STEPS

STEPS

I always try

To step where I

Have never stepped

before.

I know where that

step took me,

I'll take a new step

and have a look-see.

One step leads

to ten and

ten to ten again

Each step leads

to another

and with each step

a promise kept

to live to take

another.

Road to Yuma

ON THE ROAD TO YUMA

On the bus

                 rain fell in

                 halfhearted enthusiasm

inside

     Aries talked to a girl

               a tiny cherub

               smiling

               frowning

               sleeping

on the road to Yuma

                        the freeway

                        torn away

                                      from underneath the wheels

                        expecting the bus

                                                   to stumble

                                                   and fall

                        but it rolls on

                                          with Negros

                                        and Mexicans

                                      and white folk

                                     all sleeping

                                                     except Aries

who watches

                     miniature theaters in the round

                            whisk by in the rainy night

                                   lighted by

                     one overhead street light

                 waiting for the actors

                                                  sleepily counting fences

                                                  on the road to Yuma.

3 from 1967

LOST

Lost in gray and green

The thicket past the river

The ripples where a rock was tossed

Laugh at the shore

Dust hangs heavy on the shafts of sunlight

Yellow and green leaves curled in sleep

Grass grows in spotted disarray

The bench is smooth and worn

The lovers come here no more.

BURSTING

Bursting from its brown cocoon

Pointing to the sun

As if to guide its fellows

On some dangerous journey

The tiny minaret of Spring

The voices of the muezzin

Sounds very like a cardinal

In bright red robes

The minaret of Spring lies green

And waiting for rebirth

Another branch to hold

Another minaret of Spring.

HAIGHT TRIP

It isn't easy to explain

how the fog turned orange

and the flashing lights

that might have been there

the rolling fog inside the car

the green eyes watching me

watching the green eyes

she had yellow hair

and was slightly stoned

out of her mind

Harley was asleep

Paul was driving

I was watching Karen

the final red blood

of nights long labor

spewed on the hills

one red light

answered from an apartment

the pink-green hills

as we rolled into Frisco

looking at the Bay

looking at the hills

the chilled morning air

brought steam to the water

that the man threw on the sidewalk

all the long haired freaks

watching, waiting

some for breakfast

some for a bed

the box that played a Dylan tune

too long to be a 45

the doughnuts were free

if you didn't mind talking

the park was waiting

I walked down Haight

I had to see

what the Straight Theater was

I had to see

Jerry in a black cape

An old woman who studied under JC

and knew the world ends in spring 1968

the squirrels running around under the bushes

the young boy looking in the young girls purse

for money to buy their breakfast

I had to see the negro

without the rose glasses

that the rest of the city wore

I had to see this...

I went away to Canada

I left Karen and Jerry and Paul and the rest

I never came back

I never saw anybody again

I nearly starved

I nearly slept

I hitched a ride in a Caddy

with real cool air conditioning

I hitched a ride with an Alaskan

with real whiskey whiskers

I saw what was there

and left.

Jaded

JADED

The jaded tastes

             of a nation

                           his nation

             were in his mouth

and the soiled cloth

                           his nations cloth

           was on his skin

and the broken road

                           his nations road

        was below his feet

        and they had the nerve

               the sheer audacity

to call him

                  unpatriotic

           as he wandered his nation

searching for his nation

wanting to find his nation

              somewhere besides

              the first street flops

              or the triangle park

                  where old men lay

as if the next bus round

                  would unload their youth

but he walked on

                            and searched for his nation

for his nation in an alley

      his nation in a back room

                           a front room

                              any room

            even outside

where the tilted sidewalk

                          forced you to go

                                uphill

            and the nation

                                  hiding somewhere

                         by a pier

                         or an apartment complex

                 or a peace march

he walked on

                     searching for his nation

                            wanting to find it

being called an unpatriot

                    an unamerican

          a troublemaker

                        he asked the whores

                                       the old men

                                       the drunks

                                       the farmers

                                       the clerks

everybody seemed

                             to have lost their nation

                  for they all knew not

                        where it might be

                  so he hung his head

                  and found it

                         between his toes

                                 growing green

                  and spring sweet

and yes,

                  slightly trampled.

