I Love Elvis

I like Elvis.
Elvis is cool.
Even when
he played Las Vegas
in those silly jumpsuits
and speed sweat
flinging upper body judo swipes.
I love Elvis.
His voice was
made for tape echo,
hiccuping in between
upright bass notes
and Scotty Moore's
flatwound Gibson.
I always think about Elvis.
He loved Gospel music
and wound up
in rock and roll,
and wound up
in the army,
and wound up
in the movies,
and wound up
wound up.
What it was he wanted
wasn't probably
what he expected.
Philip K. Dick said
"Whom the gods notice
they destroy."
They destroyed Elivs.
We destroyed Elivs.
Elvis destroyed Elvis.
I like Elvis.
I like watching
my favorite part
of the movie
That's the Way It Is
where Elvis dons reading glasses
onstage at the Sands,
stares at an envelope
and says
"B.J. Thomas has written a song,
I don't particularly like it..."
and then phones it in.
At some point
Elvis decided
to profit off the line of credit
banked on his image
instead of
the act of creation.
I love Elvis.
I love America.
I think about them
all the time
until the difference
becomes unknown to me.

On Highway 2

Sunday morning following the big Georgia loss, The Girl and I are sitting in Voula's on Northlake. We're both making admirable progress through our Bailout Scrambles and drinking steaming hot coffee in the glow of the low hanging sun. As we watch the kick-off of the Packers/Bucs game, it comes upon us; we're gonna get out of town. We're gonna jump into Truck-Truck #2 and head up to the pass. The sky blue sky and autumn's yellow stone are just too inviting to be inside. We head up to Highway 2 going east into the North Cascades and in less than a half hour we're rolling through canopies of stained glass leaves illuminated by streaming sunlight. There are brilliant reds nestled in stands of cottonwood and big leaf maple. Over the top of Steven's Pass (I don't know Steven, but it's a nice pass) and a couple tens of miles, we roll into the counterfeit, bavarian hamlet of Leavenworth. We must have hit town as it puts on it's ooom, pah pah and sausage for Oktoberfest. The whole tourist trap was wall to wall lederhosen, helgas, tuba farts and sausage. We jumped right in and had ourselves some brats and a beer. The Girl was radiant and happy in the mountain sun, eating ice cream while the brass band played yet another version of 'roll out the barrel'. I looked at her pretty face, so serene and happy and then looked around the bandstand at all the people and smiled.

Ain't It Fun?

Last night

i was hunted down

in my sleep 

by the governor’s 

hoodlums.

Strangely,

they looked 

and spoke

like the 

T-Bird chorus

from 

the auto shop scene

in the movie

'Grease'.

P -hips and I 

were cracking wise

in the Pioneer 

log cabin

gymnasium,

unaware 

that the chief lawmaker

was sitting 

a row down

and three to the right.

When she said

“take them out”

I didn’t think she meant

Brown Shirt style

until they smashed

P-hips’ pate 

into

a Jack-o-lantern

jigsaw.

I jumped in 

the unlocked hook

and ladder

and legged it

down Ninety-Nine

heading for 

away from there.

They had that 

loud garbage truck

from my previous nightmares

covered in stygian grime

packed with dead souls

and a V-12 

from a Junkers 88.

They forced me into

oncoming traffic

and I saw 

scores of drivers

watch their life

flash before my eyes.

The T-Bird Garbage men

mocked me

on Citzen’s Band

and bands of policeman

blocked the road ahead.

They dumped dish soap

all over the asphalt

and my wheels 

no longer gained purchase.

Right at that moment

I jumped out of the cab

thinking about 

going out swinging

Only to find myself

staring at a slot car 

fire truck 

floating in soap suds.

Standing next to me

is a pomade ‘do

in leather 

saying “Ain’t it Fun?”

Ain't it Fun? 

