PETROGLYPHS TO THE SUN, PAROWAN GAP

PETROGLYPHS TO THE SUN, PAROWAN GAP

The snake seeks the sun

crawling to the sky, a ladder

for the small spider gods

and the continuation of day.

Equinox. Sun and moon

and the trail to the sky is open

to the orbital continuation of days.

Amid the debris of the 20th century,

I am looking for the symmetry of worked stone,

finding only crystalline structures

in the desert varnish, the exposed marble,

the crushed hearts of riverstones,

and other signs of ancient oceans.

What of those concentric circles

with an upraised hand?

The beseeching of water, the labyrinth?

Is it the snake or lightning

that climbs up the rocks to the sky?

Hands at the end of the path to guide us—

At the four corners, an intersection.

The division of power—a circle and a cross.

At least the wind knows its own strength.

We are gathering rocks for those who will follow

the small hidden selves—

I am looking for symptoms of earlier cultures

than the amber glass, cans & cigarette butts

that will survive us.

9/21/93 Parowan Gap, Utah

1994 Steelhead Special

COMIDA DEL MUERTE

COMIDA DEL MUERTE

At the outpost on the edge of civilization

there they were, black and wheeling

against bright storm clouds,

a vortex of condors cantilevered and herring-boned

at right angles to the sky.

A thermal updraft juxtaposes bird against bird,

until feathers weave the wind into funnels.

Seeking new heights, they spiral

in apocalyptic formation and make quenas

with their wings; group mind gives shape to the wind.

Caught between two worlds, a Quechua woman

palms intis from gringos who steal

small pieces of her with cameras

and in return, she gives thanks to the sun.

A bone of light falls on a hammer and sickle,

graffiti on the limestone of Puku Pukara,

the kremlin of the first Inca.

In the cordilleras, Sendero Luminosos

blaze shining paths with AK-47's.

Too much history, too much past.

We sing Que Condor Pasa?

and descend into the rings of Cusco.

When solitary creatures congregate

in all the skies of the world,

one begins to understand the uplift of continents,

but not the extinction of a species.

If my arms were feathered,

it would be easier to take

what is coming.

3/26/89

Poetry Reading with Crawdad Nelson, Vincent Peluso, Maureen Hurley, Humboldt Bay Coffee Company, Old Town Eureka