The Cliff Walk

Modern Times

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 08:43:46 -0800

Flying Saucer

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 08:06:39 -0800

Woke up this morning with light in my eyes
And then realized it was still dark outside
It was a light comin'down from the sky
I don't know who or why

Must be those strangers that come every night
Whose saucers shaped light put people up tight
Leave blue green footprints that glow in the dark
I hope they get home all right

Hey Mr.Spaceman, won't you please take me along
I won't do anything wrong
Hey Mr.Spaceman, won't you please take me along
For a ride......

The Byrds

Up the Junction

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 17:58:15 -0800

Country

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 07:48:00 -0800

Twins

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 16:29:23 -0800

Body and Soul

by Sharon Bryan (excerpted)

They grow up together

but they aren't even fraternal

twins, they quarrel a lot

about where to go and what

to do, the body complains

about having to carry

the soul everywhere as if

it were some helpless cripple,

and the soul snipes that it can go

places the body never dreamed of,

then they quarrel over which one of them

does the dreaming, but the truth is,

they can't live without each other and

they both know it, anima, animosity........

Photogenic

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 07:38:50 -0800

Remain's of Jacob's Ladder

Thu, 14 Aug 2008 16:46:18 -0800

We are climbing Jacob's ladder
We are climbing Jacob's ladder
We are climbing Jacob's ladder
Brothers, sisters, all

Every rung goes higher and higher
Every rung goes higher and higher
Every rung goes higher and higher
Brothers, sisters, all

We are dancing Sarah's circle
We are dancing Sarah's circle
We are dancing Sarah's circle
Sisters, brothers, all

Every round a generation
Every round a generation
Every round a generation
Sisters, brothers, all

We are climbing Jacob's ladder
We are climbing Jacob's ladder
We are climbing Jacob's ladder
Brothers, sisters, all

Traditional

This Is Your Day

Tue, 12 Aug 2008 18:36:12 -0800

Was a sunny day
all the birdies in the trees

all the radios playing songs
all the favorite melodies.

Was a sunny day
not a cloud was in the sky

not a negative word was heard
from the people passing by..

Paul Simon

Dog Days

Mon, 11 Aug 2008 17:59:32 -0800

The Cliff Walk Concurs

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 09:57:27 -0800

Try A Little Kindness

Fri, 8 Aug 2008 08:35:30 -0800

Kindness

by Yusef Komunyakaa

For Carol Rigolot

When deeds splay before us

precious as gold & unused chances

stripped from the whine-bone,

we know the moment kindheartedness

walks in. Each praise be

echoes us back as the years uncount

themselves, eating salt. Though blood

first shaped us on the climbing wheel,

the human mind lit by the savanna’s

ice star & thistle rose,

your knowing gaze enters a room

& opens the day,

saying we were made for fun.

Even the bedazzled brute knows

when sunlight falls through leaves

across honed knives on the table.

If we can see it push shadows

aside, growing closer, are we less

broken? A barometer, temperature

gauge, a ruler in minus fractions

& pedigrees, a thingmajig,

a probe with an all-seeing eye,

what do we need to measure

kindness, every unheld breath,

every unkind leapyear?

Sometimes a sober voice is enough

to calm the waters & drive away

the false witnesses, saying, Look,

here are the broken treaties Beauty

brought to us earthbound sentinels.

Prince of Wales

Tue, 5 Aug 2008 16:33:32 -0800

Against the Grain ll

Sun, 3 Aug 2008 11:59:31 -0800

Repost with greater resolution and different formatting.

No Cowboy Coffee

Sat, 2 Aug 2008 12:57:47 -0800

River Of Love

Thu, 31 Jul 2008 22:52:21 -0800

The Wine of Love

by James Thomson

The wine of Love is music,

And the feast of Love is song:

And when Love sits down to the banquet,

Love sits long:

Sits long and ariseth drunken,

But not with the feast and the wine;

He reeleth with his own heart,

That great rich Vine.

