UNDER A STARRY SKY
And when it's over, the moth's
shadow flickering clean
across my bluing mouth
whether soon from the talons
of a pesky addiction to chemically-
enhanced tobacco, from a rotting
belly far beyond the aid of Tums,
from a blown tire on Kenosha Pass,
from pecking for metaphors-induced
starvation; or later from the belated
sheer bone-weariness
brought upon me by failing knees
and the frustration of having been
overlooked for the Nobel Prize
stuff cockleburs into my beard,
beneath my tongue a chunk of pyrite,
and give me, not a crown, but a bed
of thorns dry enough for kindling,
and send me off, beard untrimmed,
in juniper-heavy smoke laden
with a few sweet words culled
from Sappho, that her barefoot
girls might accompany my ghost,
to their haunted grove of quasars
and golden fruit. I would be
a man among the flowers crushed
in their dance, in death eccentric
and joyously lecherous.
OTHER SHAGGY CREATURES
Well, God bless the Earth Liberation Front!
.
(Crazy Cloud)
For the men who grunt,
who don't flush their piss,
who leave their bloody scents
behind, to linger, warning
off other shaggy creatures,
We poets boast more
bearded men than most.
For those who shoot to kill,
who chuck their crumpled
cans onto the shoulders
of 287, slashing the paws
of other shaggy creatures,
We poets boast more
bearded men than most.
For those who wield the ax
for profit, not subsistence,
who scar up mountainsides
for ski runs, razing the homes
of other shaggy creatures,
We poets boast more
bearded men than most!
We poets boast more
bearded men than most
we stand in the blood
of other shaggy creatures,
and raise our bows.
STRAWBALE
We do this work to learn
how we really smell, &
not for love of money.
We do this work for stout
and steaks, & pinesmoke.
We do it to sleep at night.
We do this work for the crazy
clouds and rockslides, for
Cousin Bub's guitar, for
the bamboo maiden & mud-
wenches. We do this work
for our mountain lion children,
our badgers and little owls,
that they might know the cleanness
of sweat, what tribe is theirs.
We do this work for the trapper's
daughter, the starved sheep
so mercifully frozen, the dead
dog mountains of her childhood.
We do this work for the sparks
that land on Spicer's Billy the Kid
read by flashlight. We do this work
for the hummingbirds & Sangres,
for reckless sage & whiskey & banjo.
We do this work because
the blisters earned
wielding pick-ax & buzzsaw,
sifting-screen & trowel
are good. We do this work
for the mathematics of stucco
in our beards, for citrus precision,
soreness of foot, & the insolent
sun reminding us
that we are flesh & flesh can
sear. We do this work for our
olding bones, that our ashes
might rest in the Wet Mountain
Hardscrabble starry-starry
wind. And we do this work
for what we've scattered already,
every drop of sake we've spilt,
every seed we've sown into woman.
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