Wednesday, March 9, 2016

The Blues
for Chris

She brings home these
vinyl records, knowing what
prizes they are.

$1 each, on one
Tuesday each month. Never
been to that store

before, probly never
will be again. Prizes
include . . . Guy Clark

Old Friend
I never heard
before, has “Immigrant Eyes”

on it, & much great
Townes too, to
say nothing of
“Indian Cowboy.”

Some of the rest dis-
concerting & dis-
appointing &

in fact . . .
(not very good).
Linda in that

weird polka dot
thing, although
with great cover of

“Tell Him.”
Rodney Crowell sounding
like he’s trying

to play disco. Disco also
through & through
some damn Dan

Fogelberg thing one
of my brothers,
I hope, used to
like. But . . . on the other hand

two too hot Hot Tunas. One
already in the rack, unheard
in years & the other
never even seen

so good y’d like to die
listening to it.
& the best Leon, ever.

She didn’t give me
the blues, but once.
Or maybe twice. She just

learned me
about them.
Superbowl 2007, purely personal note

What Augustine and I have in common over the centuries:
logorrhea & a dynamic cocktail of puritan-and-hedon-ism.

And then, by god, there on television
a notable Arizona fascist flips a special coin.
Afterward the buy-now robot beats up the buy-now Dodge.

Young Carl Byker once remarked at the television
in a Grand Rapids golf course bar
"I can't believe I live on this planet!"
Ashton Ave 1/4/2007


First night waning moon
of the New Year
rises from hood of

dark cumulous hovering
over East Bay Hills . . .

last remnant of today’s early rain
still hanging there
against the nights demanding wind.


First night in what seems like months
without narcotic football

and all the accompanyingly
vile America it reflects.


How Long
O Lord How Long

must I be forced to press
the mute button to avoid

the awful sound of an angry
robot beating up a horned Dodge.

Or watch lymphmaniac Bill Walsh
lipsynch to a Coors Light commercial?

Guy Clark would never
do something like that. I devoutly hope.


Last year’s new Dylan (Modern Times)
on the turntable in

heavy vinyl . . . and Moriah
. . . the cat not the wind . . .

climbing all over the turntable
as threat to scratch hell out of
the best record I have.


It would be a great record
if Bob Dylan had never existed.

Or at least a revenant
suggesting that

if Bob Dylan didn’t exist
we would have to invent him.

CODA “The cat thrown

Moriah thrown from the appurtenance of stereo
goes hard at work on a golf pencil instead.
The Rouge


Watching Canadian Football
in SF, because
I like it. These days, I like it
better than Amerikan.

Maybe because I like Canada
better than Amerika.

now qualifies me
as enemy combatant
eligible for


Think about Riverbend, silent
several days until 10/18/06
. . . not heard from since
. . . maybe never coming back
after last brutally articulate post.

Think about buried reports
of Iraqui girls going for
sex slavery to get out’a there . . .
(Why is this story not surprising let alone new?)


Canadian Football
in SF on premium cable for
an extra $5-10 USD, $5.25-10.50 CDN.

(Anyone notice how $CDN has kept
getting closer to $USD
since you know when?)

And commercial sponsors are
US ARMY (you will also
get a free US ARMY hat)

& real estate deals of the sort
Fred Elgersma railed against
in his fabled recordings

of the 80s. And!
Canadian Football Fathead
thug commentators no

better than Amerikan Fatheads,
thus, etc . . .
And the game is indoors, yea, right,

& halftime show a
salute to Canadian Forces
in Afghanistan where
the poppies are blooming.

The Forces & their Great Sacrifices
mentioned Sentimentally
whenever the Fatheads shut the

**** up. Marching, they
look older than me. Then
a commercial for

jerky and sausage making
of the essential you-kill-it
we-cure-it sort no Canadian

would believe
for as many as 28 seconds

and then a a bit of
preternaturally repellent
advice from Dick Vitale for

people who want to get
NCAA scholarships in 2006
or 2007. And I am reminded

that wherever this football is
being played, indoors or out,
I am watching Amerikan TV.


Sometimes I like to pretend
I am as protected from
Amerika here in San Francisco as
I would be in Vancouver.

(And my Yankee Dollars won’t soon be
worth any more good goddamn Euros
than $CDS are anyway)

So . . . what’s the point of trying
to move back there
where I had an unfortunate emotional experience
while I was planting trees, anyway?


In Canadian Football
the penalty flag is bright red and
a single point is called a rouge.
Fly Rod

The Wildebeeste’s widow
sends the fly rod
I know well.

I do not, at first,
even understand the
note covering it.

