The Money Has Died

I was in the basement

with a book on alchemy

and a bag full of ivy.

That's when the call came in;

the money has died.

"What do we do?"

I asked.

They told me,

"Go stand on the sidewalk

and bang this drum

until they grant sainthood

because the money has died."

The money has died

and from here on out

it's all in black and white;

watching cakewalk and silicon

while the green arounds us wilts

and blue above us boils.

Funky Shoes

Gonna take a ride.

Gonna take a ride.

Gonna see some.

Gonna see some.

Popcorn in dog shit.

Popcorn in dog shit.

Play on.

Gonna take a ride.

Gonna take a ride.

Gonna see some.

Gonna see some.

Popcorn in dog shit.

Popcorn in dog shit.

Play on.

Prayer For The Gunfighter

I'll say a prayer
for the gunfighter
armed with a holster
filled with stones.
He rode into town
low and lazy
in the saddle of the sunset
with the changing wind
at his back.
I'll keep in my thoughts
those eyes that never meet mine,
always searching for a place to hide,
one step ahead
of the hanging party's gallop.
He looked into the chambered weirs
of the tourist fish ladder
and remarked to his sister
that the life of a salmon
is nothing but everlasting struggle.
He would know
having gunned down so many ghosts
only to have the sky in his head
burst with the faces of countless others
all taunting him to draw.
I hugged him goodbye
as he rode out
continuing his flight
along the outlaw's trail,
free and clear
from the voices of the mob
and the gallows pole.

Like Italy

The usual things are happening;

awesome and not awesome.

The usual thoughts are not happening.

I can't find that badger hole

in the tall grass of my memory

down which I hoard the hurt

of every perceived failure.

Bedtime comes earlier

and dreams are filled with

dogs and cats and horses.

My shoe is untied

so to speak.

Every time I kneel down

to shore up the knot

it's a boot soaking in

gentle waves of Mediterranean ocean,

like Italy.

Lost In The Trees

In the out of the way
we sit and watch
the sea planes
and strollers
pass this porch
on a warm June evening.
The soft drum roll
of the rickety rocking chair
serenades a mute storm
roiling behind forest brown eyes.
There is a conversation,
there is an arugment
there is an endless roar
of mouthless voices
but the few words spoken
are measured breadcrumbs
leading back
to the one
who is lost
in the trees.

Quaker Guns and Thursday Tennis

The doors open on the East Greenlake Express.

I step out on to the sidewalk at Third and Marion.

There's a guy in a hospital robe with a fishing pole in front of me.

In a basso profundo voice he bellows, "Anyone who loves to play tennis??

Thursday tennis! Thursday tennis."

I tell him that McClellan sat with Army of the Potomac

outside of Washington D.C. for months believing he faced

a Confederate force three times the size of his own.

He called Lincoln a baboon in letters to his wife.

When his pickets scouted the forward batteries

of the rebel lines, they found them abandoned.

The supposed guns were actually logs.

'Quaker Guns', they called them.

Good name. I like it.

He wasn't listening. His eyes were pinned up the street,

waiting for the next bus.

"Anyone who loves to play tennis??"

Take Once Daily

Every morning

I take in the sails

after the night's drift

and drop the fifty milligram anchor.

I see scullers oaring through the cut

and I can hear the hoary cackle

of the men who put out to sea

on the land and never returned.

The jagged edge of the loathsome knife

is growing dull with each dose.

One Party Town

The season's light is changing.
The view of the bay is strobing
through the cracked supports
of a crumbling viaduct.
My spine is resonating
and black cars keep pulling away
from the hole in the top of my head.
This one party town
filled with solid gold money
is building a greenhouse
on sand and wobbly bones.

In Evening Slowly Grey

In evening

blood orange stained cuticles grip

the hemorrhaging garden hose.

Under the horse prancing dog

the high tide of the sky rolls in.

The world is dying

slowly grey.

Twenty - The End

There was no cell phone reception way up in the Mogollon Rim. There was just darkness punctuated with dancing beam of Dave’s flashlight. He voiced his anguish at the loss of his stash with savage howling and curses. Billy could be heard too. He taunted Dave by imitating Gollum from The Hobbit.

“My precious! My precious! Give it up, Man! If you’re seriously jonesing, I’ll let you have some of my methodone.”

“We gotta go back! We gotta go BACK!” Dave came out of the woods aiming his flashlight beam right into Rich’s face.

