Monthly Archives: August 2012

Life as Marilyn

Life –
I am of both of your directions
Somehow remaining hanging downward the most
but strong as a cobweb in the wind.

I exist more with the cold glistening frost.
But my beaded rays have the colors
I’ve seen in a paintings —
ah life, they have cheated you.

–Marilyn Monroe

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What to Wear

It isn’t true I had nothing on. I had the radio on.

–Marilyn Monroe

The Middle of Life

“There is a forest in the middle of life.”

–Dante

Palomino

A lightening quick, muscular palomino
nuzzling in white dress feathers.
Her soft, war-ready eyes.
Small tremors of excitement
echo the drums across the meadow.

The skies draped in orange and brown sit down to wait.
We mount and ride out in the quiet-bitten morning,
our war colors hammering the wind.

Sailing like hawks over the scapular brown hills,
shivering like Creation,
we count coup in a rock hard whirlwind.
Cries of “hoka hey!” escape the shuddering, longdance of death.

Red and blue paint on warm, blood-scented brindle hindquarters.
Fiery gold aspens riffling along the river at sunset.
Smell of summer honey and the smooth cobbled call of the creek at night.
The pale hooves of the morning still ring in the high canyons.

Second Line

There was a great cloud of stones, pulpits the sky,
the day they lowered you down into your grave of white dreams.
Your red coffin running on waxed rollers. Not even a squeak.

Grandmothers unborn lined up over you in blue painted chairs,
humming like telephone wires in a Wyoming thunderstorm.

I reached out and put my hand on the heart of the drummer
who said he spoke with you in thousand mile hallways.
His hand could not reach my heart though.

The Russian punk band Pussy Riot sang over you–
throttling their usual chambered shout down into a throbbing descant.

Your mother finally climbed on top of your coffin
and danced like a woman possessed as the whole
second line kicked in, swinging all the saints
into a snaking, fire spitting chain of bent soul goodbyes.

Afterwards it was all high stepping back to town.
Tell me someday how you saw it.

The Prophet Ezekiel Speaks to Obama on his 51st Birthday

On Guantanamo, on spying on and assassinating US citizens without trial, and on and on and on:

Your heart has become proud on account of your beauty. You have corrupted your wisdom for the sake of your splendor.

We all know where that leads.

–Ezekiel

Nooner

Two pigeons fucking under the trees in a busy downtown Portland square–took about a nano second. Blink and you’d miss it.

Afterwards they stood two feet apart staring at each other for the longest time, feathers slightly ruffled. Each had one foot tucked up underneath its feathers.