I prefer the solace of this meadow, Hidden within overgrown red-osier dogwoods My bed still loaded with a few apple pallets Red cab a faded shade and gone to rust To any notion of reclamation, restoration Only to be shown at some "vintage car" night. This morning a mink left scat by my rear Passenger side flat tire. Looks like it ate A field mouse. They leave little hollow trails In the snow and so larger critters find them. Last week the fox, came out of its den to hunt And landed a rabbit in the predawn. I'm a night owl, I spend my blue-black listening To the waves of my lake eating the bluffs The way I am eaten by rust. The ruff edges Of grass and saplings resist, insist on remaining, The way a young child holds out against going to bed. Afraid of the dark and death. But they fall And are watched over by The Bear and Orion.
You don't know me but I know all about you. I know where you've been today, physically As well as virtually. I collect all of your satellite location data From the cloud and plot your movements on Google Maps, How you went to the mall and then stopped at the liquor store On the way home. You paid for a bottle of Scotch with Apple Pay; BTW you over-paid, that bottle sells for fifty dollars five miles away, you paid sixty four. You've posted so many selfies on Facebook and Instagram That I can pick you out of a traffic cam photo Using a back-prop neural net. Which should I tell your wife, That you called your girlfriend in Chicago last night, Or which porn site you were on while you talked to her on the phone. Isn't it interesting that you act all liberal on Facebook But you Subscribe to the Wall Street Journal? Oh, you like to pretend don't you? You like the masks that you have created for yourself. The suite for the Fundraiser, the $250 pre-ripped jeans For the art opening. But you see, I know who you ARE, what you DO, I'm not fooled by your personas. Don't feel bad, it's not just you. I see everybody's lives Even after they're dead. ~
There is a source and I know where it is. Today I'm looking towards Canada On the other side of my lake. My beak Is heading into the wind, always. I swivel on a rod attached to a fence; I squeak a bit if not greased. The Least of my worries is deciding where to gaze because I am moved by the wind, Literally, it blows against My tin wings, and drives my rotation. There are things that I can't tell you, Like why it stings when freezing rain Pelts a human face. Or why ice melts Only to return a few days later drifting Across the vast expanse of Ontario, the flotation Forming belts that wrap themselves along The bouldered shoreline. The location, of my Observation is typically North or Northwest, I'm old, I'm corroded, and in truth I am stolen From an old farmer that died, leaving me On the roof of a collapsing barn, until by chance My brackets pulled away and I landed in the grass Where a woman picked me up and took me home.
There is a condemned barn Painted red as so many barns are Off and to the West. Next to the barn is a house that is white It belonged to Ronnie's brother. Ronnie is my neighbor And is 91 years old. He knows he is old And knows his brother is dead And knows I poke around inside And Ronnie's ok with that. I walk the land each day Knowing I will die here That Ronnie will die Within a hundred yards. We all die. An orange Tabby crossed the road And was killed by a car One eye popped out I moved him from the blacktop I moved his eye too, to the deep grass Where the turkey vultures found him Filling. The wind tonight is flapping the tin roof Of the barn and making me stay off a bit While looking up at the dipper in the Northeast And crunching through the snow Covering the meadow.
I dream of becoming an apple Maybe a Honey-Crisp My daughter has become a Makintosh Because she married a Scot Named Makintosh. She's the apple of my eye And still I remain an old man I am surrounded by apple farms In upstate N.Y. My neighbor owns 65 acres Planted with apples, peaches and cherries His neighbor to the East owns many acres of Apple trees and his neighbor to the south Owns many acres of apple trees and their neighbor To the East owns many acres of apple trees They were smart and started a cidery Where I end up sometimes, mid-hike To have a few, and continue on with a buz I hike for hours and never see a road The mind becomes calm And I forget the woes of a world gone mad At first I think a lot stepping along the path That the picking trucks take, uneven, ruts Where the rain has cut the soil which Is a mixture of hard clay, gravel, and a sand And clay mix pocked with stones Which is perfect for growing apples. Thinking slows, the gaps between thoughts Start to resemble, take on the rhythm Of the gaps between trees. The ground under the trees is littered With apples that have fallen of their own accord Much like thoughts dropping from my mind Some burst, some are mawed, mouthed by various animals That wander through. Others rot over time And seep into the soil This is the point I was getting at, my fantasy To drop away from it all, to become thin skinned With my juicy flesh, sweet with sugars Turning brown and drifting away Into a dampness on sand filled clay That no longer can be discerned As the apple that I was. ~
Blue like Coltrane playing Naima, deep blue, Indigo, Midnight Blue like the song, I mean, the one by Lou Gramm not the one by Melissa Manchester. Blue-black like that portrait that Joni painted of Miles, that blue. Standing on a lotus, six feet at the end Of six legs pin down crushed demons Now subdued. Demons that once disturbed My mind, now controlled as I now hold In my arms my lover Dipachakra. The nipple of her left breast turgid against my chest. She stands on one leg as the other Wraps around my waist and I'm hard inside her. Tumescent like the golden vajras in two of my Right hands, bolts of lightning imposed As scepters as indestructible as diamonds. One of my left hands performs the subjugation Mudra, and another lightly wraps its fingers around a trident with heads in different states of decay. It emits wisdom flames throughout the three thousand world systems. My other two hands grasp a meteorite kilaya, The thunder dagger, the phurba that destroys at the touch, And we make love. My white face and my red face, On either side of my head see all as my blue face Gazes into Dipachakras eyes, and we make love. Our slick skins slap in wild fury, and we make love In the blue-black space of the universe for eternity. Eternity is just a concept, a thought that is just Another drop of sweat that rains from our minds And becomes steam rising from the fire that Engulfs us. The night sky glows and becomes clouds At the tips of the razors that are my wings Which fan the fires like a sirocco. Even the winds are blue, my wings are silver-blue It is a blue-black hole that the winds fly through. My kilaya destroys all concepts and so eternity is Devoured as if the jaws of a tiger ripped Its gray fluid puffed flesh of rot, and it found death as disappearance into sapphire.
- for Myra Gale Brown It's not like the sun Or other balls of fire Stars in their own right Act wild, wrap Rock And Roll about a thirteen Year old girl who never Was the same It's more like clouds Turning the winter Gray ~