A better reader explains . . .
The Beeste was telling me
about Jesus and how we

would meet again
in Glory. Not
my memory

of the conversation
but who in heaven
knows how

those things actually
go. I heard him
tell me a story

I had already heard
about a preacher who
helped him prepare

for his inevitable
death. The Beeste
called it reprehensible.

I had to agree.
His widow heard
a different story

and bless whatever
God or Jesus told her
what to do, because

I haven’t fished in
some long time & who knows, I might.


The Wildebeeste on the Conviction of Saddam

My fatuous brother told me
he would never be convicted
because he would never come
to trial, and if he did

they’d kill him before
it ended. Instead
they killed his lawyers.

Saddam’s that is. My brother
doesn’t have a lawyer
just a weird bunch

of lawyer friends who
smoke dope when they should
be keeping their fee accounts.

But no, they took my fatuous brother’s
$50 bet instead, and that will get
them to the next one
eighth of an ounce

. . . if he ever pays. Good
for all of them. They
had it coming.
My Dentist
for Jabes

Wasn’t it Pynchon, in V, who
floated the notion that dentistry
was the mid-century answer

to Psychiatry? (See the chapter
in which Rachel Owlglass
Gets a Nose Job. Or is it the one

where Stencil simply gets Dentistry?)
Go read V again, lazy citizen!
Do your own research!

And my dentist was talking
and one of the great things
about my dentist is he

steps back and lets me talk
too, whatever he or I
have in my mouth.

My dentist was, not
that long ago, a
San Francisco Fireman

of Assyrian decent.
He is a Christian
(of an Assyrian sort).

The other firemen called
him a Sand Nigger.
(Check out the SFFD’s record

on tolerance, sometime.) And now
he’s telling me all
about how great the Bill

Moyers series on the
right wing has been, & how it
reminds him of what it means

to be an American. I
agree, although I’ve seen
none of it, explain

I only watch baseball
& the occasional movie on TV if
there aren’t any commercials, that

I don’t even listen to
the emerging liberal radio
because I get better

information from the Texas
& Canadian songwriters
they play on KPIG. People

talking about the decisions that
will kill us all depress me
enormously. I’d rather

hear it in a song. Preferably
with a baseball game

on TV in the background,
and those nattering “commentators”
fully muted.
Dear Abbey
         (w/ apologies both
           to Ed, and John Prine)

My TV tells me I
can grow hair by smearing
this shit that they

sell as foam
on my dome &
hair just like I

used to have
will grow. My email
tells me it can

cure my penile
woes, make me hard
again. I wonder

what they got for
my belly. Fuck
all, turns out,

eating & drinking less
not being a a viable option.
So, Ed, apologies

reiterated, what can
we smear on our
global dome to make

life itself grow
back, even as
global hair, something

anything on which
a revenant might live?
Your silence, sir, is

illuminating, you got all
you had to say
said & right now it

doesn’t seem to have
done a damn bit
of good. Nice try,

though, fella, nobody’s
best shot seems
good enough in these

evil days. But that is
not to say we
should not keep fighting them,

it, whatever that demonic
energy is that seems
determined to kill us all.


One Last One Night Stand

            with Bernie Van’t Hul & David Schaafsma

Some woodsmen curse as virgin forests fall
while others see a dawning of fine light
that blinds the moles and bleaches owls' bones
and sears the saplings, fries the infant buds.
Then cones pop open so their seed will spill
and soil receives this seed, again begin.

Hell's tintinnabulating bells begin
to ring and monkeys in the trees fall
hard on hand-picked coconuts and spill
their milk on heads of thirsty sylphs as light
as pingpong balls. And there stand the buds
guilty, perplexed, waiting for Mr. Bones.

They feel it now, and deep in trembling bones
the ever lurking dread will soon begin
when no bland opiates like labatts or buds
will cushion twice born guzzlers as they fall
into the stupor that no ordinary light
beer can effect. However, a thought spill

is another matter entirely. You spill
the beans for leering priests who make no bones
about the mortal sin that comes to light
when omnivores crepuscular begin
to stalk as adam did before the fall
the fair and nubile eve whose lovely buds

were not unlike the virgin fern's whose buds
would be enough, airbrushed, for me to spill
seed, coffee, beer, whatever, and then fall
ass over teakettle jumpin' them bones
until keenings of the valkyrie begin
to dissipate the gloom of dying light

that undulates through virgin forests. Light
another match and brew rich coffee buds.
Redeploy its fire and then begin
to smoke, like many another spill
liquescent lava over hallowed bones
concealed by sin-stained acorns in the fall.

Turn out the light, prepare at last to spill
spent seed from anxious buds. Mr. Bones
saw life begin. He watches empires fall.

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