Everything Was An Exclamation

Long years ago that seem short to me, we lived on the heights overlooking the meanders of the Columbia River. I walked down the hill every day past the barbed wire fence that acted as my safety net on my first Western Flyer test flight. It took four years, three grades and earned trust to walk the short cut through the farmer’s field and tree’s forest to Francis Marion Elementary. When I told my best friend, David Palmer that Francis Marion was the Swamp Fox, he told me no girls ever fought in the Revolutionary war. “What about Molly Pitcher Molly?” I asked. He told me that was a man’s name but that Francis was definitely not. We saw a mule deer one September morning while cutting through the tree’s forest to school. It bolted away from us in springy leaps like a four legged pogo stick on the pine needled ground. Locomotive clouds of steam left an ellipsis dissipating in front of our stunned expressions. “That was bigfoot, man!!!” David stamped out in shouts of words and flurry of baseball t-shirt arms. “That was bigfoot and we saw him… and here’s the track!!!” He pointed to a barren spot on the short cut trail and frantically commanded me to gather branches and weeds to hide the footprint. “We’ll come back after school and make a cast!!” When David got excited about something, he would talk really fast and move his arms about like he was making a snow angel in the air. I always imagined he was casting a net to draw you into his new thing, his new obsession. “We’ve got to start a bigfoot club and try to catch him!” He exclaimed. Everything was an exclamation with David Palmer. At that instant, I knew that the UFO club was taken off chalkboard.

Freedom to Fail

Welcome back

the boom's bust

and 

reach for the sky.

The bourgeois highwaymen

mounted up 

and rode disorder

riot through 

the leveraged streets

with a balance sheet.

They put a gun

in the mouth of mayor

and purloined absolution.

See shell games 

and see shells whistle

at the front 

where capital 

goes over the top

in fixed bayonet assault

at labor.

Compounded interests

withered the holdings

and held out 

the collection plate.

The state 

breaks like a wave

and brings tides 

of liquidity 

to the shores 

of these trusts.

Crises of consumption

and speculation

and absurdity

are capitalism's comet.

Marketed freedom 

and the apocrypha 

of private property

brings with it

the freedom to fail.

You Just Keep Me Hanging On...

Frownland

What is it?
All over this everywhere
comes a blinding glare
that doesn't come
from the sun.
In my journey
from here to there,
from her to him
and all points
in me 'tween,
my field of vision
is brim-filled with frown.
What is it?
A certain itch
buried deep
in the shallow creases
of my increasingly
worried brain
spins like
a dust devil
pulling rocks skyward
into the Sonoran sky
to splash them down
on unblinking winshields.
Maybe
I wet the bed
of roses
we were growing
for our turn on the track?
The magnet pull
of the mirror
is growing.
Could it be
this haircut?
This expression?
Could it be me?
Is this why
Syd turned into Roger?
Greta dissolved into Harriet?
What is it?
Everyonething painted frown.
My steps quicken
and I keep thinking
of a certain badger hole
deep in the twisted thorns
of a dark forest.
I'm not gonna run
anymore.
I'm just gonna try
to smile
and mean it.

Summer's Empty Shaker

Yesterday
above
the cinema box office queue
in the jack-o-lantern sky
I saw the crow highway.
They stretched across
the whole of the firmament,
bearing south
southeast,
winged grains of black pepper
spilling out into the wind
from summer's empty shaker.
The migration
progressed hourly,
thready streams of black,
navigating airspace
in near silence.
Their passing
invokes dull spikes
of dread
in my hopeful heart.
The chutes and ladders
of time's calendar
are filled with leavings
and goodbye
but there are things
and there are those
who I hold
and I would dissolve
in diffuse, devastated black sparks
if they migrated
away from my aching grasp.

Guitar is a Suitcase

Lately
all of the chords
seem frail
and old.
The stories
they try to tell
are fretful
and full of
tired affectation.
This ship
has navagated
its frame
to zero degrees
latitude and longitude.
The anchor vomits chain
over the mind's fo'c's'le
and it pours into the deep.
The Lawless Joe
gave me a tool
for just such circumstances
as the one
I have befallen into.
It's a small tape measure;
thin metal band spooling out
from a tiny silver casing.
Weave it through the strings
above the alnico pickup
and play out some slack.
With everything plugged in
and the guitar laying flat,
the application of e-bow
lets loose
mallard trombone flock squall
and
pinto violin herds of sinewed whinny.
The prayers of the animal kingdom
loosed through a fender deluxe.
After all,
a guitar is just a suitcase,
only as worthy
as the cargo it carries.

Grow

I see change
inside
and
outside;
homes
friends
trees
family
hands
clouds
money
me.
Who can
play their song
outside
the turning
of that wheel?
The frightened
parts of me
are lanthorn
and waxing sliver
whose light
is febrile
and dim.
Look.
They are
frightened parts
whose search
to avoid
only illuminates
sandwich board falsities
that skywrite whiteout judgment
without disambiguation
of value.
The spilling darkness
only brings
one thousand hurts.
The growing parts
of me
smile in contradistinction.
It is this inevitable turning
and change constant
that can bring
love
forgiveness
and strength.
I see change
and reach for it
on the inside
to the outside.
The sky
at twilight
above
a torn construction paper
horizon,
and the yellowing
leaves,
leaving the world
unafraid to pass
unknown to history
whisper to me.
GROW!