And Your Little Dog Too

Wed, 30 Jul 2008 17:57:22 -0800

Thank god for the zoom lens!

Waiting For You

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 17:41:10 -0800

Less Three Men

Mon, 28 Jul 2008 10:16:09 -0800

Drought Resistant

Sun, 27 Jul 2008 08:22:05 -0800

Ain't That America

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 19:44:20 -0800

After recieving permission to photograph this camp site at the Winthrop Blues Festival in eastern washington usa, the woman in the white shirt followed after me to get my attention, she exclaimed emphatically " this is america, I'm glad your photographing it !"

Comfortable

Tue, 22 Jul 2008 15:36:36 -0800

Shady digs at the Blues Festival in Winthrop Washington ,USA

The Viking's Return

Mon, 21 Jul 2008 14:05:59 -0800

cooling off at the Winthrop Rhythm and Blues Festival in Eastern Washington USA

Time of the Gypsies

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 08:43:25 -0800

Well not really...but this baby is visiting from Tuscon, Arizona,USA.

Nothing Man

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 21:52:54 -0800

The Unforgiven

by Russell Edson

         After a series of indiscretions a man stumbled homeward, thinking, now that I am going down from my misbehavior I am to be forgiven, because how I acted was not the true self, which I am now returning to. And I am not to be blamed for the past, because I’m to be seen as one redeemed in the present...
         But when he got to the threshold of his house his house said, go away, I am not at home.
         Not at home? A house is always at home; where else can it be? said the man.
         I am not at home to you, said his house.

         And so the man stumbled away into another series of indiscretions...

Sleeper

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 17:54:47 -0800

Walking on Tiptoe

by Ted Kooser

Long ago we quit lifting our heels

like the others—horse, dog, and tiger—

though we thrill to their speed

as they flee. Even the mouse

bearing the great weight of a nugget

of dog food is enviably graceful.

There is little spring to our walk,

we are so burdened with responsibility,

all of the disciplinary actions

that have fallen to us, the punishments,

the killings, and all with our feet

bound stiff in the skins of the conquered.

But sometimes, in the early hours,

we can feel what it must have been like

to be one of them, up on our toes,

stealing past doors where others are sleeping,

and suddenly able to see in the dark.

Jacks

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 18:44:10 -0800

Sinclair Island

Sun, 13 Jul 2008 09:42:28 -0800

Strait of Juan de Fuca

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 21:26:47 -0800

Hawaiian Holiday

Wed, 9 Jul 2008 08:45:55 -0800

Monarch Butterfly

Mon, 7 Jul 2008 20:34:31 -0800

Becune Point

by Derek Walcott (excerpt)

Stunned heat of noon. In shade, tan, silken cows

hide in the thorned acacias. A butterfly staggers.

So Hit Me

Wed, 2 Jul 2008 19:04:36 -0800

Festival Seating

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 09:11:12 -0800

Landscape Over Zero

by Bei Dao

it's hawk teaching song to swim

it's song tracing back to the first wind

we trade scraps of joy

enter family from different directions

it's a father confirming darkness

it's darkness leading to that lightning of the classics

a door of weeping slams shut

echoes chasing its cry

it's a pen blossoming in lost hope

it's a blossom resisting the inevitable route

it's love's gleam waking to

light up landscape over zero

Merry Whatever

Sat, 28 Jun 2008 10:40:39 -0800

Brief reflection on killing the Christmas carp

by Miroslav Holub

You take a kitchen-mallet

and a knife

and hit

the right spot, so it doesn’t jerk, for

jerking means only complications and reduces profit.

And the watchers already narrow their eyes, already admire the

dexterity,

already reach for their purses. And paper is ready

for wrapping it up. And smoke rises from chimneys.

And Christmas peers from windows, creeps along the ground

and splashes in barrels.

Such is the law of happiness.

