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Poems from the High Desert

Picture
_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

Picture
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
          

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
Picture
Picture

Picture
_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.

Picture
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



Picture
_ 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


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