Not Another Parking Lot for Words

Made sure the windows
were all wide open
for this brittle haus warning,
God forbid the warming, should we
ever break dead with reclaiming
witches reclaiming their food
for thought and kindness I offered,
them never tasting the bread ...
They insisted they could save me
and then, the saving being done,
called me the devil, the devil,
the devil, three times,
before they were One ...

And compassion is a virtue
sold out in short supply,
gathered in plenty

And there you were, with my backlit
ghost behind the suffused
dark arts behind the computer
screen’s white apple byte light,
the difference between innocence
and knowledge being sub-atomic,
it’s positively Platonic,
allegorical, hysterical ...
when you ask for a cigarette
since it’s my personal policy
to only give out one Spirit
per hour to the hopeless ...
(I mean homeless) ... and if they
claim to have hope I give them three:
That’s how homeless hopelessness can be.

So it’s back to my parking lot for words,
worlds within worlds,
but way far from the gypsy cafes
as Napoleon, fresh face-i-fied,
sleepwalks into Starbucks to be reborn
in its iconic cup of Gaian
corporate glee, which may be good news,
just maybe ... since I saw
a Thunderbird in my dreams,
then his shirt logo of the same
damn military echelon of wings,
eagle spread winking,
he, a soldier sure, retired, moneyed,
yes, a super serene Baby Bomber ...
A crier of you know what? ...
Can’t you hear their birdseye cries,
they are, bling-winged batbirds who cry,
repacking themselves, after landing,
in their imperial cruiser esuvees:
I saw a documentary
on their disappearing, once,
on mah MTVeeee! I guess I need
them more than they need me.

Then one more comes in,
a walking zombie cell phone call
after parking a black hawk
Land Rover, gee ...
she has camo flag pants in tune
to those photos on the big electronic

BBS .. SBB...Bss...BS...Bs...BS...

of Iranian missile launches
all doctored up to be seen
by this property, this land
for you and me ...

(Hey man what’s the plan
what was that you sai-i-i-d
sun tan, sun man, drinking head,
lying there in bed?
You who tried to socialize
but couldn’t seem to find
what just what, Jethro,
you were looking fer,
that sumpin’
on your mind)

But a big heron circles
over Starbucks, wide white
sailing, neither failing
nor flailing
with black-tipped wings
... and just as strangely
I almost missed, the ponytailed
programmer in a Prius
as a potential friend
to send this give up, this smoke,
this one-per-hour cigarette of hope
to a guy wearing a turqoise bracelet: Hey! Hey!

Hey ...

I just got a medal in my dream:
A Thunderbird re-e-e-e-ward,
and another laugh, a smile,
from a strong blueish blonde blondee
bird driving a white trash Ford.

-- Douglas McDaniel
Aurora, Colorado

An Official Statement from Rodrigo et Exciso Industries

We most humbly apologize
for the series of unfortunate events
leading to the catastrophic batch
of pancake mix products
used to sanctify your
national rituals

Although, for reasons
beyond our control,
as well as those we can,
we cannot fully divulge, recite,
enunciate or simply explain
those circumstances leading
to the incidents in question,
our hearts go out to the families
of those who experienced
death or discomfort or both
from the clearly overzealous
applications of our potions, mixes
and accessories

We also thank your priesthood
and supporting public officials
for their patience and continued
business and prompt payment

Those relationships mean everything
to us because Rodrigo et Exciso Industries
is, if nothing else, a people place

We are proud the many denominations
of your faith have chosen our pancake mix,
asundry gifts and necessary toggles,
brushes and rubs are so much a part
of your holy houses, as well
as the network hookup

Your worship means the world to us

As you can imagine
those behind the so-called
“pancake plot” have been
severely punished

You can trust us on that score

The sixth book of poetry by Douglas McDaniel is, after a considerable amount of trouble, considering how many places and machines most of the work had to go through, in addition to the number of addresses taken up by the poet and author of some 10 or so the drafts had to go through, just to survive ... that includes Arizona, Massachusetts, Oregon, Arizona again, Colorado again and again and again ... Yes, it's out! Some of it was written from behind the cash register one long hot summer at Borders Books & Music in Paradise Valley, Arizona. Or in the heat, smoking outside during breaks, looking out at the parking lot, Plus one long month at the Telluride Watch where the draft was hiding in some stored computer that had been tucked away in their vault due to some ill-advised, unannounced office move ... while most of the lyrics were being used for a post-punk cowboy blues band called The Agro Daddies ... anyhow, here is is is, whew, is ...

”Ginsberg Rolls Over”



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