I am just wondering if the carp is the right creature.

A far better creature surely would be one

which—stretched out—held flat—pinned down—

would turn its blue eye

on the mallet, the knife, the purse, the paper,

the watchers and the chimneys

and Christmas,

And quickly

say something. For instance

These are my happiest days; these are my golden days.

The starry sky above me and the moral law within me,

And yet it moves.

Or at least

Hallelujah!

Duck Xing

Thu, 26 Jun 2008 19:01:47 -0800

Shooting Gallery

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 22:55:02 -0800

A Boat

by Richard Brautigan

O beautiful

was the werewolf

in his evil forest.

We took him

to the carnival

and he started

crying

when he saw

the Ferris wheel.

Electric

green and red tears

flowed down

his furry cheeks.

He looked

like a boat

out on the dark

water.

Hughy, Dewey and Louie

Mon, 23 Jun 2008 07:11:55 -0800

Funny Strange

by Jennifer Michael Hecht

We are tender and our lives are sweet

and they are already over and we are

visiting them in some kind of endless

reprieve from oblivion, we are walking

around in them and after we shatter

with love for everything we settle in.

Thou tiger on television chowing,

thou very fact of dreams, thou majestical

roof fretted with golden fire. Thou wisdom

of the inner parts. Thou tintinnabulation.

Is it not sweet to hand over the ocean's

harvest in a single wave of fish? To bounce

a vineyard of grapes from one's apron

and into the mouth of the crowd? To scoop up

bread and offer up one's armful to the throng?

Let us live as if we were still among

the living, let our days be patterned after

theirs. Is it not marvelous to be forgetful?

Remains of the Republic

Fri, 20 Jun 2008 16:46:55 -0800

After the Industrial Revolution, All Things Happen at Once

by Robert Bly

Now we enter a strange world, where the Hessian Christmas

Still goes on, and Washington has not reached the other shore;

The Whiskey Boys

Are gathering again on the meadows of Pennsylvania

And the Republic is still sailing on the open sea.

I saw a black angel in Washington dancing

On a barge, saying, Let us now divide kennel dogs

And hunting dogs; Henry Cabot Lodge, in New York,

Talking of sugar cane in Cuba; Ford,

In Detroit, drinking mother’s milk;

Henry Cabot Lodge, saying, “Remember the Maine!”

Ford, saying, “History is bunk!”

And Wilson saying, “What is good for General Motors ... ”

Who is it, singing? Don’t you hear singing?

It is the dead of Cripple Creek;

Coxey’s army

Like turkeys are singing from the tops of trees!

And the Whiskey Boys are drunk outside Philadelphia.

Against The Grain

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 20:19:10 -0800

Gone Postal

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 18:46:53 -0800

I Close My Eyes

by David Ignatow

I close my eyes like a good little boy at night in bed,

as I was told to do by my mother when she lived,

and before bed I brush my teeth and slip on my pajamas,

as I was told, and look forward to tomorrow.

I do all things required of me to make me a citizen of sterling worth.

I keep a job and come home each evening for dinner. I arrive at the

same time on the same train to give my family a sense of order.

I obey traffic signals. I am cordial to strangers, I answer my

mail promptly. I keep a balanced checking account. Why can’t I

live forever?

The Subtle Yet Feared Martian Invasion

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 06:28:08 -0800

Woke up this morning with light in my eyes
And then realized it was still dark outside
It was a light coming down from the sky
I don't know who or why

Must be those strangers that come every night
Those saucer shaped lights put people uptight
Leave blue-green footprints that glow in the dark
I hope they get home all right

{Refrain}
Hey, Mr. Spaceman
Won't you please take me along
I won't do anything wrong
Hey, Mr. Spaceman
Won't you please take me along for a ride

Woke up this morning, I was feeling quite weird
Had flies in my beard, my toothpaste was smeared
Over my window, they'd written my name
Said, so long, we'll see you again

The Byrds

Doctor in the House

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 09:23:13 -0800

Victory Sort Of

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 17:48:17 -0800

Van Gogh's Prayer

by János Pilinszky

A battle lost in the cornfields

and in the sky a victory.

