Advice on How to Live With a Fifteen-Year Drought

Climb high onto

the naked mountain

Weep over the carcass of a deer

mummifying in the dry canyon

Listen to the stones

the bleached algae peeling back

from the river rocks

Open to the keen of bees

and mosquitos

as they gather

over the scum

of the last of the pools

deep in the shadows

beneath a trickle of a waterfall

Find memories

like crumpled paper

in the pockets of blue jeans

you long ago outgrew

Uncover the rusty weapon
the map
the thorn that tears skin

Pick up the shield 
send down roots
and take your place 
on the vanishing boundary
between hungry ghosts
and wild eyes

Desert Strip Mall in June

Girl in pink rides by twice

Looking for something

Tube top, bare shoulders

Fresh fruit drying

Pedaling fast.

Two dogs

Pant in a hot car

Noses to a slit of open window.

Three sparrows dance in a line

While the hissing car wash

Applies wax.

Armored car

Cards held close

Low brimmed visor

Idles behind tinted glass

Tiny mouths threaten big words.

Woman alone

Flicks an ash

With lacquered nail.

Old man waves away mosquitoes

Wanting

His hair to grow back

Speed bumps

summer dresses

med students

Liposuction

Asphalt dreams shimmer

Over a desert buried

By desire

Coiling in the dark.

When the Tsunami Comes

You know Carl still lives in Santa Cruz

He said

Went down to see the tsunami

There it was 

Nothing much

Just some boats bumping into each other

A few kids washed off a jetty

Not like that hungry dragon that swamped Japan

But they are talking about the fault off the Northwest

They say that when that comes it will be big

Wipe out the Space Needle maybe or 

Boeing or Microsoft

He chuckles at the thought

Erased cities

Some titillating disaster

Far away

Someone else’s business

Sparrows fight over scraps in the parking lot

A minor food riot beneath our noses

The subject changes

I used to have a car, an old Porsche

Restored it myself

A lucky sparrow flies away 

with a scrap of croissant 
 

others pursue in vain

October

Summer slips out the screen door

While revelers

Gossip like a pack of coyotes

The sea lies blanketed in silver scales

As the first leaf gasps and falls to the ground.

Suspended from a fraying rope

Sipping champagne

Quoting Thoreau

I am

Faintly aware I have forgotten

Something

Your phone number

Or a promise

The breeze off the desert

Smells even more like rain but

It seems the heat will never end

I traveled a long way to get here

And I wonder if I will ever be able to return

Knowing what I know now

The way that seemed so easy

Is now suddenly hard

The load cuts into

My shoulders.

A crescent moon

Lingers before it

Drops below the jagged

Ridge of mountains
Naked.

Night Bloom

The table feels empty

Despite heaps of food.

I am hungry for the wrong things.

A cereus bloomed last night

But I did not see it.

One night of the year

 Luminous velvet edges

Spring from a neck

Of spines and gnarled

Armor.

I walked past it

Breathing hard

Lungs straining against

A straitjacket

Woven from the hunger

For more than I could ever use.

Lightning struck the roof

Frying our habits.

Phones died.

Tools are silent, inert.

I am angry at being set free.

I am sure I need them

To slake my appetite

For something to fill

Empty places.

In the silence sprouts a question:

For what are you hungry?

Fog clears

And I see with right eyes

Roots of thick appetite

Rising to

Stems, fruit

A ripening

Seed,

Liquid, timeless

Desire. 

I want to witness
The night bloom of the cereus
And sit with it as the night gives way to day
As the sun exposes the blossom,
Piercing its defiant glory.

I want to attend to the bloom as it
wilts, kneels, fades, drains,
And prays to the ground.
I want to abide with the cereus
To call it by its sacred name,
wonder.

I long to gaze directly at this
reminder
Of the brevity and passing
impermanence
Of me,
And all things,
To turn away from neither
The beauty and miracle of the bloom nor
The certainty of its demise.

I hear the spines of the cacti
Whispering in my dreams.
Withered and thirsty in this
Place bathed in light
They remember.

The Lines Are Down

My computer is locked

And won’t give me the

Time of day

Literally.

If I don’t press

Control-Alt-Delete

I will remain exiled from the

Land of cyber surfing

Of dry electrons

Running like

Milk and honey

Ozone manna

Silicone processed

Heroin.

Do it.

The hungry ghosts

Say.

We don’t like it here

In this

Dangerous world

Of bumper cars

And broken hearts.