Archive for May 13, 1993

Painted Cave Creekbed

Posted: May 13, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , ,

with all those spring rains
the Painted Cave creekbed
is full of raw boulders being softened
by green children with
still, poised fingers like
ricocheting fireworks.

I poke my head under huge stones
into spaces like lion’s jaws
to the screeching of irritated scrub jays.

A Flood

Posted: May 13, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

I flood each time
I hear you or watch
you move sinuously
just to get a book to read
or to reach your coffee mug.
then I run like ink
in a rainstorm.
a note, a poem of you
streaming off the edge
of the page, a snake
dropping from the countertop,
pools on the floor
while I tongue-tied
try to point out your wet feet.


Posted: May 13, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

One man walked through a cracked, dry land
dowsing for the cairn of a woman.
his spirits circled him like many wrestlers,
fanning the wind into slight eddies,
stirring the dust raised by each cautious footstep.
one man seen alone with a forked stick
walking away from a dirt-streaked car,
a door hanging open like a promise to return
to the thin blacktop stretching to the clouds
massed like an audience in the west.
his footfalls were distant thunder provoking blue-grey lizards
to quick movements; they reminded him of her bracelets.
the parched earth rose to cling to his jeans.
black spots in the sky materialized into vultures,
cocking steely eyes past hooked beaks;
he could not meet their gaze.
he gripped his stick like a motorcycle’s handlebars
and drove through the desert searching, searching

Too Many Puppies

Posted: May 13, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

there’s too many puppies and not enough drugs.
to give thanks to the Lord and those Primus thugs.
yo, I walk into Vons, drink the eight in the john,
slap five to the posse, see what’s going on.
my man Geoff Stearns got the afro from hell
and we’re bringin’ more juice to your show and tell.
sometimes I’m saying somethin’ sometimes nothin’ at all
but I walk around the room clockin’ girls on the wall.
you say you got a problem let the posse take care of it.
you talkin’ some shit? I put some rise in yo lip.
I wax you and milk you like my name was Ad Rock
but I know you like my style, boy, I am nothin’ to mock, yeah.

get off of my tip so I can hit off the gree
I’m supplied by Son of Chonbo, you can say Mr. Bean.
I get a likkle sauced and I call you funny names
but my fist and my foot prevents any silly games.
my boy Alex Kohrt with the VW bus
plays git like a fit and gives you somethin’ to cuss.
call him Galstephus, he casts the charm on the women,
getcha back to the crib there’ll be Cheeze Whiz™ and sinnin’.
and when I stop talking you beggin’ Michael oh please!
because I got more incentive than UC got fees,
I’ve got more jingle than the janitor’s keys
and on my jock, I’ve got too many puppies, yeah.

some say I’m self-destructive ‘cause I cut on my wrists
but you’d grub the X-acto if you knew what I missed.
so I grab the microphone and I give it my all
and with mortar and trowel I put my Brick in the Wall.
then I grab a little sample from the music I groove
and with the bass in your face I make your ass move.
I give it up to my friends ‘cause they know who they are
and you’ll find me drinking heavy cold slumped at the bar, y’all.