Birds, the sun and birds again.

By night, what will be left of me?

By night, only a row of lamps,

a wall of yellow clay that shines,

and down the garden, through the trees,

like candles in a row, the panes;

there I dwelt once and dwell no longer—

I can't live where I once lived, though

the roof there used to cover me.

Lord, you covered me long ago.

New Corn

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 20:01:19 -0800

Roots

by John Piller

Mendota, Illinois

It's easy to believe you can go back
Whenever you desire, jump in the car
And drive, arrive at dusk—the hour

You recall most vividly—and walk
Among the buildings spread across the farm,
Out toward the pastures, woods, and fields.

There is music in the leaves, in the dense
Columns of green corn. The wind lays down
The tune. You can play it, too, simply

By walking with eyes closed, arms
Stretched out, lightly striking the stalks.
Who wouldn't desire, like the children

Lost in so many similar fields,
To sit down on the turned earth and drift
Away on the rhythms of his own

First possible death? Rescuing
Voices come closer, veer off. Flashlight beams
Strobe over your head. You do not care.

Each building you remember—hen house,
Sheep shed, corn crib, barn—caved in upon itself,
The walls and roofs collapsing with a final

Percussive clap, since you last walked those fields.
No one you will ever know works that land now.
It is as green as Eden. Life rises in the roots, in the leaves.

Brain Chops

Sun, 8 Jun 2008 19:12:33 -0800

The Preface

by Philip Whalen

A continuous fabric (nerve movie?) exactly as wide as these lines—
"continuous" within a certain time-limit, say a few hours of total
attention and pleasure: to move smoothly past the reader's eyes,
across his brain: the moving sheet has shaped holes in it which
trip the synapse finger-levers of reader's brain causing great sections
of his nervous system—distant galaxies hitherto unsuspected (now
added to International Galactic Catalog)—to LIGHT UP. Bring
out new masses, maps old happy memory.

Hang on St. Christopher

Fri, 6 Jun 2008 09:27:48 -0800

No Vacancy

Wed, 4 Jun 2008 12:34:56 -0800

The Other Place

by William Logan

The leaves had fallen in that sullen place,

but none around him knew just where they were.

The sky revealed no sun. A ragged blur

remained where each man's face had been a face.

Two angels soon crept forth with trays of bread,

circling among the lost like prison guards.

Love is not love, unless its will affords

forgiveness for the words that are not said.

Still he could not believe that this was Hell,

that others sent before him did not know;

yet, once his name and memory grew faint,

it was no worse, perhaps, than a cheap motel.

It is the love of failure makes a saint.

He stood up then, but did not try to go.

Sirens

Tue, 3 Jun 2008 16:24:22 -0800

This is the one song everyone would like to learn: the song that is irresistible: the song that forces men to leap overboard in squadrons even though they see beached skulls the song nobody knows because anyone who had heard it is dead, and the others can’t remember. Shall I tell you the secret and if I do, will you get me out of this bird suit? I don’t enjoy it here squatting on this island looking picturesque and mythical with these two feathery maniacs, I don’t enjoy singing this trio, fatal and valuable. I will tell the secret to you, to you, only to you. Come closer. This song is a cry for help: Help me! Only you, only you can, you are unique at last. Alas it is a boring song but it works every time. Margaret Atwood

Sea and Land

Mon, 2 Jun 2008 19:21:12 -0800

Fog Horns

by David Mason

The loneliest days,

damp and indistinct,

sea and land a haze.

And purple fog horns

blossomed over tides—

bruises being born

in silence, so slow,

so out there, around,

above and below.

In such hurts of sound

the known world became

neither flat nor round.

The steaming tea pot

was all we fathomed

of is and is not .

