THE DAYS OF TRUMP #13 - JARED

(13)  JARED

Well, Jared,

there you are

and there it is

the face that launched

a thousand lies.

Bonesaws in your eyes.

Jared,

baby rats are cute,

you would be too,

but you’re hardening.

Your normal half-smirk

has evened out, and

your skull is starting to show –

you’re becoming your own death mask.

Ah, Jared,

it was bound to happen,

money and leisure soften

money and murder

don’t.

RW
12.11.2018

(Yer hangin' with a bad crowd, bubalah)

SEATTLE WALKING BLUES

 (w/locations where inspired)

There’s a hole in the city                   (Red Apple removal – 23d & Jackson)

where its heart used to be

filling up with concrete

deep as the sea                                   

Every rose has a garden                     (Neighbor’s yard – over the fence)

every spider has a web                       (All week - my yard)

But I don’t have a bed to sleep in       (Not true, I do)

Crows are bedraggled                         (3d & Jackson)

pavement’s hot

my engine’s running

and my brakes are shot

Blocking up the intersection               (4^th  & Jackson)

bees in my head

pedestrians are pissed

wishing I was dead

Every rose has a garden

every spider has a web

But I don’t have a bed to sleep in

Sure wanna’ leave here                      (Neighborhood)

would really like to go                         (not really)

and believe me brother

I’d go fast, not slow

Million dollar houses                         (Neighborhood)

coming up on every block

people walking ‘doodles

never look to talk

Every rose has a garden

every spider has a web

But I don’t have a bed to sleep in

No I don’t have a bed to sleep in

Don’t even have a bed to sleep in.

RW

Seattle

(photo:  three cranes in an empty sky - 23d & Jackson)

TWO YEARS FROM PERFECT VISION

bare winter branches

flaming, red-berried cotoneaster

blue sky

This is the world

two years before we’re blessed

with perfect vision

and we’re up to our knees

in everything we never needed.

This is America

where the sacred

has been in the storm so long

our banners are in tatters.

This is Seattle

where you can’t afford

to go home from work

because work

is the only home

you can afford.

And here I am

counting up my years

wondering how much of the future

I’ll be lucky enough to miss.

RW

Seattle

12.05.2018

(photo:  back yard @ 939 and Judkins Park Earth Day)

LATE NOVEMBER

FOR BOBBY LESSER

Remember that two dollar bill you gave me

with the dime taped to it?

I’ve been wondering for awhile

how to pass it along.

Joey almost got it a couple times

as a love gift – the way I got it.

Tonight, a young guy tossed a two dollar bill

into the basket.  Said it was the last of his money.

I grabbed him after, and gave him our  two bucks with the dime

taped to it.  Said, see that, you came out ahead.

I knew that bill wasn’t going to stay

in my wallet

forever.

***

My neighbor drove by

and waved out the window.

There was a gray smudge over

what I was seeing.

I didn’t think about it

but it got filed.

I waved back.

The next day he dropped over dead.

He was marked, I saw it.

What do I do with that?

***

Kerouac on Desolation:

Hot coffee
and a cigarette -
why zazen?

Remembering my own mountains:

Kick back cigarette
not a care in the world
sweet coffee chaser.

                                                   

***

WINTER

  

Feeling the melt

of that fatty piece of brisket

in my morning pho.

***

FALSE TEETH

on the shelf

grinning like false teeth

My skull

momentarily unfleshed

What an embarrassment.

RW

Seattle

11.24-11.29.2018

(photo:  Judkins Park, Seattle)

CALIFORNIA BURNING

CALIFORNIA BURNING

(on such a winter’s day)

Coyote farts

and the world

is born

along

with

dip-shit politicians

deep pockets

&

special interests

Get on with it

wade

through

the mud

and blood

No one’s

going to save you

now

or

ever

Once you wave the smoke away

smoke will take its place

I suggest

you and the dog

just start walking

You might get lucky –

over there

Don’t bet on it

though

‘cause really

it’s the same

as

here.