Two Poems from the Sixties

THE MAN

As he lay upon his bed
More alive than less than dead
And felt the waves rise to his head
He felt the blessed agony of the weary body.
And the soft white of the walls
Of the cabin near the falls
And the animals and their calls
And the blessed agony of the weary body.
A thousand fields lay plowed
A man lies weak and proud
A thousand thens are nowed
To the blessed agony of the weary body.

A NIGHT IN JAIL

The shriek of the bells
Drunks in their cells
Cries of "Oh Hell!"
Night time in jail.
Arizona cries out
"My cigarette's out!"
The jailer man shouts
"I'll throw you all out!"
"Where the Hell's Dale?"
Night time in jail.
"Hey Jailer, I'm sick!"
"I'm getting out quick."
"Cold as a brick...."
A deep down wail
Night time in jail.
"Hey Jailer!" "Hey Red!"
"My cell mate is dead!"
"My brain is like lead..."
"Did we get the mail?"
Night time in jail.

GLENDALE MORNING-1966

In the three room flat
The one door opens soft
To the sounds of feet of silence
And someone's muffled cough
A burst of light erupts now
The kitchen is in flower
The kitchen is in bloom
You can see their faces barely
In the tiny smoke filled room
And the water's on for tea now
The toast is on the heat
The butter melts in magic
Of the soggy cream of wheat
The parents smoke their ciggies
Wrapped in their euphoria
Coughing to the sound
Of water that's boiled over
And a student walking round
The paper sits alone and
Yes, the breakfast's over
Yes, the day's begun
A battle lost is frequently
A battle never won
For the child is running softly
Down beyond the street
You can hear his parents muttering
And coughing in their sleep
As the cigarettes and coffee
Tea stains on the floor
The sounds of beds in motion
To the tune of "Nevermore"

The News

THE NEWS

Here I sit

Dumbfounded by the news

More children dead

Everyone's got the blues

More bombs a-dropping

By fours and threes and twos

Cluster fucking the monuments

Nothing else to choose

Rockets flying in the night

Like fireflies in cruise

Landing like a meteor

On Muslims, Christians and Jews

Hiding on a mountain top

Out in plain clear sight

The children there are dying

Like a garden struck by blight

Our people wring our hands and say

“I wish we knew a way

To stop the slaughter of innocence.

America saves the day!”

But the bombs are made in Jersey

The rocket parts from Lowes

We sell them to our customers

This is the Life we chose

But rockets made from steel and blood

Have a way of turning back

And striking down the blacksmith

We're giving, they're giving back.

Someday Mom will haul us in

And wash behind our ears

And tell us not to fight so much

While drying off our tears

But someday is so far away

And Mom is sleeping sound

We'll have to make a lot of noise

To bring Her from the ground

And the Hindus have a story

About waking Mom too rough

She doesn't like to rise too soon

She kicks and hits and stuff

So perhaps this is Her rising

And the time to come in soon

I'll light a candle for the kids

And watch the shining moon.

What

What does a man say
When his son has died
How does he express his sorrow?
He drinks all the day
And into the night
And sometimes he drinks up tomorrow.

His memories fight
With nightmares all night
And days seem a hollow illusion.
No father- no one
Should lose their sweet son
It only leaves pain and confusion.

My father is gone
It doesn't seem long
He passed in the night holding mother.
My son, at long last,
Has finally passed
And I'll never know another.

Assorted Poems

Twaddle, Twit, and Twoe

Went out to see a show.

Said Twaddle to Twit,

“But where shall we sit?”

Said Twit to Twoe,

“We have to know!”

Said Twoe to Twaddle,

“We'll have to do battle!”

To battle they did go,

Thus ending Twaddle, Twit, and Twoe.

TO JEAN

Thanks for

being there.

Thanks for

crying with me

in the kitchen.

Thanks for

being the sweety

that you can be.

