Sunday, July 20, 2025

1968 Night - Elegy

 (a memory of two friends, recently passed)


We three were sitting late one night

on a lava rock wall

on a lava rock island 

looking across the dark salt sami

of Pago Bay -

many miles,

many journeys, 

many days

from where we each abide

in star light and shadow now.


On that night when we were young

on Samoan island

in South Pacific expanse

a full moon broke over Rainmaker

and spread at our feet

a glistening carpet,

a path of stars,

a shimmering, leaping,

shivering bridge 

across the water and the night.


Together we held our breath

as the moment and the moonlight 

spread silence and songs 

in our heads,

the only responses

our young hearts could express,

startled by the time and chance,

the volcanic ages, the tectonic surges,

the relentless relation of tides and phases,

the human daring of wander and desire

that brought us three to that moment

of miracle existence.


Each trembling spark of light

on the water that night 

might’ve been each one 

of our steps to come

on jet plane, sixty Chevy,

Greyhound Bus, Amtrak rail,

and misplaced US mail

racing into separation’s shadow.


To snowfall outside Seattle,

to soldier nightmares in LA,

to raucous bars in Virginia,

to barbecue and diner kitchens,

to drunken drive-ins at freeways end,

to dark journeys through darker bedrooms,

to sweating skin and nasty lies

till we all escaped and met again 

under Nuevo Mexico skies.


But on that night, in that cold fire

by oceanside and lunar light

you each knit your fingers

in your lover’s hand,

and then reached to my hand too, 

unspoken wisdom in our young touch

holding us three together 

so we could skim step by step,

and breath by breath,

across the full moon’s shining path

of water and fire.


And in my heart and memory 

there we’ll always be,

hand in hand in hand,

current coursing through,

connection weaving full,

three into one with 

Rainmaker, moon,

star fire, sami,

and journeys to come,

and journeys done.


Wednesday, June 18, 2025

Masks



The villains of Hollywood 

and spaghetti westerns

wore masks

as they rode into town. 

With their faces hidden

behind their bandanas

they kicked down the bank doors,

shot the unlucky bystanders

and fled with bloody money.

Unless they were apprehended

by a sheriff and his deputies

proudly displaying their badges.


But now where the lonesome doggies call

the badges hide their faces in shame,

the badges hide their faces in shame.


Those villains in their masks

made classic cinema -

suspenseful chases,

saloon belles and brawls,

midnight showdowns,

lowdown kidnappings,

epic gun battles 

at high noon or sundown -

until the proud badges

won the day.


But now where the lonesome doggies call

the badges hide their faces in shame,

the badges hide their faces in shame.


Now celluloid legend

gives way to reality,

as the cavalry,

with trumpets blaring

in internet CAPS,

ride in just in time

(and fully masked)

to brutalize the indigenous

and the immigrant

for the dastardly crimes 

of cleaning rooms

and picking fruit.


And now where the lonesome doggies call,

the badges hide their faces in shame,

the badges hide their faces in shame.






Wednesday, May 28, 2025

Power Is a Needle

Power Is a Needle 

(2025)


Power is a needle in the vein.

Hear the junkies sigh

in their exultant high

as the hot flames rush

through blood, lung, and tongue.


Power needs growing greed 

for new injections

growing ever more infectious

as the needle frees

the hidden hates. 


And how the disciples

spasm and dance

spasm and dance

in their adulation trance.


Power is distemper

foaming at the mouth

on podcast and network,

in tweets and x’s

for empty genuflections.


Power is drug hallucination

coughing like covid

or dropping from the sky

like bird flu or wildfire,

spreading wide the infection.


Oh how the disciples

spasm and dance

spasm and dance

in their adulation trance. 


Power is a needle blurring perception,

blind to hurricane and epidemic,

to poverty and difference,

to damage that cannot

reach to homes of richest.


Power is a drunken tantrum

with glazed over eyes

that makes up lies upon lies,

and laughs at the damage

that feeds it’s addiction.


Oh how the disciples

spasm and dance

spasm and dance

in their adulation trance.


Power picks out enemies

to keep the addiction fed,

to feed the deep pleasure,

the orgazmic tremor of

destruction and deception.


Power is a needle

spinning derisions

and spitting out visions

of criminals hiding

in farmer’s field,

in packing factory,

in distribution center,

in rooftop hammering,

in college classroom,

in delivery truck,

in restaurant kitchen,

at dementia bedside,

in inoculation centers,

in soup kitchen lines,

or hotel housekeeping,

or golf course manicuring,

or affluent nannying.


Oh how the disciples

spasm and dance

spasm and dance

in their adulation trance.


Power is a needle 

in the junkie’s brain.

Watch them push it in 

and feel its pleasure

as their tongues flap,

mouths blare, 

and hands grasp treasure,

stealing anything to feed it,

mocking anyone that sees it. 


Power is a needle in the vein.

Hear the junkies sigh

in their exultant high

as the hot flames rush

through blood, lung, and tongue.


And how the disciples

spasm and dance

spasm and dance

in their adulation trance.