Sticks & amplifiers
 
Wiring together sticks and old amplifiers
to try to contact the dead.

I remember waking up in a wood heated cabin
on the shore of Lake Superior
a kid, pre-sexual, 10 years old.
Now I'm 33 in the mountains of Oregon,
still in the silent wilderness.
Douglas Firs & Red-Tailed Hawks
echo behind my eyes
even when I'm typing on
bright light computer screens
sending words of love & longing
to the ether we now call home.
 
 
 
Rainy season (the fish)

The plow lays silent on the winter wet land.
Cars sink into soil in rain green November.
Salmon in shallow pools swirl ,
their tail fins ripple creek surface.
Dark red & silver flashes of light
from their sides signal spawning frenzy
on quiet fog drenched day.
 
 
 
The Peasants Revolt Dance

The peasants revolt dance is better than sex
fiddle & voice shake your legs, climb your spine.
The peasants revolt dance opens the exit of the
cannibal amphitheater,
the gladiators go home and drink orange juice.
This repels the invasion of the bathtub Buddhas
sutras next to the gold plated toilet flushing handle
who try to scratch the sky with greed.
Sit on a fallen Doug Fir log above a stream
amongst 6ft ferns
and breathe sky,
the peasants revolt dance
is coming to your town.

 
Jaded hand jive

Hand jive, bird flight,
you speak a quiet language
hard for me to hear
see its like this; I walk across the porch
& knock over an ashtray spreading gray
soot over torn brown fabric on the chair
I'm looking for grace I won't find looking for grace.
Serendipity slam a single sultry word
from deep in your throat & I fly into
the night above varicolored cracked
paint houses throwing squares
of light onto dark streets.

Leaves move easily in the wind & the beat is funky
more computers & houses, bikes, cars,
U.F.Os, drugs, hard bright shiny things,
the seductiveness of light, women in magazines
in silver skirts & red lipstick,
stylish, handsome, without odor
I want to smell you at the end of the day
It's about ephemeral spring blooms
hard to talk about in jaded times
 
 
 
Nervous in quiet city

1.50 for that endless cup of coffee trying to figure out
my science fiction nightmares of genetically engineered demon cats
chasing me through endlessly morphing shopping mall.
Information and the blues don't mix so well,
the closest you come to character in this town
is the blank feral stare of greed in the eyes of people
hidden in black wool overcoats. They've got that
"I'm in a hurry," scam down pat.
They're wearing hiking boots that have never seen
dirt in the grooves of their soles,
reading the N.Y. Times with the severity of
simulation repossessed past.
I've been thinking about hillbillies, small town boys & girls
some of them have bozoukis now, playing modal songs,
Bluegrass, Irish Jig, or Hungarian dances. I'm looking
for that last bit of wildness in the grass median
in front of gas stations & in my still fertile body & mind
that says "fuck you," by vibrating nervous in quiet city.