RW

Seattle

11.18.2018

(photo:  Brian Bland)

"It's not just "smoke."  It's plastic, rubber, asbestos, paint, lead, hydrogen cyanide, fats, resins, starches, benzene, formaldehyde, heavy metals, PCB's, polyaromatic hydrocarbons, chlorine, arsenic, aldehydes, toluene...and thousands and thousands of other compounds."  Brian Bland

QUICK SKETCH CAP HILL

Wrapped around each other
in November doorway concrete cold
two heat-seeking mammals

Dead soldiers secure the perimeter

Bless us for we have sinned
it's been over two-hundred years since our last revolution
and even then we made a botch of it

For beautiful for spacious skies
for never ending war

Opiates are the opiates of the people -
to each according to their needs.

RW
Seattle
11.05.2018

COMPLINE

The final bell

calls the monks

to prayer

“For Satan prowls like a hungry lion seeking whom he may devour”

and no better hunting ground

than among

men

who have

denied themselves

touch

who may

embrace

but not caress

and

who enter

The Great Silence

in darkness.

The monks pray

for

a restful night

and.

a peaceful death

while

the lion

pads

beneath

the cross

that savage absolute

hovering

in

every

cell

and

listens

for a

signal

of

flesh

so it may

cull

the herd.

RW

Santa Fe/Seattle

10.17 – 11.04.2018

(photo:  christdesert.org)

FUTURE TRIPPING

AT THE OPENING OF THE TRUMP (p)RESIDENTIAL LIBRARY™ (at Mar-a-Lago)

(Thanks to my friend and neighbor Chuck for suggesting that such a place may someday exist.)

At the inauguration of the Trump (p)Residential Library™ (at Mar-a-Lago,) I am led past the largest crowd to ever gather for such an event, into a luxurious and chandeliered foyer, and up a golden escalator to the doors of the Trump Grand Ballroom™.  Above the doors of the ballroom is an oversized, black velvet portrait of the great man, himself, surrounded by rococo cherubs who look oddly like flying hairpieces.

My invitation is scanned (for the third time) by an Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent, and upon clearance the ballroom doors, triggered by an electronic eye, open inward to a pitch black, cavernous space.

I enter, and he doors close behind me. I am enveloped by darkness and silence for one moment before a voice rises from a surround sound system.  It is the voice we have all come to recognize as the 45^th President of the United States™.  The text is of his remarks at a rally in Illinois, on Oct. 27, 2018, as arranged by students of the ghost of Wm S. Burroughs.

The recording is staggered between speakers to give the effect of many voices reciting an eternal text.

After a minute, a single spotlight illuminates two women in the center of the ballroom, poised to begin a couple’s dance.

The figures are animatronics models of Sarah Huckabee Sanders and Kellyanne Conway.  They sway in close embrace, and over the course of their performance move through various forms of social dance:  foxtrot, waltz, tango, lindy-hop, and a few I don’t recognize.  Neither the rhythm of the soundtrack, nor the rhythm of the dance change.

It’s hard to tell how much time passes in excruciating surreality when the soundtrack, the dance, and the lights end simultaneously. 

As the doors open behind me and light slides to my feet, I hear the sound of one person applauding from the deep.

An ICE agent enters, takes me by the arm, and escorts me from the room.

TBC…

RW

Seattle, WA

Halloween, 2018

RODEO LOVE

About forty years ago, a friend commented that making love to his new girlfriend was like going to the rodeo.  I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but it stuck with me.  This may be a warning to always be careful around writers.  You don’t know what they’ll remember, or when they’ll use it.

RODEO LOVE

I’ve been to the movies

been to a few plays

I’ve been to the opera

and to the ballet

but lovin’ you, darlin’,

is like a rodeo

with a calf half roped

and a buckin’ bronco.

Now, I’ve been to Paris

and I’ve been to Rome

been a hundred places

I wouldn’t call home

I’d take an ocean liner

to the farthest foreign shore

to rope and ride you, darlin’,

behind a closed door.

You are the lightning in my heart

and the thunder in my dreams

you are the final move

in my wildest schemes

you feed me when I’m hungry

give me drink when I’m dry

make me feel just like myself

in the blue sky of your eyes.

I’ll always love you, darlin’

though I roam from place to place

I’ll love you here on earth

or floating out in space

doesn’t matter if you’re here

or if you have to go

I’ll be barrel racing all through life

in our romance rodeo.

RW

Seattle

10.25.2018

(Sometimes it’s just fun to start rhyming and see where it takes you.)

COFFEE WITH THE DEAD

I.

