jalopy jones

these three poems have now been rejected by four different journals, so, one last posting here, and then i set them on fire and dance on their graves.

thinking about the thinker

he had an aneurysm
right there on the steps of the museum
a crash landing of sorts
between greek myth and nuclear physics

i heard a sharp pop, like a small caliber gunshot
witnesses were concerned
and then not concerned

some say his heart was made of styrofoam 
others say a pearl, all clammed up

some say he’s a fake, imitation of humanity
hired by some egg-head committee 
to pose superior, ponder a footstep
but never journey 
pretend a few heartbeats
just a hollow shell, knock but no one answers 

sometimes magpies perch on his shoulder
whisper in his ear
secrets are safe here
only gods and fools and small ugly birds talk to rocks

as a young man
we sang sex pistol songs together
while waiting for the bus
we shared a sandwich and a migraine 
watched lithe and determined young women float by
imagined them dazzled and bewildered and naked
in the arms of our dangerous poems

he’s not stoned, just socially awkward
and a little homesick
for secret islands of nowhere
somewhere 
between stonehenge and silicon valley

i don’t know his name
perhaps it is chuck, or steve, or lorenzo
a pisces and a winter
a governor of renaissance, a generation x stacker
bus driver of hell’s ghetto and god’s favorite jester 
philosopher and ice cream vender, inventor of fever-dreams
patron saint of daydreams, old wounded warrior
veteran of multi-colored revolution, feet scarred mile markers 
his mind tattooed in blue lightning, and i was there when it happened 

the aneurysm, right there on that pedestal 
witnesses will tell you, i tried to save him
but i couldn’t wake him
perhaps little ugly little birds can breathe life back into him
fill him up with earth-babble-dream-nectar 
the nonsense of life
the wonder

road trip

we can travel together
kick back in the lap of a classic chevy ragtop
engine block roaring bold existence
soaring down huckleberry highways
the eyes of god spinning
and every loose strand of your ponytail
painting the desert blonde

we’ll hunt down all the blind spots
eyes too wide to have corners, we’ll find all the stuff
maps forget, scrap metal landmarks
lost truck stop civilizations, the grand madness of utah 

we’ll decorate the dashboard like noah’s ark
with your collection of plastic pez dispensers
mickey mouse and donald duck, batman and mario 
care bears, mermaids and yoda
i’ll laugh at your cheap toys, you’ll make fun of my ugly hat

we can bum-rush a million sideroads 
or linger too long in time traveling roadside restaurants
jukebox juiced, shuffling dozens of yesterdays
eat hotdogs and watermelon in a winnemucca parking lot
pour bottled water over a broken radiator
in arizona heat waves

you can make a map
of cloud formations, i’ll navigate the radio 
we can kill the static with philosophical gibberish
or sing along with hillbilly fiddles
scratching out lazy love songs

we’ll take shelter 
in each other, and motel rooms too ugly for human words
take epic naps and ruin most of our clothes
in a piece of crap laundromat

we can witness the heartbeats of alien cities 
i’ll admit I’m lost, and you can lead me
thru santa fe streets, explore the festival of summer
mingle in the heat of human nature, make totem poles out of
total strangers, drink the local wine and tell modern tales
of exodus and diaspora

we’ll pose like stay dogs 
in tourist trap photographs, you all ragdoll beautiful 
me in my ugly hat

we’ll merge in and out of uhaul caravans
in grapes of wrath formation
across the four dimensions of america
black and white and asphalt gray
you can crash in the backseat, paint your toenails
whatever color you want

we can vanish into blue mountains
the way all good expeditions do
a gospel of impulse
nothing but myth
and a trail of sunflower seeds 	

bowl of soup

“clear view
In the soup kettle…
The milky way”

issa (priest cup-of-tea of haiku temple)


first, the rice goes into the soup
then the fish
carrots, mushrooms, leeks
he stirs it with a stick

and the song that he sings, wordless and off key 
goes into the soup
and the smoke of the fire, bits of drifting ash
whatever the wind brings along
wandering raindrops
the dust of earth and herb from a thousand plowed fields 
into the soup

mountains crumble in his mind
become loose boulders rolling
become round and smooth and wise
some grind down to dust and wait for the next mountain to rise
some travel the valley
seventeen perfect pebbles roll within reach
go into the soup

the last drops of saki and a thread from his shirt, into the soup

he adds the vanishing memory of youth
all the leftover laughter of summer festival
drunk friends
all the footsteps that stumble
	dew drops
		nightingales
			lonely cricket
into the soup and stirred with a stick

the spirits of scarecrow and firefly
the stars and the moon surrender to his gravity
fall into the soup

soup becomes universe
alive

he sits on the ground
(poet - highway - fire - soup)

he holds the bowl with both hands and takes little sips
the soup is hot