if trees had lips

if trees had lips

do you need a fly's eye to see it

or a squirrel's ears to hear it?

what the sandstone has to say

about the way that water cuts

through notions of eternity.

the trees know this better than we do.

even the ones beside the road

we used to ride on big red fat-tired bikes.

some trees had rusted strands

of barbed wire embedded

in the trunks where the bark

grew over it and left a scar

like tight pressed lips

that refuse to speak

about the rod and gun club

that posted all the signs

that warned of fines and prosecution

for trespassers and violators

of property. they had exclusive rights

to hunt for meat and trophies.

antlers nailed to the trees

around their rustic camp

a string of bare sixty watt bulbs

drooping from limb to limb

a pool of light under the bay laurels

that spice the whiskey, beer 

and t-bone scented air.

they left behind for us to find

some mildewed porno magazines,

with leprous swollen pages

that we carefully pried apart

to gawk and gaze at mottled images

of women doing things

that enflame the minds of men.

why then did they tack the centerfolds

on the trunks of those old trees

and pepper them with twenty-twos

aiming for the tits and crotch?

the parts that we most wished to see,

the curves and crannies of female anatomy?

the bulltail ranch hunting camp

was stripped from it's dim hollow

when george lucas bought the property

and changed the name to skywalker.

if the oaks and bays could speak,

part the lips of those old scars

and move their heartwood tongues

they might laugh about the hunters

and spit out the bullets that pierced

their knobby skins. i hope those men

are dead, and with any luck

their rotted cocks and livers

are fertilizing the roots

of buckeyes, bays, and poison oak

what fits into a soda can

when the youngest are the first to die

how small is the urn, will the ashes

fit into a twelve ounce soda can?

cremains sounds like a non-dairy creamer,

the box should have a black carnation

if all the hair and skin and toe nails I've shed

were gathered together in a great big pile……

i wonder how big that would be?

bigger than my present sixty one year old body? probably.

it'll join those sheddings soon enough.

not to mention the unmentionables

that have already rejoined the biosphere

and i can imagine that a day could come

when a smear of dick cheney's shit

or a shard of  vlad the impaler's skull

a snippet of mother theresa's pubic hair

could be stirred into a jar

of genetically modified stem cells

and then……… what? it's not preordained.

they might just turn out to be:

the mean village dog catcher

or a border agent, a cashier, or a banker

a cook or a librarian

none of that will come of me

no clones or kids,

just this. and all the bits and bytes

that outlive the ink and platinum fiber prints

not to mention this flesh and bone.

well, all those ones and zeros

occupy some molecules, somewhere,

in that sunlit upland called the cloud

and even those days that bathed

in a golden summer of oaks and grass and lust,

-that went on for years …….and years

all these little scraps of thought

or images….mute pixels,

they have an actual physical existence:

molecules on servers.

and if you gathered them all up,

bit by bit by byte,

i bet they'd weigh a lot less,

than twenty one grams.

caucasianville

a hunting knife, a cell phone, and a wad of keys on his belt

he's well prepared for many locks or gutting any fish

that might be swimming on the bus.

or calling 911 in case of sharks.

he's got heavy boots to stomp on rats,

or kick the ass of anyone foolish enough

to giggle at his tats: dragons eating popcorn

and a mermaid with lightning bolts for hair

he can't remember how he got them

and doesn't really care.

they serve their purpose: provoking fights

with wimpy guys who stare.

it's gotten so much worse

since his girl hocked his old camaro

with the rotten muffler

and the blistered decals

peeling off the back window:

a harley davidson logo

and the battle flag of dixie

a place he's never been but feels akin to.

she sold it to some mexican

who'll mess it up for sure.

she said it was the only way

to scrape enough together for his bail.

he grabbed her greasy ponytail

bent his face down close to hers,

said she'd have to earn it back.

at twenty bucks a pop

in the alley behind the tavern.

he was gonna go there now

and put out the word.

so she better get ready for business.

and don't come knocking

on the door til you got a hundred bucks

and a bottle of jack. you hear me?

yes, but billy please, don't make me do this.

you got the money for my car?

no billy, but i couldn't let you sit in jail

you said to get you out of there.

i tell you to sell my car? huh?

so now you gotta pay.

you're gonna be my dog.

you already got the beggin' part slicked

now let's see you sit. roll over.

that's right, baby, just like a mutt

now turn around and wag your tail

i need some satisfaction.

i been two weeks in jail.

right here billy? can't we go home?

no, i want it now, doggy, so get those

pants down, i ain't got all night.

i gotta score some crank

and you got some work to do.

you need some encouragement

to get you in the mood?

no billy, i'll do whatever you want

i love you. see? is this right? like this?

just like you told me.

i'm ready for you darling.

yeah. just like that. now bark.