The hours were hallways

with doors at the ends

opened into days

fading into night

and the scattering

particles of light.

Nothing was done then.

Nothing was ever

done. Then it was done.

Scoreless

Sun, 1 Jun 2008 15:46:55 -0800

Baseball and Classicism

by Tom Clark

Every day I peruse the box scores for hours

Sometimes I wonder why I do it

Since I am not going to take a test on it

And no one is going to give me money

The pleasure’s something like that of codes

Of deciphering an ancient alphabet say

So as brightly to picturize Eurydice

In the Elysian Fields on her perfect day

The day she went 5 for 5 against Vic Raschi

Hartline Washington,USA

Wed, 28 May 2008 09:39:28 -0800

Don't wanna live in the city,
City is way too full.
I just wanna be where I can sleep
with both of my eyes closed.

Don't wanna live in the country,
I can't afford no farm.
So I'm in this little town, and I look around,
And there ain't that much to do.

[chorus:]
Let's go down to the cafe and count feedcaps,
and count feedcaps, in a row.
Red and blue and green over the coffee cups,
Stirrin' easy, fadin' slow.

JoAnn, you know how much I love you,
That's why I brought you here.
Where the rent is cheap and the fishin's good,
When it don't rain too much.

What is this look in your eyes, dear?
Are you tired of me?
You don't wanna read; nothin's on TV,
Don't look at your suitcase like that.

Greg Brown 'Counting Feedcaps'

Another Country

Sun, 25 May 2008 15:59:38 -0800

Whoso list to haunt could do worse than to Obtain the license, get the picture. Spook finders must find spooks to put the face, Name and space coordinates together. What is kept in the mind perimeter Retains a wild autonomy through fate. I will retreat to the precorporate. Let fate have what is fate’s and allow This spirit to slip through time’s difficult Nets with the devious fingers of A wild wind, while I run along behind.

The Domestic Life of Ghosts
by Tom Clark

Cliff Ave

Fri, 23 May 2008 16:28:46 -0800

Home Fire

by Linda Parsons Marion

Whether on the boulevard or gravel backroad,

I do not easily raise my hand to those who toss

up theirs in anonymous hello, merely to say

“I’m passing this way.” Once out of shyness, now

reluctance to tip my hand, I admire the shrubbery

instead. I’ve learned where the lines are drawn

and keep the privet well trimmed. I left one house

with toys on the floor for another with quiet rugs

and a bed where the moon comes in. I’ve thrown

myself at men in black turtlenecks only to find

that home is best after all. Home where I sit

in the glider, knowing it needs oil, like my own

rusty joints. Where I coax blackberry to dogwood

and winter to harvest, where my table is clothed

in light. Home where I walk out on the thin page

of night, without waving or giving myself away,

and return with my words burning like fire in the grate.

Surf City

Thu, 22 May 2008 21:32:22 -0800

Well all be planning that route
Were gonna take real soon
Were waxing down our surfboards
We cant wait for june
Well all be gone for the summer
Were on surfari to stay
Tell the teacher were surfin
Surfin u.s.a.

From Surfin.USA

THe Beach Boys

Have You Driven A Ford Lately

Wed, 21 May 2008 09:49:24 -0800

He is pushing a black Ford
through an empty street -
a car like his father's
that beat the flat roads like wind
in summer and brought him here.

He never forgave his father.
That was the year he left home.
Then there was talk of weather
and everyone was packing.
Windmills were stopped
all over Kansas.

He is thinking of fathers,
the ways they never forgive you,
withholding love like lust.
But they quit, they stop like pumps.
There is no way to
set them working again.

He is thinking of mothers,
how she could not know how he
half followed girls down dark streets
of his heart, how that loneliness
is passed to sons,
to the fathers of sons.

He is pushing a black Ford.
Its problem is such a heart
you cannot give it enough care.
Like a father it will quit.
And there is no end to this.