Paintbox

He had

Brubeck fingers,

sepia tone stained 

with nicotine 

and 

Farfisa hum.

His voice was

soft and steady.

A pillow of winds.

Although

he pulled out 

all of the stops,

he didn't make a fuss

or cause a scene.

He just rode 

the Binson Echorec, 

plate wave echo

on streams of B-3.

Early gray

and ever background

but his parts

breathe color

and synaptic wattage

into the skeleton

of the song.

Wallingford Wurst Festival

Holy Mary 

Mother of God

slinging bratsmoke

and sauerkraut

to the brass-blat strains 

of The Seattle Civic Band

in the glare 

of the Wallingford Sun.

St. Bernard Parish 

is at its wurst.

Teenage girls 

rush the red flagged crosswalk

flamingo legged 

and shrieking

at the sight of 

cow-licked skateboard boys

fresh 

from double catamaran runs.

They are received with 

stage strut hugs

and leis of shiny beads

underneath the approving wink

of evening christmas lights.

The bowels of 

the brick and mortar 

catholic school leviathan

open and reveal

a timeless auditorium

populated with tables

of ruddy faced parents

authoring landslides of laughter

in florescent light.

This time could be every time.

Older new student parents

weave through the peopled room

lugging Fender amps 

and Tama Rockstar drums

to the elementary stage.

The annual reunion 

will be baptized 

in St. Benedict lager

and raffle ticket confetti.

I take in the beer 

and I take in 

the wonder of shared joy

right down the street

mere steps away 

from my front door.

Balance and Direction

Since I started

remembering time

the dance

and 

bull charge determination

of the running back

is the golden spike

driven through

orbital cavity,

piercing the lobed ground,

and crossing the hemispheric divide

of my awareness.

This is the arms,

legs,

heart and soul

set against time's gravity

and the mass of opposition.

Everything must be expended

in the act of preserving balance

and true direction.

Linear momentum

in cleats

staring down

resultant force.

A Country Music

You know,

a country music

that didn't come

from Nashville

or better yet

(and much better)

Bakersfield

is of no use to me.

The prophet Hicks

said it was a

round world 

the last time 

he looked.

I agree.

You know,

we've got

a country music

filled with 

bellicose couplets

peeling back the 

foreskin of our manhood

to see the scared

little member

inside.

I can't see

so stop asking me

if I can.

Banners sell things

and the things I treasure

can't be bought.

You know,

if you chant 

"rockets red glare"

enough times

intercessors will deliver.

Looks like they have.

You know,

it's largely

a small company of men

chopping out white lines

on the blue beach ball.

Each hopscotch square

gets it's own hankie to wave

at the end of its pole

and country music

that didn't come

from Nashville

or better yet

(and much better)

Bakersfield.

Sloe Gin Fizzle

The frantic goose

on the short end

of the idiot's megaphone

shuffles through her 

primary school stars

and gargles,

I never read the fine print!

Down 

at the business end

an olde buoy bookworm

chews the vellum,

eschews the fat

and grows 

the grass tax.

This ain't like 

the end of World War Two

lady,

it's more like 

the Korean Conflict.

Harm's length 

is a short as the 

footnote's boot

coming at you

like Italy 

knocking Sicily 

for six

only it's gonna be

figures you owe.

Look,

it figures you owe.

The clause of recession

lurks in type as fine 

and tiny 

as a newborn's fingernail.

This new attention

to the details

ain't going down well

with the barnyard.

What the fuck?!

Said the urban

nest egg 

in white t-shirt

and leather sandals

pushing his organ 

grinder miracle

through 

the streak of dreams.

The bank

sold his mortgage

to a magnate

so strong

it sucked the nails

out of his cashmere teepee.

What the hell am I supposed to do??

What's my family supposed to do??

The dry cleaner 

and the finca boss 

pat him on the back 

and tell him 

they understand his frustration

but don't care.

Now take your skinny bitch

and semen sculptures with you 

down to the mission.

You're blocking our sun

and spoiling our 

sloe gin fizz.

Hibiggle-Dee-Bop

Hibiggle-dee-bop!

Blidigga-dee-bo!

