The Polytheist

Every time a poet does this, they risk quitting forever.
Darla Whitehead, The Book of Warnings




In the most Oriental chapters of chaos
are the great portals of time, the backwards
and forwards of speech are opened, closed
bang bang bang, interpretation in the breezes.
The dietary is shared with disaster
in the pigment of newsprint and rally.
Who bothers about the senate anymore
when each thing branches into a hundred more,
a very long history of policy is the groundwork
for a mudslide in a mileau of plunder.
There isn't a quick fix for this, there isn't
a new order. There is this right now
in the revocation of prairies, that haze.
Your God and mine. That makes two.
The future isn't written in Latin anymore.

December First

Through the hills, up a gear, down a gear
past the honey morning paint on the trees
that have been there ever since I can remember.
A rodent of some type was dead, the odor
of skunk was just about right, always
at the turn by the Pintek ranch.
Smoke from a house poured out
from intention only, a fire
wasn't needed nor felt but certainly
it was seen in the cold air
which holds the wisps and twists
a sublime garland tucked into the folds
of the velvety hills. Perfect.
It was all just so perfect
but still, it isn't home yet
and it isn't where I need to be.
There must be a disasterous love waiting
or some kind of death to abide by soon.
Cold, it is so chilly in this grace
lacking grace, this heavy beauty so near.
Wood disappears into smoke disappears into memory.
This would be nice, to remember this already,
for it to have gone by, for it to be wished for
but not now, now it is a perverse embrace,
this mountain, the chill and the ash-colored air.

The Divers, the Drowned, the Delivered

We landed on the beach in Bahia Kino
with our best memories and war stories,
monitoring time by watching shadows.

Simplicity is complex nowdays, so many gadgets.

There was a fire ring for instance,
and burning lanterns but no candles.
And diving birds, there were three kinds and their bones.

An old friend caught trigger and hoped for flounder.

After he had too much to drink
he resembled a demon but his hands trembled.
Near the fire at night his eyes glistened.

Don's wife likes Miami, she drinks there.

In the morning there was contrition
and there were flies to spread contagion
by thieving sugar and contempt, a diligent crew.

How many times have I seen this before?

Insects and yeasts take people apart
one piece at a time. We collect wood
to burn, it holds us together as it consumes.

Tayammum, sand ablutions are called Tayammum.

At dawn the sea leaves her glass behind,
ceramic prisons free for the taking.
I couldn't get enough, the sea is so generous.

I was questioned thoroughly, my fingerprints in sand are still there.

Don left so early Sunday, he left cans
and rope, he left precious amounts
of bile in shade trees, he left our rake unattended.

We come from a family of campers, we are honor bound.

Ours tell quiet stories of blindness all the time,
we frequent several places, the animals know
when we are there. Lizards aren't so cautious.

Aztec traders brought handmade trinkets on the last day.

Grandfather, father and two boys. Bedou salesmen
from the pagan interior. His son told me this, he knew why I asked.
He had assimilated over time using a small TV. His eyes said so.

There are rituals and there are habits. These are facts.

Yes I said, yes, there is only one.
He nodded when I spoke of the Arabs.
Vaya con dios I said. He liked that. He smiled.