Depression
by Henry Carlile

Futureworld

Tue, 20 May 2008 07:49:24 -0800

There was something eerie in the air,

An absence I could not identify.

An immense single-pump gas station,

Shimmering like a mirage in the heat,

Took up a good part of the main drag.

I pull in. Step into the heat stunned.

The car is too hot to touch.

I needed gas but didn't want to get it there.

It meant digging up the attendant.

From the poem 'PROVO'

by Mark Rudman

Small Town

Sun, 18 May 2008 15:43:43 -0800

A Tree in the Clouds

Sat, 17 May 2008 16:03:58 -0800

Dirge in Woods

by George Meredith

A wind sways the pines,

And below

Not a breath of wild air;

Still as the mosses that glow

On the flooring and over the lines

Of the roots here and there.

The pine-tree drops its dead;

They are quiet, as under the sea.

Overhead, overhead

Rushes life in a race,

As the clouds the clouds chase;

And we go,

And we drop like the fruits of the tree,

Even we,

Even so.

Original Eco Car

Thu, 15 May 2008 21:23:06 -0800

Driving toward the Lac Qui Parle River

by Robert Bly

I
I am driving; it is dusk; Minnesota.

The stubble field catches the last growth of sun.

The soybeans are breathing on all sides.

Old men are sitting before their houses on car seats

In the small towns. I am happy,

The moon rising above the turkey sheds.

II
The small world of the car

Plunges through the deep fields of the night,

On the road from Willmar to Milan.

This solitude covered with iron

Moves through the fields of night

Penetrated by the noise of crickets.

III
Nearly to Milan, suddenly a small bridge,

And water kneeling in the moonlight.

In small towns the houses are built right on the ground;

The lamplight falls on all fours on the grass.

When I reach the river, the full moon covers it.

A few people are talking, low, in a boat.

The Throne of the Artist

Wed, 14 May 2008 18:32:35 -0800

Red House

Mon, 12 May 2008 19:47:28 -0800

The Unforgiven

by Russell Edson

         After a series of indiscretions a man stumbled homeward, thinking, now that I am going down from my misbehavior I am to be forgiven, because how I acted was not the true self, which I am now returning to. And I am not to be blamed for the past, because I’m to be seen as one redeemed in the present...
         But when he got to the threshold of his house said go away, I am not at home.
         Not at home? A house is always at home; where else can it be? said the man.
         I am not at home to you, said his house.

         And so the man stumbled into another series of indiscretions...

The Owl and the Spirit

Sun, 11 May 2008 10:42:52 -0800

Dragonflies Mating by Robert Hass 1. The people who lived here before us also loved these high mountain meadows on summer mornings. They made their way up here in easy stages when heat began to dry the valleys out, following the berry harvest probably and the pine buds: climbing and making camp and gathering, then breaking camp and climbing and making camp and gathering. A few miles a day. They sent out the children to dig up bulbs of the mariposa lilies that they liked to roast at night by the fire where they sat talking about how this year was different from last year. Told stories, knew where they were on earth from the names, owl moon, bear moon, gooseberry moon.

Rescue Me

Sat, 10 May 2008 14:55:19 -0800

The Domestic Life of Ghosts

by Tom Clark

Whoso list to haunt could do worse than to

Obtain the license, get the picture.

Spook finders must find spooks to put the face,

Name and space coordinates together.

What is kept in the mind perimeter

Retains a wild autonomy through fate.

I will retreat to the precorporate.

Let fate have what is fate’s and allow

This spirit to slip through time’s difficult

Nets with the devious fingers of

A wild wind, while I run along behind.

Heaven and Earth

Fri, 9 May 2008 09:11:06 -0800

"Behold, the grave of a wicked man" by Stephen Crane Behold, the grave of a wicked man, And near it, a stern spirit. There came a drooping maid with violets, But the spirit grasped her arm. “No flowers for him,” he said. The maid wept: “Ah, I loved him.” But the spirit, grim and frowning: “No flowers for him.” Now, this is it — If the spirit was just, Why did the maid weep?