                                          

On this

New Mexico

monastery morning

it suits me

to stop and sit

on a stone retaining wall

to have coffee with the dead.

Twenty-six

rough wooden crosses

monks & benefactors

gone to dust

planted

in

rows

&

tiers

fenced

in a

high desert clearing

of

sage

and

chamisa

mowed

low.


II.

Sky

razored blue

clouds

sliding

on & off

the sun

hawks

ravens

&

magpies

catching

thermals

above
neon

cottonwoods

cold breezes.

III.

Twenty-six

crosses

knee-high

dark

&

hewn.

Twenty-three

carved

with

names

&

dates.

Two

left bare

waiting.

One cross apart

inscribed

“For all those

buried

in this canyon”

a

dedication

that spans time

to

reveal us

as souls

in eternity.

IV.

This

monastery

will

fade

&

fall

as will

these

crosses

as will

this

chronicle

as will

the

memory

of

“…all those buried

in this canyon”

as will

this

canyon

Requiescat in Pace, Amen.

RW

Santa Fe/Seattle

10.17 – 10.23.2018

SEEKING ASYLUM

is not a crime

Protect those

who come to us

for protection.

BIENVENU BUDDHA

He sits

hears a breeze

pleasing

sweet.

Cocks his head

feels the breeze

across his lip

cool.

Removes his hat

beads of sweat

catch the light

shine like jewels.

Sweat

breeze

light

jewels

gone

and still

he sits

he sits still.

RW

(photo:  Bienvenu Buddha, Santa Fe, 10/20/2018)

AMERICAN FANTASY IN THE PARENTHESES (…) OF A SONG

 It is strange birth, this writing of a poem.  Usually the first line appears, in this case "All the rapist's children," and the work proceeds from there.  Often there's a direct link to a situation, or a reading, but in this case there's not.   However, this has been a week of vetting a Supreme Court Justice nominee, rife with allegations of sexual abuse, the machinations of power politics, outrage amped up to epic proportion, and unceasing media coverage, so the poem is informed. More often, though, it's like sighting a quark - blip/gone.  I generally build a poem from the first line, and the work is to blend words emanating from depth/intuition/inspiration into a conscious construction.

This poem came, as said, from that first line, and then in images and chunks, with a song floating through, and then shifts and adjustments that may not make sense to anyone but me (and even then, less sense than sensibility.)  Finally, a title in which I try to remove the mystery from what follows.

And, I am totally fascinated that all proceeds from a, literally, dark place, located somewhere in a gelatinous three pounds of meat between my ears...

AMERICAN FANTASY IN THE PARENTHESES (…) OF A SONG

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child

A long way from home

All the rapist’s

children

stand around

his bed

There will be no

words of wisdom

No pathetic last requests

Not even death will forgive him

and so he’ll return

Sometimes I feel like there’s no one there

Sometimes I feel like there’s no one there

Sometimes I feel like there’s no one there

A long way from home

Conception is in the darkness of the body

Gestation is life at 5 a.m.

The doctor with too much to do

and something he’s trying to remember

drops his forceps

Let ‘em lay, he says

and kicks them

under the table

His nurse is calm

and holds out another set

Fuck it, he says

waving her hands away

He pulls his mask down

spins on his heels

and boom boom whack a doom

shuffles his booties and booty

out of the room

The nurse is calm

delivers the child

no forceps necessary

I’m going to run, I’m going to run

I’m going to run to the city of refuge

A long way from my home.

RW

Seattle

Columbia City PCC

10.4.2018

CREATING CLASSES

THOSE

Those who stand

Those who stand in streets

Those who stand in alleys

Those who stand in doorways

Those who are standing.

Those who wait

Those who wait to see

Those who wait to hear

Those who are waiting for someone, for morning, for night, ‘til later.

Those who are forbidden

Forbidden to enter, forbidden to leave, forbidden to speak.

Those who stand

Those who stand near train tracks, on beaches, in gardens

Those who stand before walls

Those who are standing alone.

Those who came

Those who stayed

Those who are silent

Those who weep.

Those with papers.

Those who have stumbled

Those who have fallen.

Those who stand

Those who stand in line

Those who stand their ground

Those who stand for something.

Those who wait

and are forbidden

who stumble

and will never arrive

who have papers

and are silent

and stand before walls.

Those

Those others.

