Foundation Fire, Unworldly Waters

Little birds, fear not;
smoke is overrated.
Now fire, like, wow!

Hope and jump
and follow your instincts:
sure, sure, sure

Even the volcano,
in the grand scheme
of things is a mere

Dimple upon the Earth:
Just as life is just paper
exposed to black ink

Civilization keeps
the fire lion in storage
for the burnishing of your white walls

This image, this mirror,
is the alternate universe,
so each side is of no matter

This sleeping fat cat,
finding no bluesy suitors
is just like nature denied its day

Such is the way
for men and women:
Constant are both frost and fire

And the vanquished,
concrete moon
pulls light off the world

The blackened well, beneath the surface,
is all man or animals will need
for one-thousand years 

The Portico of Complaints

Hear yea, hear yea,
the polemic pandemonium
dedicated to Salvador Dali
because the watch
is freezing back into summer
as smoke signals fade,
as fences fall in high winds
destined for the tornado alleys
of Oklahoma, Kansas, Texas, Arkansas,
dusty bowls rising with temperatures,
dropping into the cold turkeys selling
at high dough in the commodity aisles
of Wall Street, whose surrogate,
the U.S. government, the price being right,
crush the crazed population into noodle factories
for blond spokeswomen on political talk shows,
from brunette blues historians on radio shows,
for beats and bleats in morning light, dusky damsels
of disaster restoration industries soaking in cash,
paranormal as X-class solar flares pumping up the volume
for tomes, old as Dante, cooking up the mortal coils of desire,
for layers of cakes, sold on saucers in the medieval
meteors thrown down at earth by the nightly news gods
who sell fear, beer, batteries and basketballs,
shock-worn baseballs obvious and mournful
as a black cat's quarter-moon shaped cry
from Siam to the Himalayan Rockies, from Hawaii to Mars,
to heal the ever present aches of what we use to bake
when the in-and-out burglar light beats us
back to sanity when the new word
for "bad" is Syria
and the rotting core
of democracy
is a "Here's to looking
at you kid" call
to "winning the future"
and our miserable new habit
for showing disdain
for each other
walks on, waxes off ...
Surely, there must be
better breezes
after all of this ...
Surely, there is hope
in the fact
not all winds
bring down our tents
as the spooks,
in the shadows
reveal butterflies
on fire

Last Water

The last drop
of water in Meteor City,
a parched hole in the desert
with a few mobile homes, maybe,
echoes of steel pedal romantics
in action, still seeking factions
to fight off Black Mesa coal companies,
joining other drops of water, rising,
to make or break into clouds,
cloud computing sympathies
and waving into grains:
Behold, the national sacrifice areas,
the place once known as First Water,
a ten-thousand-year walk by the third drop,
pushed through sandstone beneath concrete
sidewalks in the city, good to the last cop,
wearing a belt secretly glowing of uranium,
coal and waters pressurized through slurry pipes
by chicken hawks, or, black parking lot crows
big-breasted, looking slightly tasty,
as we walk home, desolate and lonely
back into the wilderness, two Pahannas
who pretended to understand for a decade
the pain of sacred springs drying up,
the kachinas dancing down to mathematic,
automated figures at your cash registers,
ya, you, you know who, how do you do,
say halleluja, as you carve into up into space masks
inserting pictures of the glassy knolls, hogan holes,
Merlin's magic wands to the center of the crystalline earth

The fourth drop of water, a drip down the throat,
issued through a rubber tube, hardly enough
to rush down the rocks of the red desert stream,
the drying heat of seventy-mile-per-hour winds
jack ripping, ripping jack
over the navel of the fourth world
powered by the Navajo generational station,
the dynamite that broke the highway,
the lions of commerce, roaring and erect,
bread bears, steel-eyed salmons from far away
dreaming up plumes of steams, making cloud,
making raining, falling onto the earth again,
the fifth drop of water, most likely your last,
video punked across the nation, one last drop
of coffee on the tongue for salvation,
one last drop for the animals of immigration,
a red dirt crust of crunchy sourdough
for order on the border, an entire stitch
of moleculed waters for a set of signals
for the matrix, a crowd, a crisis swamping
into a last great flood, for one last river boat,
one last drop of ink on a single sheet of paper,
rippling now into a red stratos curtain
like a flug hung upside down across
the Little Colorado River Valley
as the national canyon anthem sounds off:
O say can you tame the raw dead Sainty Clause,
O disbelievers, O, pain relievers of our kitchen sink,
the green tinge of tornadoes, predicted by the hour,
moving north almost fast as the brown soldiers
on the Hopi mesas holding back the end of the world,
wearing the many coasts of winter, still, in the mourning chill,
cast off in spring around the small hogan rooms
in a confusion about the new currents,
closing the roads in the Dust Bowl daze
of explosive gusts, that last water
summed up by sweet sugar fairies
draining into hot choco-lates
in the nasty Nestles
of your no longer say so,
into Perrier bottles
for celebrities,
public relations
people fibbing up
Fijis tipped
for industry,
petting down,
your last puddle,
your last well,
your last water
stolen and sold
in the grocery
and kept in
in the phaoroh's urn
of our mutual
no more

Survival in the Spring

The fool moon
is an unjust cliche
passing directly overhead
and I've ached out of exhaustion
so many times the tired millions
of meteoric terrors, media-mad errors,
the pa-rum-pum-pum of Christmas,
now long behind us, is only the echo
of a car crash we never witnessed,
only heard in the siren song
beneath the loud roar of daily trains
passing along the highway,
and our soft whispers
muted in each minute of distance
remains as a glassy tranquility
in the lunar space, the ice nine
of the night sky, as the dust swirls
into a sound so lonely,
a solace at the end of March,
we thank the great sky
for no more murder

The white stripe of the local skunk,
confused as the buds on trees,
in unending misunderstanding
of the new weather patterns,
limbs freezing then thawing,
chilling over again, forgotten
as the breeze, teasing towels
of numerous cold showers
for all seasons in a single day,
twenty-four-hour revelations
of the mountain lion warning us
with a growl in the Gaian solace
at midnight into the back-stepping
mystery of the morning, cars running
late, buses running late, trucks,
running furious late to avoid garbage beasts,
cement mixers awake, alive as thirsty ants,
churning up into government, then corporations,
into bellicose budgies happy to pave the world

Gone are those long lost minutes
where you unleashed your moorings,
when your screamed out your sorrows
and locked your mechanical door
without a master as the snow storm's
marshal lawyer, a colonel clinking
his dry cup for a salute of sunless,
derisive, jarring melodies unheard,
the fire of the gut-rotten belly,
rip-ribbed fat, toothless and mean
in his oily flannel cotton shirt:
O, who is chuckling now, you cheating
Chubby Checker! We are free of you.
Free! And winter is a dead and past
as we feel well enough
to start worrying again
about what is normal,
as our eyes, moist in emotion,
push out the main street iron
ions of ancient dirt, seeking
to join the information flow
of geese, buzzards and eagles
flying north into the blindness
of the king, the queen, the jesters
jeering in the crowd, the black crows,
re-entering the Earth's atmosphere
to regain unearthly sanity

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