Taxidermy Heaven

Thu, 8 May 2008 08:54:34 -0800

Native cemetary near the Spokane Indian reservation,Eastern Wa. USA

The Town Pump

Wed, 7 May 2008 09:18:53 -0800

Pink dreams are made of this...

Carabunga

Tue, 6 May 2008 08:21:23 -0800

Ribbons

Sun, 4 May 2008 19:59:28 -0800

Far and Away

Sat, 3 May 2008 10:07:18 -0800

The Road and the End

by Carl Sandburg

I shall foot it

Down the roadway in the dusk,

Where shapes of hunger wander

And the fugitives of pain go by.

I shall foot it

In the silence of the morning,

See the night slur into dawn,

Hear the slow great winds arise

Where tall trees flank the way

And shoulder toward the sky.

The broken boulders by the road

Shall not commemorate my ruin.

Regret shall be the gravel under foot.

I shall watch for

Slim birds swift of wing

That go where wind and ranks of thunder

Drive the wild processionals of rain.

The dust of the travelled road

Shall touch my hands and face.

Out of Gas

Fri, 2 May 2008 12:49:02 -0800

Out of gas Out of road Out of car I don't know how I'm going to go and I had a drink the other day Opinions were like kittens I was giving them away I had a drink the other day I had a lot to say And I said: You will come down soon too You will come down too soon You will come down soon too Soon enough you will come down, come down You will come down soon too You will come down too soon You'll come down, come down You'll come down, come down

Modest Mouse

Red Angel

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 19:26:34 -0800

Native Woman

by A. F. Moritz

Her hair back from the wide round face

flows, almost a girl’s, so thick,

caught back in combs, racing

and curling through them with blackest

vigor, although it is pure white.

Cracked face, dusk-colored: not red

but with a deep red struggling under

the coming night. The eyes shift quickly,

the subway train jerks and rattles,

green vinyl, light flickering, silver poles.

Eyes driven from ancient calm,

which may fear but is never frantic

and says nothing, such as looks out

from the old Indian portraits—calm is

the one thing missing from the beauty

of her face in the black window.

Those unresting eyes there

talk plainly: there’s no money

at home, men young and old go wrong,

life almost at its end is

still day by day harried and perplexed.

Beware of Darkness

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 17:49:07 -0800

With Thanks to George Harrison for Title

Watch out now, take care
Beware of falling swingers
Dropping all around you
The pain that often mingles
In your fingertips
Beware of darkness

Watch out now, take care
Beware of the thoughts that linger
Winding up inside your head
The hopelessness around you
In the dead of night

Beware of sadness
It can hit you
It can hurt you
Make you sore and what is more
That is not what you are here for

Watch out now, take care
Beware of soft shoe shufflers
Dancing down the sidewalks
As each unconscious sufferer
Wanders aimlessly
Beware of Maya

Watch out now, take care
Beware of greedy leaders
They take you where you should not go
While Weeping Atlas Cedars
They just want to grow, grow and grow
Beware of darkness (beware of darkness)

Got Milk?

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 20:15:11 -0800

Eden, Then and Now by Ruth Stone In ’29 before the dust storms sandblasted Indianapolis, we believed in the milk company. Milk came in glass bottles. We spread dye-colored butter, now connected to cancer. We worked seven to seven with no overtime pay; pledged allegiance every day, pitied the starving Armenians. One morning in the midst of plenty, there were folks out of context, who were living on nothing. Some slept in shacks on the banks of the river. This phenomenon investors said would pass away. My father worked for the daily paper. He was a union printer; lead slugs and blue smoke. He worked with hot lead at a two-ton machine, in a low-slung seat; a green-billed cap pulled low on his forehead. He gave my mother a dollar a day. You could say we were rich. This was the Jazz Age.