By the campfire Black Fox tells me about
the spirit of the trees, how they guide us,
help in our spiritual journey.
The streets of Jackson Hole, Wyoming are
barricaded, federal agents along with forest
rangers guard the White House’s
Christmas tree. The driver get out, tightens
the straps, an acorn falls off, rolls to the side
of the road within arms reach of you.

How is it that fire,
sky dissolve into laughter—
Vivid the images from
March of the Wooden Soldiers…
At the AA meeting I confess that my past loves
are nothing but headless saints, that I worship
my cruel life, fearful of being healed.
I hand the pine cone to a stranger, my soul
cleansed by the noise of a passing Santa Fe train.
I want conversations to be like silent movies,
so I’m back on the road to nowhere, searching
no less than for the pharaoh’s daughter.

for Anne Sexton

I met you in your poetry,
just once I wanted to ask you
if rowing towards God was like
riding a dead mule.
We R who we R,
nobody’s perfect,
I’m addicted to lip balm,
every thought of mine remains
a secret, I find it impossible
to share my emotions.
Can you help?
Perfectly splendid,
I’ll consider your silence a yes,
I will dress you in the likeness,
the dogma of swift clouds.
Your name, my good deeds will get
us into Shangri La.
Take my arm, we’ll mingle,
it’s ok if we don’t understand
our unhappiness,
and no matter what they
tell us we’ll keep dancing,
swallowing our green pills,
our skin on fire, burnt
offerings for the gods.

Who will sing for me?

1.

Wheat for bread,
because 1948 is the year of the rat,
because black birds fall out of the sky
the world insists you invent laughter,
write poems for the lonely.
Because you have a gentle voice,
stranded on the island of lost children
America decides to bloody your nose
so you betray your ethnic heritage.
In winter it’s cold, too cold to tip
your cap to the headless angel
atop St. Michael’s church,
lake-effect snow forcing
you inside the Mars Restaurant
on West 25th Street to warm up,
order French Toast,
your first cup of coffee.

2.
We came to America to live
and stay in the great belly of the cities.
Some of us walk the horse path down
to the Cuyahoga , under
the banjo & mandolin bridge to start
our fires, to drink what’s left
of our most precious gut rot,
to forget our names, some
to forget where we came from.
Forgive me for living in the Midwest,
for being honest enough to say
that Jackson Pollock was no artist,
that only now I’m beginning
to understand that art is the war
itself, our faces in the mirror
a cracked blue vase in need
of two brush strokes.

To whom does the heart speak—
one shoe blues,
rolling paper in our pockets,
all of us wanting to hitch a ride
to San Francisco to become
part of the migrating prey.
We listened to the Grateful Dead,
Moby Grape, Santana, feeling the love,
doing something that pleased us.
Marching to the beat of rebellious hearts
we became part of a great movement.

I was there, my heart twisted into colorful
peace symbols. In the theatres on Market
or Castro Street or at the Bijou
chances were that a sailor would
put his hand on your knees.

Years later
it would all come full circle,
men’s faces fading like
the poor soil of gentleness—
muted like the color of stone,
the nights coming alive
with candles and torch lit sorrow.
Today I walk the seven acres
of the AID’s memorial in broken
silence, drowning in a river
that swallows all things.