Ash Wednesday

There was not much time,
Everything had to be made ready,
For we must crucify Him
Again and again and again,
We scurried through the labyrinth,
Down the stairways of Heaven
To bring down the Cross and the Starry Crown,
She carried the Cross on her shoulders,
Then helped me with the Crown,
She pricked her finger as we hoisted it
To the top of the Cross,
Gazing at the pigeon drop of blood
Dije a ella, “¡La Sangre de Cristo!”
She put her bloody finger to her lips
Admonishing me to go and tell no one.

Lent

I have decided to not give up Skittles for Lent.
You know the little multicolored candies that are nearly pure sugar?
Fact is, I really like Skittles but I haven’t had any for about a year,
So that is the reason for not giving them up.
I will provide a daily report for Oh These Forty Days
Ad nauseum about what it is like
To not give up Skittles.
Not giving up something that you don’t do
Is like giving up something that you do.
Tonight I will go to Walgreen’s and get forty small bags,
Laissez les Bontemps roulez!!

Interview With Frank Lloyd Wright

Frank Lloyd Wright
Lucid Dream Interview
February 23, 2009 2:30 am

As you crest the ridge of the sand dunes
Just at the breaks of the Mojave Desert,
You become aware of the subtle change
In the sand’s movement,
The four alternating crescent structures
Create an escarpment
That drops to the desert floor,
Swept clean by prevailing winds,
Sand swirls on top of the sloped roofs
Making looping patterns and fan shapes
That change constantly with the wind and the light,
The complex faces east,
Direct sunlight is blocked by mountainous dunes
That are a response to the presence keeper
In this Desert Eternity as he calls it,

Walking along under the short eave,
You begin to encounter glass panels,
Agèd rainbow glass that reflects
Your distorted image in a myriad of colors,
On the other side,
A short wainscoting of old barn wood
Gives the impression of vertical movement
As you walk toward the main entrance,
Suddenly you realize there is someone
Moving with you,
On the other side,
Matching your stride, your smile,
Perfectly matching you and your reflected self,
Until you reach a series of alternating crescent doors
That your eyes follow ever upward
To the desert sky,
Causing you to pause,

He appears from one of the several doors,
Stepping out into the verandah,
Wearing a gray flannel sweater,
Brown moleskin trousers,
Lattice work leather loafers,
Running his hand over a few whisps of hair
Then down his face,
Pausing at age spots along the way,


Still behind a glass panel you wave,
Trying to not show too much excitement,
Then say haltingly,
“Good morning, sir, a few words if I may?”
Then as an afterthought you flash the peace sign
Which causes a chuckle as he emerges
Into the Green Space
Carrying three pieces of died cloth,
Brightly colored tye dyes of the Sun, Moon, and Mercury,
Which he lays out on the manicured privet hedge
For you to see,
He denies being the tye dye artist but his initials are on each one,

He moves out and away,
Like moving water,
Stopping to look to the East and a vast array
Of architectural structures that rise up
Out of the desert sand,
One, a series of stainless steel birdcages,
Arranged as a spiral staircase filled with
Birds of every kind that fly up and out
Then back down in never ending flight,
You tell him it’s your favorite,
“Your favorite?” he says, and laughs, “It’s mine, too,”

He turns to a drinking fountain
Pushing a button on the side,
Different levels of water fill different basins
As he takes a long cool drink,
Then, the only question you will ask,
“Sir, do you get angry when your creation is questioned?”
You realize that he is gone,
You are there,
Alone with the sand and the wind,
Then a whispery voice,
“Only if it’s by God.”

Stephen Darjeeling conducted
An exclusive interview with Frank Lloyd Wright
At his Desert Eternity complex,
Via Tantric Dream Yoga,
February 23, 2009, 2:30 am

Revisiting Ellis Cemetery

I made myself invisible
Walking the stony path uphill,
Stopping to look at deer tracks
Hoping to find some shed antlers,
Other hikers on the path passed me by
As I arrived breathless
At the top of the cold and lonesome hill,
A hill that is nowhere in particular,
That overlooks nothing but trees
On other hills,
No breathtaking vista,
No magnificent sunsets,
Making me wonder why this choice
For eternal rest
Of the 50 or so inhabitants,
Some with modern grave markers,
Others with merely a piece of the local limestone
Planted in the ground,
Stood on edge
To delineate the depression behind it,
Or sometimes in front of it,
As I tried to avoid stepping on anyone’s ancestors
Two hikers with a GPS stopped and pointed it at me,
“Cemetery,” one said quoting the Northing and Easting
As I moved behind the twin oaks,
Keeping out of their sight line ,
Avoiding the bleeping locator,
“Ghostbusters,” I thought and someone behind me laughed,
Or was it the squirrel chattering in the shag bark hickory?
There is no Ellis except for this cemetery on the hill,
Most of the inhabitants died around the turn of the century,
They lie in waiting
With no room for any newcomers,
I walked back down the hill
Hovering over the rocks and fallen timber,
The only tracks behind me left by antlerless deer.

When My Horse Dies

Her name is Chi-Town,
A strawberry roan,
She’s about twenty four,
Horses live to about thirty five
So there is some time to plan,
Will it be sad when she goes?
Not really,
I never cottoned up to horses that much,
Where she drops is where she drops,
Like the Godfather
We’ll make her an offer she can’t refuse,
Set up a TV in the pasture where she lies,
Play her Buñuel/Dali’s An Andalusian Dog,
Beat off the buzzards,
Contemplate the putrefaction
Of decomposing bodies,
Beat the drum slowly
While singing St. James Infirmary Blues,
When the neighbors complain
We’ll chant in half-tones,
“Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s!”
Tell them it’s an art project
Before we pass out from huffing glue.

Alms

Who knows what happened or why,
It wasn’t the Mortgage Lender
She only locked the interest rate,
It wasn’t the Banker
He only locked the safe,
It wasn’t the Sheriff
He only locked the door,

Escorted to the property’s edge,
The two of them stood looking
Just for a moment,
The dust from the sheriff’s car
Chasing after him down the country road,
Behind the old hedge tree
Were two packages,
Each took one and opened it,
Inside was a saffron yellow robe,
A medium sized Fiesta bowl
In their favorite color,
A cloth bag, each containing two books,
“I’m just mad about saffron,” She said,
Slinging the bag over her shoulder,
“Saffron’s mad about me,” He sang,
Walking slowly past the vineyard rows,
They turned to each other at the crossroads,
“Nirvana!”

God Is A Woman III

Forget the idea
To arrive at some plateau?
No! is the answer

God Is A Woman II

God is a woman
Takes Her Self seriously
Handing out blessings

God Is A Woman

God is by my side
She tells everyone we meet
“Here’s my best sinner.”

Flashback To A Game Of Pool In Atlanta

I shot a game of eight ball once
At Bimbo’s Beer Joint in Atlanta,
Broke the rack,
Made the fourteen,
I stood in one place
Making each stripe fall,
Turning and shooting,
Turning and shooting
From my hot position,
The cue ball firing out like a rifle shot,
Taking down the enemy
Until only the black ball was left,
People had gathered at the end of the table
As I pointed the barrel at each one,
Then called the pocket by
Silently pointing and taking aim,
The green felt growing tall blades of grass
Waving with full heads of rice
In the sweltering wind,
The ceiling fan overhead
Coming in closer like a Huey
Setting down in the hot LZ,
Smoke from cigarettes
Pinpointing bodies all dressed in green,

“Scratch!” somebody yelled.