It is hard to attract our reading attention

from this week in March, 2008  (I was 63)

It is hard to attract our reading attention

What’s the subject in what form

What does the block of print look like 

How long is it 

Is the language ponderous or just difficult

Will our eyes focus  Will we be captured

or will we feel we’ve read it before why read it again

You can walk the stacks of a library

feel like you’re being attacked

outnumbered by everything you don’t know

take refuge in a few familiar shelves

where even the light seems better

and all the good ideas are not from foreign countries

Travel is always an adventure

It’s where we create the resolve to work at home

if we can overcome the presumption

that we know something worth doing

Sunrise Litany

March 30, 1976  (I was 31)

         Sunrise Litany

At dawn someone always comes

to the church on the corner

the only one coming this morning

to climb each small step up to the heavy door

which holds the odor of prayer inside

the first to echo down the long aisle

the first to see which candles expired in the night

the first to dent the kneeler

the first to ask forgiveness

the first of the congregation to dampen a veiled forehead 

breaking into a sweat for the Lord

I’m going to pound my feet on the hill.

from this week in March, 1979  (I was 34)

I’m going to pound my feet on the hill.

I laugh when I hear Dylan sing,

“I’ve paid the price of solitude,

but at least I’m out of debt.”

I’m going to hit the deer trails,

look for a blue deer.

The trees laugh when I think of tomorrow.

(They lived all those years

so they could live today.)

I understand their laughter

I’m going to trot myself under their jocular leaves,

find myself running alongside a blue deer

who finds itself running alongside of me.

Even with brittle cracks

from this week in March, 2011  (I was 66)

Even with brittle cracks

childhood has a coherence

a comfortable unknowing

a willingness to resort to faith

and submission to authoritarian presence

because it is so comfortable to do so

An inability to achieve that comfort

is called adulthood

for WCW

March 27, 1971  (I was 26)

         for WCW

I was arrested

in the woods

smoking a joint

and reading poetry

I do not think

I’d have been arrested

had I not been reading poetry

This is the Drug Abuse Workshop

March 26, 1974  (I was 29)

This is the Drug Abuse Workshop

After school the bells are still ringing,

the teachers will not come to order.

“This is the drug abuse workshop:

on your 3x5 card write

5 causes (person or societal) of drug abuse-

that is, list 5 factors leading to drug abuse.

If your 3x5 is white go to room 7

yellow go to 8

green to 10 blue 11

and goldenrod stays here for discussion.”

I go out to the car and smoke a joint.

Out in the canyon

the green road curves around the swollen creek

and the railroad has secret tunnels.

A lone bicyclist braces the wind around the bend

then buys it, like a hawk falling out of a stall

downwind.  Tight muscles are stretched loose.

Miniature steamboats could steam through the spring chutes.

I pass the cyclist in the silence of a passing train

rushing into an abrupt tunnel

away from the roaring birds.

Cartesian Humor

     

March 25, 2009  (I was 64)

         Cartesian Humor

Rene Descartes went into his favorite bistro

“Will Monsieur have a croissant with his coffee?”

“I think not,” he said and disappeared.

Two student friends were on the way to an exam on Cartesian theory. 

One stopped instead at a brothel.  He missed the examination. 

The professor inquired about the student’s absence.

His friend replied, “He would not put Descartes before the whores.”

Google any thought you have to find

from this week in March, 2014  (I was 69)

Google any thought you have to find

who thought it better long ago

in better words of better mind

I took a ladder up the tree

into the realm of orange blossoms

where branching thicket obscured

and fragrant scent annulled the ground

upon which my reality now imposed

It was ethereal scent and lost design

that made me think the world was mine

The scratch and switch of a new broom

that swept the air with my perfume

Do you suppose

March 23, 1971  (I was 26)

