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Speak of the Dead
You must believe in your
writing though critics may
shit on it,--sit,--write.
Your poems are presents
without irony,
with pasts,--write, then have lunch.
Dorothy will prepare the trout
that Tony snagged.
Save the heads for stock.
Mabel wants to use fennel
instead of celery
in the stock, dear.
Frieda argues that trout
isn't a fine enough fish
for stock:--not white.
Georgia says one reduces
stock more in New York
--Oyster House, remember?
If you must do charades
this afternoon,
mop your brow with fennel, dear.
All hot and bothered
then abrupt
not a recipe for love much less . . .
Gargano can't be better
with tomato than Santa Fe,
you know.
Before "La Dolce Vita" there
was la dolce
Kiowa Ranch--eh? . . .
But soon must you abandon
your new home for Europe,
September, this year.
Brett, Mabel, and Frieda
vie for your attention
--you'd rather bake bread.
The rosy cast of the bread's crust
reminds you of stucco,
so you muse.
Staring at that sun
through lead glass windows
really does nothing for you.
One cannot long look into the sun
or black dots your view
:--you know this.
Yet you stare at the sunset
as though it were your
papa gone to ground.
The sunset rays your vista with red
as one white
thunderhead passes.
The cloud pierces
the dark blue sky with lightning
and shimmers sheets of rain.
Georgia is outside under your tree
--why?--what's she doing?
--praying, or . . .
No one's asked you what you think
of Pablo or Paul,
and that's a pity.
One can't believe, looking at your
paintings, you know anything
about art.
Gin gives you gas, rum, constipation,
and whisky has you
on your knees.
Morning hurts so that Frieda
can't bear being
near you or your moaning.
Go, punctuate your spiritual
dearth by dancing
on your car's roof--start it!
How strange to be putting,
sputtering in a Ford when you
could hike it.
If you could breathe well, that is,
--yet the air here draws you
up, fills your heart.
Here, this wind is your spirit,
--sugar that rises,
--oxygen to limbs.
Your soul, your deep, inner
sweetness springs even to your
fingertips, nails.
Park at the lookout
outside the ruins: remember,
fill your canteen.
Clean your pockets
before the trailhead then listen
to coyotes cry.
Sandstone runs close to the road
and steel nets hold
back the mountain,--it slides.
Darker veins could be
igneous:--the hills ride
over a caldera.
Above the canyon, you follow paths
littered with bones then pause
inside.
Ladders crosshatch adobe
walls and frame tufts of cotton
that blow past.
No longer will macaws brighten
their rooms nor will corn fill their
great houses.
After it rains, spider
webs glisten upon the fallen
pine needles.
Don't slip off the cliff
tonight--Dorothy will
not look for you, again.
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