You were

the first born

and I

was the last

We are the

circle

that encircles

our mother.

Thanks for

being there

encircling me

with sisterly love.

FLYING HOME

Someone laid out

carpet samples

down there

Someone carved out

wiggly lines

down there

All those

shades of green

down there

And then the desert

Above the wing

and far away

Frosted horizon

Sierra Nevadas

(tiny lakes)

I thought I saw

a Cessna

down there

trying to keep up

me too.

DAD

I hate talking about Dad

in the past tense

He had

He did

He was

in my head

he still

is

and always will be

Flying along

Big and Strong

me and Dad

above the clouds

How the valleys

in the clouds

reflect the valleys

on the ground.

MAN

Man of flames

(we bury him)

Flying over

the salt flats

where Burning Man

burnt

lighting up the desert

I can see

a hundred

volcanoes

Cold and sleepy

(like me)

I would like to be

a burning man

lighting up the desert

in my own

small way.

Every day I think of him

And wonder where he's gone

His pictures and the trinkets

Are all that's left of Jon

And a box of salty ashes

Made of dirt and tears and bone

Ashes in my mouth and

My heart a sinking stone.

Every day I think of him

And every night it seems

No matter how I want him to

He's never in my dreams.

As if he wants to drive away

And see the universe

While I remain behind and wait

The silence makes it worse.

MORNING IN SARATOGA

It's morning and Margaret's gone

to meet her car

It's morning in Saratoga

And she doesn't live far

And the tingle from her loving

Still tantalizes to my bones

I'm eating toast, drinking tea

with Rickie Lee Jones

The more they take away

The more me is left

The more She loves me

The easier it gets

It's morning in Saratoga

and the steam from our shower

is fogging up the windows

With Ms. Jones spinning her tales

And me typing away

I put this disc on for one or two songs

like requesting a dedication

on a late night radio show

“I didn't even know what city I was in!”

she claims

I know

It's Saratoga

It's morning in Saratoga

And the woman I love

Has gone to meet her car

It's a short walk

She doesn't live far

I've only loved

a city or two in my time

At night

with the lights of the Caroline Street brigade

casting their surreal facets

on the shadows in my room

And the crazies with their zombies

And the Skiddies

And the skid row bums

And the pizza truck selling refuse

Before the morning sun

Now it's morning in Saratoga

And the day's begun

the lady that I love

In the city that gave me life

You took away my past

okay

You gave me music

You restored my art

Everyone even Ray had a part to play

okay? Okay!

I'm silly again with an edge that wasn't there

Like an iron knife passed through the flame

Makes you hard, makes you useful

Makes the morning sun

Each one

A friend like before

My Lady through the door

The sound of the street waking up

and footsteps on the stairs

Morning in Saratoga

My Lady lives here.

SNIFF, SNIFFLE, AND SNEEZE

Sniff, Sniffle and Sneeze

Went out to meet Bob Breeze

But Bob wasn't home

He'd gone off alone

And missed Sniff, Sniffle and Sneeze.

NAZISH

Nazish was walking along

When suddenly she thought of a song

The tune wasn't right

So she got no delight

From singing a song that was wrong.

THE URN

When you burn them

Jon's ashes

Feel the heat

Let it scald you

Make your eyes run wet

Hard to breathe

When you shovel them up

Jon's ashes

Feel the weight

Like leaves, like sod

Like the weight of

A quarter of a century

Make you ache for days

When we toss them

Jon's ashes

Breathe them in

Hot and burning

Into your lungs

Jon's ashes

Make them part of you

Hard to inhale

Hard to exhale

Frozen by the results

Of that fire, that oven

When you throw them into water

Jon's ashes

Jump straight in

Hold your breath in

Jon's ashes

Feel the cold of death

The suspension of weight

The feeling of being

Swept away somewhere else

When you place them in the urn

Jon's ashes

Sealing away the sight

The smell the texture of

Jon's ashes

When you pick them up

Jon's ashes

Let them slide away

Your fingers part

He slides away

Jon's ashes.