Monthly Archives: October 2013

We have come far—
made living easier
and more complex

                    our labyrinth of laws
                    unequaled and unequal

in a tangled maze
where Anyman can be
swallowed-up,
bound and wrapped
in a sticky web of knots.

We must be careful
what we say,
what we think—
we have no secrets,
no reason to whisper—
no place safe within
the eyes of men.

We have come far—
but just off the road
circling escorts
of Red Tails greet us,
make their each exchange
a thing of grace
throughout a day
feeding hay.

In dry times, waterholes far between
and hillsides bare, we gather and learn
to get along—wild and domestic,
prey and predator, bent to the same bowl.

No call now for zealots or evangelists—
our near-future hangs in the heavens,
in the dark clouds, in the generosity
of the gods, not well-fed demagogues

posturing to the thirsty. In dry times,
we don’t have to look too far to find
someone to blame ahead of time
for our demise—but who has the energy?

The tarantulas are back daring traffic
on a road-full of weekend buck hunters
and Christians working the same mountain.

Going thirty, I can dodge them if not looking
for coyotes in the bare flats where no calf
can hide—the plodding now less encumbered

if you are a hairy spider or hungry coyote
on no secret mission. Moving slowly, I try
to keep my dust down. Everything is obvious

long-distance—we all know why—but
close-up you may find what you once lost,
something dear you haven’t seen in years.

We are absurd casualties of politics,
finding our cartoons more interesting
than real life, actually believing
in causes with mascots, symbols
that trigger plastic magic, pay pal.

We would paint the planet with it
if we could, smother the surface
with capitalism gone wrong
if the whole herd got along
and wanted in the same direction.

We cheer for the underdog
and hope that the outlaw’s escape
from town will be enough to hold him
apart. But there’s no getaway
nowadays, no way to be an island.

Not black and white cowboy songs
from New York City, I preferred
Cousin Herb’s Tradin’ Post

live from Bakersfield: steel guitar
and the nasal whine of harmonizing
men at work in dusty fields

between Saturday night fights
over a girl everyone knew
in every Valley town with a bar—

almost every intersection had one.
Cultivated in between, fertile
dirt for boys wanting to become

something other than a butcher
or baker, something bigger
and better than a job in town.

Still searching dreams,
I keep running into myself
on this same old ground.