RW

Seattle

08.28.2018

photo

FLIPPING THE COIN OF THE REALM

OPEN YOUR HEART

and the world walks in

shattered battered illumined

filthy tattered bloody begging

saints in various ways.

These are your guests and your teachers

the loves of your life and the terrors.

Open your heart

set the table

enjoy the party.

NIGHTMARES

My nightmares are

spit phlegm gunpowder and blood

humid and dark

concrete crazy

rebar and ruined

I’m chauffeured by dogs

or tumble through air

or skid down alleys like newspapers

I end up hiding behind green dumpsters

thinking I’m safe for the time being

Safe as a rat in Chinatown.

RW

Seattle

08.26.2018

Saint Rat

Banksy Rat

NAMING SOUNDS

1.

Let there be

Then God said

And God called

and God said to them

2.

At God’s funeral

the name itself

will be buried

the name

being

the thing

No God but God

and Moses wrote:  Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord, thy God, in vain.

3.

Nothing is so like God as silence.  (Meister Eckhardt)

4.

Abracadabra:  from the Aramaic, avra kehdabram, I create what I name.

Before humans, nothing had a name
we named everything

Begin naming

you will never reach the end of it

If there’s anything to discuss

we’ve named it

or will –

any second now.

5. 

The sound waves made by your vocal cords travel in dry air at 0.2 miles per second in a straight line until they meet an obstacle.  If the obstacle is soft, the waves are absorbed and vanish.  If the obstacle is hard, the waves ricochet.  An unimpeded wave will join other sound waves until they all die away…

6.

My name is Richard Douglas Eugene Karma Shenphen Namgyal Aaron Wells, a.k.a., O.G.

7.

Ar-tic-u-la-tion

makin’ me late

keepin’ me waitin’ (Carol King)

If I feel

but can’t say

what I feel

then what…?

Give me some words

for how I hurt.

8.

For years, as a regular occurrence I would hear, “Richard,” or “Dick,” being called by my mom, by a friend, or an unrecognizable voice. 

At first, I’d stop in my tracks, turn around, and look to see who was calling.

Later on, I'd just keep walking.

No one has called in a while.

9.

What is the wave length

of the Ark’s big broadcast

of alphabets on fire

letters

I can’t read

words

I don’t understand

names

I can’t pronounce

languages, gibberish, truth

10.

sound of the whirlwind

sound of burning

11.

NASA tells us that in the Perseus cluster of galaxies located 250 million light years from Earth there are black holes.  Sound waves have traveled hundreds of thousands of light year away from the cluster’s central black hole.  The sound is a B Flat, 57 octaves below middle C (our 8 note speech octave,) one million, billion times lower than the lowest sound perceived by the human ear.

12.

Can’t hear the prayers

or longings

of ancestors

more recent than ancient

Radio waves are electromagnetic waves and travel at the speed of light.  Sound waves from radio broadcasts have been picked up 20 light years from Earth.  (A light year is the distance light travels in one year – about 6 trillion miles, or in this case 120 trillion miles in twenty years.

(120,000,000,000,000)

I can hear Hitler

anytime I want

14.

the discordance of ghosts.

RECENT EVENTS

REFUGEE LITANY

Refugee, alien, floater, green-horn, invader, migrant, new comer, outsider, squatter, stranger, weed, outlander, not-from-here, drifter, gypsy, wetback, itinerant, transient, outlaw, dodger, bum, hobo, tramp, displaced person, DP, squatter, illegal, stateless, homeless, runaway, boat-person, outcast, fugitive, derelict, cast-away, émigré, deportee, non-person, defector, persona non grata, undesirable, wanderer, fugitive, stray, transient, exile, vagabond, vagrant, drifter, indigent, orphan, urchin, wastrel, stranger

Holy!

All men are holy

All women holy

Holy the Wanderer

Holy the Traveler

Holy the Stranger

Holy the Immigrant

Holy the Refugee

!

SHELTER IN PLACE

In the shelter

shelter of a thought

In the shelter

of a gaze

Who watches?

In the shelter

shelter of your arms

In the shelter

of your heart

Who watches?

In the shelter

rooms & shadows

In the shelter

doorways

alleys

Who watches

watches over you?

In the shelter

words & phrases

In the shelter

silence

breath

In the shelter

life & death

Who watches

who watches

who watches

over you?