Some views of Rose Canyon

I've been watching you from the other side of the drapes,
trucks from all over the county mark their progress with forks,
the elements conspire surprises on any birthday they desire,
you would be a frequent flyer if only Madrid were in Ohio,


The drapes I mentioned are early '70s' Akron, a gift of love,
all the money from GMAC couldn't limit the cyclone fences,
Surprise that it's sleet on the day of your coming out,
wouldn't you rather have permission than excuses?,

Tender love and double breasted jackets, a milk dish, some muffins,
If only words were worth the page that was never a forest to start with,
The climate of the times is birthday cakes and asphalt on lawn chairs,
Or was I just interested in drapes at that, or the window, and not you?,


We go on drinking in the sights through amber lenses,
She doesn’t think and she doesn’t care, and her opinions are firm like tits
A love of money and words turns into magazines and all night fist fights,
Relative spunk of the last promise is a dark stain on those beloved drape




Today, even the cigarette hand is rubbing me the wrong way,
Trucks from over the county line leave limits of warranties in barrels,
He was thinking she was breathing the air all wrong too much heaving,
Objects fly across the room like they do on re-runs, please scratch your nose,



Birthdays turn cold like lovers and faucets but weather happens
every shred of the remaining days, Patio decks suspended in air by planks of a platform from a party
full of surprises that demands that hills not roll but resemble
steps for terraces and patios that jut out like jaws of a boss
who dares you to hit him,


She has all these opinions that are based on what she thinks she's

thinking,

I've been watching you: through a spyglass from a patio across

the canyon that sees your outline and the tag of the towel through

the Akron drapes that are yellow with sun and spade,
All the forks that milk can buy,
He loves to dance, can't dance, loves to chat, he's dead,
If we try hard, we can see a convoy of trucks snake through the shrubs of Rose Canyon,

LAPD is recruiting in San Diego because we don't leave witnesses,
Remember when I regaled you with a discourse on getting even with
the chef who memorized The Anarchist Cookbook?,
It's my birthday in spite of the clime, I'm glad you're using

towels, I wish for abundance in trucks and the next 24 hours,
On days when all the windows and lenses fog,
Think what she will,
He's thinking of meaning and meaning it this time,

Patio decks defy nature and jut from the hillsides as though
the houses themselves want to sail forth and go to some place
where the evidence of sight wasn't taxable and indexed by class,


I've been watching all of you from the other side of the drapes,
one left shoe lies in the center of the free way while the engines
of leisure race and vanish into the irony of perspective,
the point that's never made 'though it's promises taxes our eyes

and wastes our time and makes the purchase of guns desirable and wholesome.

lest i

i left the gun on the counter
lest i shoot off my mouth

kept the cellphone off
in case i call myself names

yes, that was me,
looking over the alley fence

killroy style,

seeing a parade pass by
between 2 brick walls
obstructed with banged, leaky dumpsters,

so many folks waving flags,
shaking hands,

my fingertips are numb
from squeezing the splinters
from the guitar callouses
i built up practicing
"michael row the boat ashore",

the confetti and empty soda cups
obscure the cracks in the sidewalk,

my hands are folded
lest i run this boat aground.

Swans in the park lake

He was in the front seat
Of every car he took to
The other side of the city
Where there were swans
In the park lake, graceful as
Show horses bowing to a crowd .


Half of what you buy
Is who you buy it from.
There you are
With a bag of coffee grounds
In the back seat of the
Car you took back to suburbs
Crowded with the unpaid bills
The city couldn’t set on fire.


There were school girls whistling
Past the graveyard , skirts askew
In uptakes of wind.
Men with shovels loved their work
Because it was deep and grounded.


At dusk, the lake water darkens
And there is only a large, black surface.
The world thinks it is we are out here

In a boat playing harmonicas and guitars
To odd felines and bovines themselves playing
Along the ashen corona that rings the stars.

these trees cannot

these trees cannot
and will not give themselves

to my whims as they
wind around the roots

of our concerns
as shovels dig the earth,

striking bedrock
and giving us sparks

instead of oil or gold.

mineral rights are
no right of way

when no one
sees the path

from the attic window.

these trees would rather burn
with each other , in the forests

where they grew
rather than be uprooted,

split , planed and hammered
into the shapes of furniture and

old toys that will burn
in homes

when sparks hit the shingle roofs
and dry summer limbs.

you give all your money
as you ask for water

and we squeeze stones
that were buried in what little

mud remained along the
side of the road

that's clogged with
cars full of families

saying prayers under
an orange, smoky corona.

no one can see
where it was they lived,

there are no birds
in the sky.