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Poems from the High Desert
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ARROYO
Last resting place of a washing machine Broken doll Rusty VW shot full of holes Puffy jacket stuffed with yellowed foam Paper target Shiny brass shells Child’s bicycle reduced to a skeleton Sofa guts Smashed up TV Tire tracks up to the gully Stick-tite plants clutching at your boot laces Good for nothing debris waiting for the moment when metal runs short or plastic or tangled wire |
And you back your truck in and hook a chain to the axle of the derelict bug with its busted windows seatful of moldy clothing Even worse than the stuff deconstructing on the ground Hierarchy of obsolescence Raw materials for a near future age of sorting and sifting for the last scraps to trade for a winter’s worth of rice in a third hand bag |
WHAT TO DO IN AN OUTHOUSE
Contemplate simplicity
Admire the view
Read a book of poetry
Seek refuge from heat or cold
Hide from unwelcome visitors
Write down last night’s dream
Boil water out of the wind
Chat with a friend (two seats required)
Decorate with art, dried flowers,
rocks and bones
Laugh at cartoons tacked to the wall
Enjoy the cool up-rush of air
Burn incense or sage
Relax your face
Let go of arguments
Listen to birds or foot traffic
Put paper in the bucket
Ashes in the hole
Swat flies
Sweep dust and cobwebs
Exercise the sticky latch
Do not
regret the lack of plumbing
toss burning objects
forget to close the lid
Be sure to
take your time
leave a comment on the
inspection sheet (pen provided)
return reading material to basket
latch the door behind you
come back again soon
Contemplate simplicity
Admire the view
Read a book of poetry
Seek refuge from heat or cold
Hide from unwelcome visitors
Write down last night’s dream
Boil water out of the wind
Chat with a friend (two seats required)
Decorate with art, dried flowers,
rocks and bones
Laugh at cartoons tacked to the wall
Enjoy the cool up-rush of air
Burn incense or sage
Relax your face
Let go of arguments
Listen to birds or foot traffic
Put paper in the bucket
Ashes in the hole
Swat flies
Sweep dust and cobwebs
Exercise the sticky latch
Do not
regret the lack of plumbing
toss burning objects
forget to close the lid
Be sure to
take your time
leave a comment on the
inspection sheet (pen provided)
return reading material to basket
latch the door behind you
come back again soon
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HE MAKES THE ROCK SPEAK
for Gordon Newell He makes the rock speak Uncovers runic messages hidden beneath desert varnish Records the history of water in a sepulchral slab of granite Reinvents the soft undulant forms of life in the unyielding matter of marble Invites the spirit to soar on the polished wings of an eagle Plumbs the mysteries of interior spaces Creates secret recesses where the hand curls in prayer He has made a lifetime of conversing with rock He knows its stories from ancient days He sits gazing at the maroon slopes of Maturango He welcomes the setting of the sun His long eloquent hands rest in his lap They have become too frail to coax the words out of rock His work is done The rock speaks forever |
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WILD BURRO POETRY
You know their voices declaiming appetite and Third World hunger. But have you seen the trails they weave in the desert. Nothing straight. Crabbed defiant text scribbled among creosote bush. Their gentle gaze turned inward, thoughts elsewhere than on the walking: the new gate across the spring, a new way needed through the government fence. The trails meander and converge on water. Monstrously horny, weighed down by enormous erections when the females are in season. |
Terrible rutting wars; hooves clashing in the night. Flat ungulate teeth rending flesh. The victor wins the harem, the loser banished to wander loopy trails behind the herd, living on leavings. Progeny of an abandoned race, left to fend for themselves when no longer considered useful, they chew survival out of narrow bloodless desert leaves. They are tough enough to be perfect companions for Jesus. |
THE TOWN AT THE END OF THE ROAD
It’s a town at the end of the road
seven miles of crumbling blacktop
When you turn off the desert highway
between nowhere and nowhere
there’s a sign that says No Services Ahead
You wonder what you’re getting yourself into
At the high point in the road you pass through a portal
It’s like a membrane
You can feel the change coming over you
You drop down into a lonely valley
surrounded by purple peaks
At the bottom of the grade
clustered around the stop sign
Broken down buildings
False fronts faded by years of dust and wind
There’s a rustle at the curtains
in the window of a sad eyed shack
and you know that someone’s watching you
You hope they’re friendly
because you’re a sitting duck there in your SUV
and somebody’s eyes are looking at you
maybe through binoculars or a telescopic sight
So there you are sitting at Main and Market
and you have to make a decision
whether to turn left or right to see if there’s anything here
besides the stop sign the abandoned buildings
and the rustling curtains
Most people turn around and drive back out the way they came
But if you have the courage to take a look around
maybe you’ll get out
by the ancient yellow water truck
with its cockeyed hood popped open