vientiane

she, with a complexion

somewhere between honey and old ivory,
a french vanilla shade

wishes that it was lighter, whiter.

we, freckled and speckled,

bearing the damage of age and sun

are astonished. that skin so flawless

could be something to be rejected.

easy to think that it's just another aspect

of desire to acquire the goods,

the cars and clothes,

the dazzle that gleams

from every screen and billboard.

along the waterfront plaza

that flanks the mekong,

frayed and faded

hammer and sickle flags flap

limply in the lazy breeze.

the global trekkers, sweating
and red-faced in the heat

wander up the streets

from bar to guest house

seeking the cheap exotica,

the party treats made possible

where some people eek a living

on a dollar or two a day.

five story shopping malls

have elbowed the old markets aside,

but who am i to decry their ambition

to climb aboard modernity's ride,

is that just another version

of colonial pride? 

a paternalistic arrogance,

permitting me to patronize?

perhaps. but something sacred

is being swept away. the temples

still remain, surrounded by the edifices

of banks and ministries, the emporiums

of generic goods.

i think that's why we come here,

to see what still remains:

the crumbling french colonial buildings

and the mekong flowing strong,

before the foreign funded

hydroelectric powerplants

sap its chocolate colored spine.

vientiane, twice sacked and burned

by neighboring siam, a capitol of capital

where money buys a girlfriend,

a factory, a mine. still as pretty as pale honey

or old ivory, but yearning to be white.

Luang Prabang, Lao People's Democractic Republic

where the river khan snakes into the mekong sits luang prabang,

a peninsula thrust between the jungled hills where history and beauty

entwine with spirit and throngs of tourists stroll the litter-free streets.

sidewalks neatly bricked and tiled in terra cotta front the silk shops

and guest houses, cafes where the french colonial past can still be tasted

in the pastries and savored with a cup of the exquisite lao mountain coffee.

preferably at a sidewalk table with a view of the foreign tourists

dressed up in their idea of international hipster chic:

billowy silk harem pants, dreadlocks, exotic tattoos

t-shirts emblazoned with dragons or beer company logos

i wonder why they fail to notice that the locals favor plainer garb

like jeans or chinos. without the red faces or sweat-soaked backs.

along the spine of the peninsula, the temples of this holy buddhist place

reach for the divine, the gold on black interior of wat xieng thong best saved

for last, where we sheltered beneath the eaves while the monsoon burst the sky.

about an hour before sunset, the night market sets up on the main street,

with red and blue canopies and ground cloths, reed mats spread with wares.

it goes up quick, with the precision of a military operation, filling up

the width of the street for several blocks with just enough room to walk

in narrow aisles. the former royal palace, a modest one as these things go,

is now a national museum. king's bedroom, queens bedroom, playroom, library…..

only the entrance and reception area are grand. very grand.

dazzling reflective glass mosaics. glass cases with the royal garments,

swords, king's walking sticks, queen's dinner plates and flatware.

gifts from various countries, especially fellow people's democratic republics.

two pieces of gravel from the moon, courtesy of the nixon administration.

a couple of ivory-colored lincoln continentals and an edsel in a dusty garage.

portraits of several generations of the royal family on the walls. but no mention

anywhere, at least not in any obvious place, about their ultimate fate,

sent to the north after the revolution to participate in reconstruction of the country

after the victory against the american imperialists. where they vanished

into history, cause unknown. there is another museum, away from the shops

and cafes, the temples and the guest houses. the UXO center.

that's the acronym for unexploded ordinance. there are an estimated

800 million of them, large and small. the little ones, the cluster munitions,

that they call bombies; are almost cute, like bambi. brightly colored, like toys.

the comrades are not innocent either of course, when the hmong, america's

proxy army in the region, tried to flee across the mekong to thailand

they were machine-gunned in the back, men, women, grandmas and babies.

and yet this place, with it's spotless new airport, and glorious temples nestled

between the rivers and the emerald hills, either holds no bitterness or hides it well.

perhaps the ancients who chose this spot found a place with more than beauty

and good soils. a place where the spirit of the buddha can endure beyond

the failures of civilization and war. or even the influence of global tourism,

with all it's trinkets, rudeness, and cultural ignorance. with any luck.

there is big gecko native to southeast asia, the english name for them is tokay,

which is kind of what their voice sounds like. or with a certain ear, it could even be:

okay. it's said that if you hear them call seven times, it's means good luck.

the sun went down and we sat on the balcony of our hotel gazing over the town

and heard one call, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok. six times. we waited for the seventh

and at just the moment when it would have croaked, a badly muffled truck

passed along the road, masking what i choose to believe was the seventh,

because the lao deserve all the good luck that they can get. okay?

okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay.

river trip to buddha caves

Luang Prabang, Laos