VIRGINIA CITY

I buried my cowboy-killing
Coffin nails at boot hill.

SWERVE

The road veered left,
Leaving a gaping what if
As I imagined driving straight.

TREE-SIDE SWING

This is
as good a spot
as any
to have a seat,
to have a thought.

I FIND MYSELF

The streets of San Jose are alive with rumblings
and stumblings and bumblings and me.

Through horn toots, whistles and engines
fall fluttering petals of flowery
conversation, strung flaccid on a
speech of haste.

A man passes with a Lazyboy inverted on his head.
My spine winces, mi cuelo contracts.
I shudder from the faintest reflex.

Two street kids, the first I’ve seen,
Shake me for a salad, beg me for some
Change and cigarettes.
I loose my pockets and they scamper off
Gleefully, in love, to do their barefoot bidding.

I walk on, my eternally lingering
ice cream headache turning to pulse.
I find myself
repulsed by (North) Americans who don’t even try,
“Specials” boards in English and dollars,
verily put off by the condescending air.

This is a fine day.
This is my finest day.
Here comes the rain.

I picture Dylan, imagine him here, singing
alongside me in the park, in the rain,
Kids passing by with ice cream faces,
All of the lovely Latin ladies
Just doing what they do best.
Bob would slap my arm, point his head.
He’d get off on this, have a good laugh.
(Is there any other kind?)
We’d sing, harmonize, on
“You Ain’t Going Nowhere”
“Alberta” and
“Lonesome When You Go”.

I find myself
inspired for the first time to shoot still lifes,
To hang a backdrop, to place in place
Bottles, berries,
bromeliads and
bullets.

The street kids
Run fast past
And I beam
As rain drips
Down my lips.

LIGHTER BAN

The singular strike
of many matches
as smokers
the country over
lose their lighters.

CARIBBEAN CAROB BEAN

My future
is as fluid
as clouds
reflected
on water
as seen from
30,000 high.

555: A Toast to Loved Ones Lost

Stop smiling
scripture
sassy Sissy
Spaceks still
shrieking
parabolic pool
perambulating
stoned terrace
room service
fan swirling
automatic cramp shots
like Medicean peds
passing through
each other like
ghosts on
waning walkways.

SHE'S SO 555

I still can’t swallow
but I choke and wallow
when Ma Karate kicks up
on Central American TV
as a teenage love interest
on an ill-conceived show.
It just goes to show.
She’s so 555, so . . .