3 Freewrites

My revolution is a synonym of arguing
but my youthful virgin eyes turn with the sun
and the karma of mutineers and thieves
hailing us, lonely for the cultural palaces,
laden with pretensions and validations
of villas and money and mantillas.
Soon there will be a Taj Mahals in every yurt
and on the killing fields, only the Russians
laden with raiments of politics,
will slice open the heart of the country
under an ancient earth.

 1/9/1986

No school today again.
Herefords wary of our methods
meander away from us.
They say his mother was worried
because the wilderness father saw
goshawks dipping from the ladle of the sky.
Who arrested the sun for idolizing itself?
The black bear awakens from slumber.
I think: heart and health, hailing stipends
in the motherland, firmly folded
in monosyllabic words
dripping day after day.

1/9/1986


FAN PALM

Enclose your yards with words,
close your mind to syllables,
count the vowels moaning
in the deepest throat of the night.

Independent drugs on Thursdays
will provide nothing as usual.
it is necessary to offset the cost.
There is no end to this relief.

Memories slip under the cogs
and movie star voices trespass
through thin hotel walls
to enter the surreal stirrup
of sound in the ear canal.

But the instant ocean of sand at our feet
continues its cease and surcease.
The fan palm outside the window stands vigil,
keeps rhythm to the sound of rain.

1/9/1986
added, rev. 3/18