years.

after the roman empire collapsed, before the real middle ages?

it's all bullshit. fiction

you know, it's, it's....just......weirdness happening in secret.

like one time i was out in the middle of nevada and i saw this tree

and it had thousands of shoes hanging up in the branches

and then at this cafe right outside area 51,

there's a tow truck with a flying saucer hanging from the hook.....seriously

and and inside the cafe, they had alien burgers,

i'm a not a vegetarian, i just eat food that's safe, because of

you know what: mad cow disease

my iguana is a vegetarian though,

except for the crickets.....

sometimes i can hear those crickets outside at night

like at that ghost motel in nevada,

they have all those secret weapons and slot machines and brothels in nevada

so i was sitting there in a lawn chair looking at the moon and listening to those crickets

and I got to thinking

what is life? you know?

life is like, like

contrary to the second law of thermodynamics

because life actually, actually, decreases or maintains it's entropy

by feeding on negative entropy.

so no heat can enter or leave.

but my iguana, he's a heat lovin' fool!

he likes to sit in the sun.

 eatin' these dandelion greens.

see he's got it figured out. i wish i did.......

because out there in the desert, you see some amazing things

i was looking at these trout that were just hovering' in a little desert stream

and there were all these hikers looking at some petroglyphs

and then i saw this big ball of garter snakes gettin it on. awesome.

fifty fornicatin' garter snakes.

out in the wild desert. i mean, nature is just so...

 but people... you know....they just....well

 this little dude, must been about five years old, was tired and cryin'

"why daddy why? i can't take it anymore, i have to crawl."

then his mom lights up a cigarette and goes

ok, enough nature, let's go to the gift shop.

this other time i was in the jungle

and i saw a buddha carved into a cliff...incredible

then these tourists go riding by on elephants

and i was like, what the fuck is this----?

but it was so beautiful there, and the people who live there

were planting rice and it was just so ........peaceful or ....I don't know...

and oh!

they have these dogs and the dogs just look at you

and you can see it in their eyes

they aren't just normal dogs, i mean they have this look

like they're really really smart.

those dog's eyes,     it's like they know something that we........

well, i mean, those people on the elephants

with their cameras and safari gear, do they ever see it?

but anyway, now i have to think of us as part of a self/nonself discrimination.

it feels like some kind of path dynamic in a semi arid system

it's all out there in the jungle and the desert, see?

i'm just hanging tight to scraps of observation,

a tolerance for chance. it's not like chess,

but i''ll take a piece of chess pie, unh huh

a little slice of oklahoma home cookin!

do you think there's a god up there?

I don't know, it doesn't really matter

because in the end, aren't we all

just........dust?

half life

More than half my life ago,

-now- one Mayday in LA,

we carried red flags and banners,

and marched down Wilshire Boulevard.

Proud, and scared -we didn’t have a permit-

and a three-deep wall of riot-geared LAPD

spanned the street. They charged

and clubbed the marchers to the ground.

Half life -uranium decays to lead

not gold, but I thought that I might

have found the elusive stone,

the philosopher's magic key

hidden in Mao's little red book

while half a world away

his freshly embalmed corpse

rested in a crystal coffin.

And we clamored in disgust

that the revolution was betrayed

that China was headed down

the road to capitalism,

but that didn't seem to matter

to the Guatemalan steel worker

who sheltered us in his house

or his wife who fed us some 

of the white beans and pork chops

she cooked right on the burner

of the stove. She wrapped them up

in foil and packed it all in his lunch box

for his graveyard shift at US Steel.

The book meant nothing to the

bandana'ed Filipinas lined up outside

the garment district sweatshops,

or the red-eyed men waiting

in the unemployment office in Watts,

they said: we've got some

guns at home, let's rise up today.

And we said no, brother, the conditions

aren’t ripe, first we need to study Mao,

to prepare the way for the revolution…

They looked at us and shrugged,

said -don't go selling wolf tickets

'round here then son, you understand?

when you get serious, we're down.

we're serious as death, you dig?

And we said, come down to MacArthur Park,

on May 1st, we're gonna march, we're gonna

show the world that even here, in the belly

of the imperialist beast, the Revolution's coming,

and it isn’t gonna be a rocket parade in Red Square,

-those Russian gangsters sold out long ago.

We're for real, check out our newspaper, see?

They just looked at us and said, yeah, we’ll see.

But the steel worker gave us a floor to sleep on

and the meat packers from El Salvador

fed us fried bologna sandwiches on wonder bread.

They took care of us. We fed them red flag dreams.

You can rent flowers at the entrance to Mao's tomb

and buy souvenirs of the great helmsman at the exit.

He's better as an icon than a ruler, like most of them.

If you prefer Thomas Jefferson or Abraham Lincoln

you can get a souvenir of our star-spangled heroes

at the Smithsonian. Flip it over and look down

in the corner and you'll probably see this inscription:

Made in China.