That's my shower song.

I'm singing it today

because she's gonna

soon be home.

It's been so long

and I can't wait 

so long.

The dials are rocking

into the red.

Geiger counter tingles

course through me

and my half life,

soon gonna be 

whole.

Neemer Nomer!

That's the waiting song

I've been singing

all the long while

of my life.

The spotlight penumbra

stage is curtain call

closing.

The waiting is over.

Come on home, girl.

Come on home.

Something Affected Him Down In The Desert

Two Miles and Change

Maaaan,

It feels so good

to get out 

and run.

I don't 

take it for granted

having only

one and a half

knees.

A lot of work 

went into standing

and walking 

after that left

anterior cruciate

ligament 

went south.

It's taken 

nine months

of mind numbing 

exercises,

walking,

waiting

and healing

to get 

this far.

Got more 

to go.

But,

this feels

good.

Going over 

two miles 

at a nice clip

is my 

rock and roll.

It's my masterpiece.

The tightness 

in my quadriceps

is coming back.

I'm getting 

spring loaded

again.

The oxygenated high 

flows through me

as pulse,

footfall,

respiration

and thought

grab the 

running rhythm.

Sorrow,

you can watch

the soles of my 

shoes 

get small.

Paranoia,

stop and catch 

your wheezing breath.

I may not be Mercury,

or Ruffian,

or Hershel Walker,

but I'm running.

Damn! I'm running.

Magician in the Rational Kingdom

So many everybodys

moving through the streets,

in metal and rubber,

barefoot and inked

with sanskrit

or hebrew

(I thought that was

a big no-no),

under the football

season sun.

So many everybodys

and very few somebodys.

The pitbull decade 

is upon us.

It is the age of the 

racing stroller.

There's so much money 

here,

borrowed from

there.

Instantly connected 

and evermore same.

Viral reason begets

instant progress

in this 

communication continuum.

Weber's disenchantment 

of the world

has left me 

out on the street,

stripped of my daydreams,

my only protection

from so many

everybodys.

Your Serviceable Villain

I'm not right 

in the head.

Never have been.

Never will.

Undereducated.

Non-qualified.

Strangled with 

self absorbed tears.

Perpetually dark.

I am

a fine example

to compare yourself to

and feel good.

A serviceable villain. 

Your serviceable villain.

Okay,

but I've got something 

inside of me

I'm trying to build on.

Something I can grow

and share.

A bulwark against the 

pricks.

A bright space in this 

expanding tragedy.

I've apologized.

Tried to see things 

as they are

and not 

as I fear they will be.

It doesn't matter.

You're never gonna change.

Selfless selfishness.

Go ahead and define 

my life 

my love

and hope

as little.

Kick it over 

like a bully.

Make every sentence

written and spoken

to me

stamped 

with Louisville Slugger.

Is this what 

that inanimate rock

shaped like a fat

bald hermaphrodite

you doze off in front of

taught you?

I shouldn't say this

but I will.

You're full of shit

and completely lost.

Aren't we all, though?

Aren't we all?

Fourth Quarter

Summer's broadcast

is ending.

The afternoon light

is warm but remote,

like chrome reflections

on a hearse 

leading the funeral

procession through

the cemetery gates.

I can feel the world's

pallet dry into

cracked hues 

of yellow and orange

where the veins in leaves

write unheard eulogies

like the ones 

murmured in halls

of nursing homes.

Today I smelled 

a garter snake trail

of chimney smoke;

the throat of a house

clearing itself

upon waking.

Things fall and decay

the air grows damp

and cold.

The dark puts its arms

around the horizon.

There will be whistles

of tea kettles promising

something warm

and of referees 

winding the clock

on two minute warnings.

Soon there will be bowls 

of candy

and living poltergeists 

haunting the streets.

This is my time of year.

This is fall.

Grand Old Jumble

The pit mom

in hockey lipstick

smiling at the 

white men chanting

drill! drill! drill!

is full of

lady bull.

Snowflake

Ride down

the hot lane

to the city of 

destiny

and rock

the old 

coffee pot.

I took my 

true love girl

to the control tower

windowpane 

and showed her

moving picture romance

on mountain goat heel

majesty.

I see you talk

and talk 

and talk.

I say you

like to put

yourself on

over coats

of jackets

and coats

of paint.

What do you 

want when

all you do 

is want?

The sky

above the 

clouds 

is filled with 

snowflakes,

each one 

just like you,

and you

and you.