Oasis of Trash

Cutting left and right repeatedly, we wound our way
five miles from Mary's house toward the Tahachipi Mountains
past desert plantations, architectural dreams
adorned with eclectic spirits of necessity and pride
past desert trailers, as comfortable alone as in any trailer park

Perimeters of chicken wire, barbwire and salvaged erosion barrier
protect the scattering of tires, gutted sailboats and dogs who live inside
Seeing us drive by - the first car all day - they bound inside their fence
hollering a greeting above the winds insistent overture
We park when the road ends, shy of our destination: another road
that leads on into the hills. Here, the journey should begin

We leave the car next to an oasis of trash - everything
imaginable: unwanted, conveniently dumped away from
the living. I can hear the spirit children playing
hide and seek with the dead whose faults now
live in the twisted branches of the surrounding Joshua Tree forests

I am hoping to find my own spirit out here, away from distraction
But nature is equally addictive, and I veer away
discuss what I see: Juniper bushes that block the wind and protect me
when I stop to piss; hundreds of dried beef cow patties, whose creators
have been moved on to browner feedlots than this desert
and to crowded grocery isles where strangers will chew the fat
about life lived well. And other things: a femur bone, Christmas dinner.

Thirty minutes up our road that we hope leads closer to ourselves
we turn, Marvin and I, to look back, identify what we can: our parked car
a cement plant; long straight streaks of dust, vehicles on the move
across the winter landscape. We wonder at objects we cannot identify
our map without words, shapes and colors planted and left to survive untended.
Who is responsible for these desert terrariums, these grottos of possibility

Walled inside my head, I turn away and hike again
in the desert that I can't control. I welcome the monotonous ache
in my lungs, the fiery fatigue in my legs. Anything to avoid
the smoldering of my soul, the furnace whose factory
burns me up from the inside out, leads me away, takes the world away.

Down the sloping valley below, homes and roads
where we could go, what could be done with our afternoon.
We are half way up the mountain, or half way back to the car
and sitting in a desert that harbors cacti without spines
who offer their blossoms whether or not I see them

 

The Environment vs. Our Civilization
                          "A good day lived requires no pay."

Orchids rebel, take over the library
demand more be done with our bodies.

petals, neither amiable
nor quarrelsome flaunt maturity
a welcome contribution
for the circus glass vase of progression

A venus flytrap, intent on living
kills one fly with his forehead.
He feels no remorse, but perhaps
the pubescent inklings of scruples
are digested with his winged feast.

Eyes not vacant not eyes
rolled beneath this human form
advance the cusp of confrontation.
We are foolish to trust
the vegetation, dancing
among us without pain
or presentable pedigrees.
Each spring, an epidemic of ruptured blossoms
drip perfume from their open wounds.
Smitten with alleged virtues, we consent
to a chlorophyll contagion.

one plant, one performance
one personality plucked at a time
painted, placed, presented
to resemble model citizens

A bird, unusually silent
marks time and territory.
Implying a flock, she angles
a position among the flora.

Nature's slinky, corkscrew grass blades
surround us. Adjacent, a pack of voyeurs
the remnants of Darwinian predictions
breeze catlike through the mist

This is paradise - quartets
duets, trios, solos wavering
alternately conforming, blowing
independently to celebratory trains
the whistle of adventure
romancing the devil, one
temptation, one brazen bacchanalia
bent stem over stamen
offering talent for tuppence.

 

Plunge

Clear as gooseflesh
the plump, green pools
at Fish Canyon Falls
dare me to enter.
Above, the post-snow
cascade trumpets a protest.
The song comforts my ears
like the company of a warm dog.
Afterwards, I will smell
like fish, my skin luxuriating
in the water's absence
my mind overly conscientious
why I breeched the water's edge.

I wade in, wary
of globular rock bodies
patient for the coming days
when their backs will blaze
under the California sun.
My feet first disappear
beneath the phantom
surface. Slipping
from their home at the eaves
liquid icicles carouse my veins
descend the darkness
between winter coat and spine.
My stomach sparks; flames
sputter, stroke by stroke
I grasp for greater armloads
until even my heart's heat recedes.

Out-matched, I relinquish my body
from the water's obstinate vigor.
The towel I left in the sun
whose rays remain
at odds with the March air
nearly disintegrates
my eggshell skin.
Pointing fingers and lazy stares
within shouting distance
of my retreat do not worry me.
I am glad I cannot hear
what they have to say.

 

Bird on Concrete

He doesn't know what it is
and doesn't care.
His body hears everything
his mind says:
It's like a rock
and the people who cherish it
give freely of their garbage
on which I can eat.

Let us for the moment
despite the warning labels
mistake his glazed eyes
of death for those of ecstasy.

Let us welcome the kind
of creatures for whom
death is not welcome.

Let us accept our infatuation
our distraction by civilization
and appreciate our pleasant obituary
the happy nothing that is absence.

 

Nature's Bigot

Mock me / Not
All rainbows are created
equal and unworthy
in the eyes of raindrops.
Picnic table. Prism clothes.
I know you lived here, once.
Skin like taffy, pulled apart
stains of glass adorn your wrists.
Sweet as corn. Smooth as milk.
You are ripe for the stalking.