Passing the torch

I want to tell my nephews that
some little part of our blood
comes from the Ojibwa, or Chippewa.
Not enough blood to put you on a tribal roll,
or get you out of an ass-whooping,
but now you know.
They were fisherman, and rice harvesters,
trappers and hunters.
Their warriors were feared and respected.
Yes,
we are corn-fed, fair skinned, right talkin’
sons of western Europe.
But part of us has been here much longer.
It may not be important to you now,
but some day you will notice how
you always end up back here.
It’s the blood.
It speaks, and
we must listen.

A Pinot Noir, and some tid bits.

ABOVE ME


Her face
risen above me,
the moon through the shutters
just touches the left side of her face.
She is not smiling.
Her eyes are like a cat’s,
but soft, and silver.
I think
My God,
that I should be here.
The moon just touches her face,
and still, I am jealous.
　
　
　
a few really short ones　
　
　
In my Pear tree
a bird I’ve never seen.
His song…
I don’t know if it’s sad or not.
　
　
　
A young Maple
blushing red…
embarrassed, no doubt,
to be losing her dress.

The older Maples
can’t wait to throw
their leaves like scarves
and dance naked in
new snow.




Hey Armand,
a shot and a Bud short.
And stop saying "God bless ya"
every time I mention Haiku.

Walkabout

Sorry, friends and neighbors,
but the road called and I had to answer.
After all, it is summer,
and you know how those roads are,
how the ditch mist is rich in clover scent.
And how the rumble of dual pipes
bounced off buildings and cornfields
sounds identical.
The people at the end of this particular road
shared their table with me,
and we laughed, and I returned home.
Armand, ya old fuck,
a bottle of your finest grape juice,
and a shot for the song of the road.
Damn it is fine to be back.

When you step out your door

...you never know where the road will take you."

Bilbo Baggins, Bag- end, Shire.

I'm dusting off my walking stick.
I packed light because I don't know what I'll need.
I have poems, paper and pen.
Pictures of my small furry friends.
My father's pocket knife.
Mothers coin purse.
A bear claw, hawk feather,
and a Bic lighter.
This is all metaphor, of course.
For true, I'll leave with my pain
and hope to return with my life.

Weep not for me, chick pea.
I'm like a tree in the wind.
Thou art beautiful, oh my love.
Yea, you too Armand.
No, I ain't gonna kiss ya.
But I will see you soon.

Thoughts

Make no mistake,
say the noises in the night…
the only answer to dying
is living like you mean it.
And when you die,
try to make it personal.
This suicide by cop,
this gun in the mouth crap,
the dramatic pose in the front yard…
there is no bravery here, no bravura,
no guts, no glory.
Darkness has harsh words for those
who will not crawl into it and expire
in grace and silence and solitude.
Once you’re gone any need for attention
passes on to the ones left alive.
Make your life the spectacle,
says the night,
not your passing.

Mail Call

GOD GOES POSTAL
　
Got a picture of Jesus
in the mail today.
8 x 11 inch paper facsimile
of a prayer rug with
Jesus in His blondeness,
His California surfin’ dude beard.
I thought,
if You looked like this back then,
they would have killed You
in the cow shed when You were born.
But hey,
it makes us white folk feel better
about worshipping someone
from the Middle East.
Wouldn’t look good for Gods Son
to look like the fanatics we see every night
on the High Definition Televisions.
Turbaned, robed, angry.
Speaking against the soldiers of a foreign ruler,
wielding hate as a weapon of mass salvation.
Strange what you get in the mail nowadays.

July 8

On this day in 1976 I stood
on a rolling deck
on the starboard watch,
and saw Mt. Fuji's peak,
high above the clouds.

In '85 I huddled between two soda machines
alongside a gas station and watched a thunder storm
stampede across the Bad Lands.

In 96 my dad and I came upon
the Silver City Co-Op
on the continental divide
and talked our wounds away.

In 1981 I was sick behind a dumpster in
Baton Rouge, swatting rats off my legs,
trying to remember my name.

Tijuana, 77, Rosario.
Olah! She didn't need hands
to pull a cork!

92. Quit smoking.

I could go on and on.
What matters most, though,
is July 8, 2009.
Today was a good day.
That's enough to make it special.