You brought a camera after all
Something to share with the folks back home
Don’t you dare step into that spooky doorless building
infested most likely with spiders and scorpions
Maintain a respectful distance
from the collections of rusty junk in the yards
The people here are sort of peculiar
they’re touchy about their junk piles
and their property lines
just like your neighbors back in Encino or San Leandro
You’ll want to photograph the old gas pumps on the corner
made famous by Google Earth
the Dance Hall with no sign of dancers
and the derelict schoolhouse
with a mysterious crumbling statue in the window
If you peek inside you’ll see a stuffed green alien
sitting at a little student’s desk before a blackboard
There’s a singing bass on the old kerosene stove
The ceiling’s coming down in toxic streamers
The walls are lined with newspapers ragged yellowed pages
with a picture of a beautiful woman who recently got arrested
for possibly murdering her husband in 1896
Up Main Street there’s a large erotic sculpture
Strange music emanates from the cargo box on the corner
A pair of tall dark slabs of rock stand in an empty lot
with a chiseled plaque that says Gates of Hell
What’s going on behind those curtained windows
Did you really think this was a ghost town
You get back in your car and drive away
thinking you’ll never return to this godforsaken place
but something will call to you
The memory of the jagged purple peaks
The gesturing Joshua trees and the photogenic shacks
Maybe you’ll come back and find somebody out in the street
and ask about places for sale
Maybe some day it will be you
running off trespassers guarding your rusty junk
peeking out from behind those curtains
It’s a town at the end of the road
seven miles of crumbling blacktop
When you turn off the desert highway
between nowhere and nowhere
there’s a sign that says No Services Ahead
You wonder what you’re getting yourself into
At the high point in the road you pass through a portal
It’s like a membrane
You can feel the change coming over you
You drop down into a lonely valley
surrounded by purple peaks
At the bottom of the grade
clustered around the stop sign
Broken down buildings
False fronts faded by years of dust and wind
There’s a rustle at the curtains
in the window of a sad eyed shack
and you know that someone’s watching you
You hope they’re friendly
because you’re a sitting duck there in your SUV
and somebody’s eyes are looking at you
maybe through binoculars or a telescopic sight
So there you are sitting at Main and Market
and you have to make a decision
whether to turn left or right to see if there’s anything here
besides the stop sign the abandoned buildings
and the rustling curtains
Most people turn around and drive back out the way they came
But if you have the courage to take a look around
maybe you’ll get out
by the ancient yellow water truck
with its cockeyed hood popped open
You brought a camera after all
Something to share with the folks back home
Don’t you dare step into that spooky doorless building
infested most likely with spiders and scorpions
Maintain a respectful distance
from the collections of rusty junk in the yards
The people here are sort of peculiar
they’re touchy about their junk piles
and their property lines
just like your neighbors back in Encino or San Leandro
You’ll want to photograph the old gas pumps on the corner
made famous by Google Earth
the Dance Hall with no sign of dancers
and the derelict schoolhouse
with a mysterious crumbling statue in the window
If you peek inside you’ll see a stuffed green alien
sitting at a little student’s desk before a blackboard
There’s a singing bass on the old kerosene stove
The ceiling’s coming down in toxic streamers
The walls are lined with newspapers ragged yellowed pages
with a picture of a beautiful woman who recently got arrested
for possibly murdering her husband in 1896
Up Main Street there’s a large erotic sculpture
Strange music emanates from the cargo box on the corner
A pair of tall dark slabs of rock stand in an empty lot
with a chiseled plaque that says Gates of Hell
What’s going on behind those curtained windows
Did you really think this was a ghost town
You get back in your car and drive away
thinking you’ll never return to this godforsaken place
but something will call to you
The memory of the jagged purple peaks
The gesturing Joshua trees and the photogenic shacks
Maybe you’ll come back and find somebody out in the street
and ask about places for sale
Maybe some day it will be you
running off trespassers guarding your rusty junk
peeking out from behind those curtains
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BONE COLLECTOR
Luminous chalk white punctuating desert drab Even these old eyes can pick it out I’ll walk the distance scrabble down the wash and up again to retrieve it from the sand Remains dispersed by scavengers who followed the scent squabbled over flesh scurried off with a ragged limb Skulls of new-hatched birds spun-sugar fragile beneath white-streaked canyon walls A sad and predictable harvest |
Burro ribs beside the spring scattered about the spine Where is the rest Why were these left behind Each one an armature for desert junk and shards of glass Pelvis of cow Witch doctor mask Shield Grave marker Death upon death Transformation A twist of wire A dab of glue Same anatomy Something new |