“Get away from me asshole! Where’s that axe. If you try to hit me again I’ll split your skull open.”

“Did I do that?” Wow, I’m sorry… but you threw away my STASH, man. You had it coming.” The tone of Dave’s voice bounced around from wonder at the effectiveness of the punch he landed to Rich’s mouth to anger at the tossing of his stash to finally, outright pleading. “We gotta go back, Rich!” I can’t be out here without holding SOMETHING!”

“Yes, why don’t you all just go back.” Robert the ninja minstrel interrupted. “Why don’t you druggies just go back to where you came from and leave my wife and I in peace?”

“But what about the fire? What about the police?” Rich asked, surprised at the sudden change in the attitude of the ninja minstrel couple.

“We can’t get through to them and I sure as hell don’t want to spend the rest of the night seeing or hearing any of you. You’ve nearly killed yourselves and us once tonight. Just get the hell out of here. Just go.”

Rich grabbed the flashlight from Dave and began indiscriminately picking up the charred camping gear. “Come on Dave, come on Billy, let’s go.”

“Fuck yeah, let’s get out of here.” Dave was eager to help if it meant getting back to civilization and getting back on the nod. “I don’t even know why the hell we decided to do this in the first place.”

“Because I’m dying, asshole.” Billy answered. Billy offered no assistance to Rich and Dave. He walked over to the hood of the Jeep, braced himself and retched violently. “Too much to drink,” he gagged. “It’s not good for me in my current condition. We should probably get me to the doc.”

When they finished picking up what they could, they climbed inside the Cherokee and pulled out of the damaged campsite. Rich rolled down the window as they passed Rob and Andrea’s campsite and called out, “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate you just dropping the whole thing with the cops. You guys aren’t so bad after all.”

“No we're not,” said Andrea. “But you are. All of you are bad people.”

As they left the mile marker campground and made their way down the Forest Service roads back to Show Low, Billy got sick again. He rolled down the window and heaved. When he leaned back into the passenger seat he wiped his mouth and smiled, “You know what? I gotta say that was a hell of a lot of fun.”

Nineteen

“NOOOOOO!!!!!”  The shriek came out of the brush on the opposite side of the campground.  It was so sudden and mournful that everyone was jolted for a split second with fear.  They all stood rooted to the spot, heads craned in the direction of the disturbance.  The return of Dave to the campsite was an explosion of loss and violence.  He had been watching the desperate fire fighting operation from his hiding spot in the darkness.  When the flashlight beam illuminated the tackle box, his muscles tensed and his jaw clenched.  When Rich hurled the tackle box into the forest, he sprung.

“Goddamn you motherfucking son of a bitch, my stash!”  Dave came across the access road in great strides, heading straight for Rich.  His right arm already cocked and his fist clenched.

“Huh?”  Rich simply stood there with his mouth slightly open.  The realization that the ninja minstrels were dialing 911 had deflated him.  He had pulled himself together in the mad rush to save the campground and the forest.  The adrenaline surge that powered him through the disaster ebbed out of his tired arms and legs.  Rich didn’t have anything left for this next disaster.

“My fucking stash!  I’ll KILL YOU!!!”  Everyone watched Dave as he strode up to Rich and punched him squarely in the jaw.  The female ninja mistrel named Andrea cried out as Rich went down on his knees.  Dave had delivered a solid blow.  Rich's mouth instantly puffed up.  He spat out a healthy stream of blood.

“You fucking nut!  Go ahead and kill me.  In a few minutes we’ll all be on our way to jail,” Rich groaned as he staggered to his feet.   His challenge fell on deaf ears.  Dave had gone right past him, flashlight in hand, through the brush in search of the tackle box.  

“I found some, Billy! Billy, help me goddamn it!  Oh Christ!” Dave had disappeared into the dark forest.  His disembodied voice could still be heard, wailing like a tormented ghost as he searched for his stash.  Dave’s histrionics were profoundly disturbing to the ninja minstrel couple.  

“Oh my god Robert, that guy’s a junkie!”  Hurry and get through to the police.!”

“The phone’s not working.  I don’t think there’s any reception out here, Andrea.”

Billy lit a cigarette.  His face looked wraithlike in the glow of the lighter.  He exhaled in the darkness and started after Dave.  “I’m the junkie, lady.  That guy out there is just fucking crazy.