Do you suppose

everyone prowls around like this-

clandestine chemist

discovering ingredients at every encounter

Each time testing circumstance

with a taste or a swallow

and a lot of waiting eagerly

for the metamorphosis to follow

And do you suppose

we all worship within-

kneeling in our sepulchers

to the one true god of self

and chewing our nails the while

with a taste or a swallow

and a lot of waiting eagerly

for some real Messiah to follow

Air Play

from this week in March, 1976  (I was 31)

Air Play

sitting in the studio longing

egg cartons stapled to the ceiling

listening to the tapes again

damning the fidelity

praying for air play

everybody’s gotta have air play

all we really need is air play

Diving from planes like bombs

We had to have a note from our moms

saying it was alright

she gave her permission

for us to have air play

air play air play

How can you open your chute

if you don’t have air play

Maybe the mikes are weak

but the voice is cutting

even on the tapes

through all this smoke

you can hear it it’s there

Programmer give us air play

air play air play

We deserve and demand air play

Who gives you the air play

Good Friday Night

March 21, 2008  (I was 63)

         Good Friday Night

Late in the vigil the votive candles flicker

wicks float in liquid tallow

contained in cups of crimson glass

pulsing the sanguine light

like a hundred flaming sacred hearts

emanating at once the scent of the tomb

and the waxy cool of the white lily at sunrise

The empty tabernacle waits to consume

each dry wafer of flesh

offered by the absent congregation

A flame is a first magic

March 20, 2012  (I was 67)

  

A flame is a first magic

a life active but not animal

Its birth an ignition

upon something it can consume

Its extinction a darkness

a burial in air

a visible spirit

dissipates to an odor of memory

The instrument intones

from this week in March, 2014  (I was 69)

The instrument intones

the life of the player

Notes are conscious breath

the breathing your song

Play your flute for me

No sound vibrates wrong

Energy occupies matter

in compatible manner

Like a flight of doves

we love in the morning

that airy existence floating through us

The little business on the block

March 18, 2009  (I was 64)

The little business on the block

gave its name to the neighborhood

The canned goods required dusting

two or three times before they were sold

The National Cash Register was mechanical

and ornately clad in leafy brushed brass

the wood floor swept and polished by the boys

Everyone in the family stayed out of the service

so we must have gone there for ethnic reasons

The guy who owned the store

also ran the one where you came from

You remember

He was never that friendly

as if he knew customers were inevitable

Religions lay away days of the year

March 17, 2014  (I was 69)

Religions lay away days of the year

to commemorate their saints and saintly events

Governments for their leaders and victories

Families honor their comings and goings

In this way we give meaning to each day

just in case there is nothing happening now

Of course there is a now worthy of note

To recognize it is merely to hold it like a flower

Hold it like the breath between breaths

Let its bouquet inspire a complexity

to which master vintners can only dream

It is a fragrance and taste that touches

an idea that embraces all my ideas

and registers them in the moment that is present

That recognition is ever available and always enough

He chose it

March 16, 1970  (I was 25)

He chose it

God everyone knows

it is just that very thing

that makes us men

We always bring it on ourselves

(and then we scream

The bastards screwed us)

Doesn’t it seem we must

own up to half of what we are

Of course there is that far chance

he was innocent

and if his truthful ardor is constant

he will accept the nails

Of what use is a living martyr

Yosemite

March 15, 2014  (I was 69)

Yosemite

Another solitary walk from Happy Isles

above the back road on the horse trail through the trees

following the Merced whose flow is the predominant sound

and the only traffic is the half-hourly valley shuttle bus

The occasional meeting with bobcat or coyote

introduces a cautious trepidation and rapid assessment

of escape routes acknowledging possible danger

even from minor beast or minor man

I imagine ventures of Miwok children playing

among these boulders two hundred years ago

where now a family of four deer cross my path

with the presumption of protection a National Park provides

More Postcards from Hell

from this week in March, 2014  (I was 69)

