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.