More Postcards from Hell

Of course there is respite

The deepest agony requires contrast

Up there you got pals

Down here you got mals

No flint no matches no butane lighters

no Irish sermons

Our brimstone is ever aflame

They like to say there is no hope here

but they cannot dispel the obvious

If there is a just god there is always hope

Graffitti tends to the positive

Message charred to a chimney:

There are no lackeys here

Up there seven deadly sins, here:

         sloth?  can’t be lazy with nothing to do

pride?  not even in jest

         lust?  needs a hunger

         anger?  requires someone to blame

         gluttony?  you can only eat so much shit

         covetousness?  if you want what I got take it

         envy?  and you can keep whatever you are

Among the world class climbers

March 13, 2014  (I was 69)

Among the world class climbers

ascending El Capitan and Glacier Peak

or those in the high country snow-shoeing

or cross country skiing to distant campsites

or hang gliding with the raptors

or the even more mad cliff divers

who put their lives at the end of a ripcord

I will apply antiperspirant and ride

a rented bike around the valley floor

I know what happened to the other half of Half Dome

Merced River Underlook #1

from this week in March, 2009  (I was 64)

         Merced River Underlook #1

From ripples eddies and surface whirlpools

from flotsam and water bugs

projected shadows play over river bottom rocks

in such a way as to reveal movement patterns

not visible watching their objective correlatives

Their swell and floe individual yet repetitive

teach the physics of an unformulated text

blurring distinction between mass and motion

Beyond the now recordable observation

the phenomenon reminds us

to seek for new ways to look

*also March 20, 2014

…my interpretation of an expression heard by daughter Lauren:

“Yosemite is a thin locale”

-a place where the veil is sheer

between the perception

and the actuality

They haven’t yet found reason

from this week in March, 2013  (I was 68)

They haven’t yet found reason

so I must be under the radar

not under the gun not on the run

out only in day away from night vision

cameras everywhere miss obvious disguise

don’t speak in gatherings only in code

empty languages without rhyme or reason

inane non sequitur is the way to go

words without rank  I am an army

discreet and quiet drones

pollinate the flowers

why wait for spring

the globe is warm

and reason will be unnecessary

unsought and suspicion is enough

so anonymity shall go nameless

still out in the open not in the home

still moments they do not own

Birdman

March 10, 1971   (I was 26)

Birdman

why don’t you admit

you are a mutant

instead of calmly folding your wings

up behind your head like arms.

What did you see today

planing over the desert

alone and smiling?

There must be thoughts you had

or songs you heard.

Birdman

your heart beats blood of mine;

do not deny me knowledge.

Speak more than one tear

upon your feathered cheek.

When I was young I vaguely thought

from this week in March, 1971  (I was 26)

When I was young I vaguely thought

adults spent much of their time together

uttering old adages or inventing new ones

to advise the wise man and the early bird

or to serve as themes in adolescent anthologies

with their stories of wise men and early birds

or to serve as dialogue for television

with its Robert Young and Ozzie Nelson

Now of course I’m older and I know

hardly anybody does that or is that

Give him a chug off the old accordion

March 8, 1977  (I was 32)

Give him a chug off the old accordion

Squeeze him something nasal

Squeeze wide skirts and long stockings

aprons and kerchiefs

Tambouritzans with Serbo-Croatian names

Squeeze him miners who remember union battles

when more than wages were at stake

Pull out a polka Iron Mike

or give him Old Mary ironing

ironing ironing ironing

Give him the drunken wife

and he’s got to take her home

got to take her home

Give him a drunken wife and he’ll go

It was twenty years ago today

March 7, 2001  (I was 56)

It was twenty years ago today

I wish I could start over and say

something more or something less

than whatever created the mess

The picture of me I gave to you

of someone who didn’t have a clue

might not have been right

might have been the result of the fight

to find a way out of my mind

into a world ruled by the kind

Never did I think I would sever

my hope from the hopes of the clever

and point a guilty finger of guilt at a son

for not doing what I myself could not have done

That classic sidestep by the matador

from this week in March, 1976  (I was 31)

That classic sidestep by the matador

that en passant of the bull ring

what’s that called?

It’s the basic deception

the stare over the cape

then the move upon the toes

looking right and going left

What is this, longing for Hemingway

or for  Death in the Afternoon?

No it’s for that clean break

befuddlement of the opposition

without a blinking compromise

The arrogant and the dumbfounded

together on the floor of the arena

At one time a line of words

March 5, 2006  (I was 61)

At one time a line of words

would come to my attention

in a tone of potential importance

and I would immediately write it raw

record it where I would encounter it again

or as often examine it then

listening to it

to think of what it might say next

or of what was said before

and to consider how those sounds sounded

Now after many a line of words

potential importance seems to be relative

Words that would not save the world

are relegated to the memory file

where they are easily forgotten or obscured

or absorbed by resounding sounds

and it is the consideration that is lost

the expressive struggle to say what it was

in such a way that another might believe it

or might offer an irresistible revision

Hiking Mission Peak

from this week in March, 1977  (I was 32)

         Hiking Mission Peak

Through the stand of eucalyptus

fallen leaves paisley teardrops

tall shade cool as a cough drop

blacktop over a path Ohlone’s once walked

Someone built a stile over a barbed wire fence

Now that’s society in dilemma I thought

Are there still ladders scaling the Berlin Wall?

Seats to duck behind during horror movies?

Classes to cut at the college?

Stupid Lucy to love on re-runs?

You sat before me spreading creases in your brain like legs

You had me fantasizing pink roses

I was leaning in the bush trying to get a whiff

Cows nudged one another and moved

They chewed and watched our progress dumbfounded

It doesn’t take much learning to become beef

The presumptuous sun grew tedious

One hill rolled against another

ever more angular promises revealed beyond

Ultimately nothing more than loftier perspective

fog rolling down the bay from the north

Nothing to eat and airplanes grinding in the sky

8th in Line

from this week in March, 2016  (I was 71)

         8^th in Line

The product I produced

was a minor attachment

on the assembly line

as the units passed through

at the rate of 150-200 each year

I was responsible for product improvement

Every year an updated application

was integrated into each unit manually

It took 180 to 184 workdays

to complete the process

The applications were complex

designed to fit the individual needs

of diverse units with specifications to be learned

even as they were continually modified

Upon completion the product proceeded

to further facilities before they could be deemed ready

for implementation and use

into long “careers” of service

mostly unknown to me

I have little knowledge

of how effective my installations were

Other Prayers

March 2, 1997  (I was 52)

        

         Other Prayers

Swing low sweet chariot

for Judas Iscariot

swinging near the potter’s field

The kiss bestowed in the garden

was accepted with implicit pardon

from a master whose lips and fate were sealed

Is it I is it I at fault

they asked and passed the salt

while he knelt and washed their feet

It was those thirty silver pieces

that built the church of Jesus

and both men bought the death of deceit

Then upon a crumbling rock

stood and crowed the cock

for the other shepherd who feared the rood

Thus the hanging tree and cross of wood

have for twenty centuries stood

to define evil as well as good

So swing low for Judas Iscariot

let him ride the golden chariot

while we take retribution and bury it.

Letter

March 1, 1974  (I was 29)

         Letter

We have lost touch.

I do not feel your daily presence.

We no longer define adjacent space.

The movies used a convention-

self-propelled daily calendar pages sped the time-

reorientation was almost instantaneous,

but our flashbacks find us disjointed,

formulated conversations on the phone,

stylized letters, half understandable,

perfunctory love, signature and good-bye.

The grave would treat us kinder.

It is not difficult to tolerate the dead.

Platonic necrophilia is counted virtuous.

We promised a past we could not keep,

the memories became myths

or embarrassing irrelevancies.

(Spring happens earlier here than there,

some places it doesn’t happen at all.)

I hear you still have six below.