just over that hill
~ or ~
feeling sorry for hi’self

“just over that hill”
she says, pointing,
trying to help
the man standing on the corner,
looking up one street, down another.
“i know,”
his weary response;
“i used to spend so much time there.”

a quizzical glance at his face
before she turns,
indignant,
and walks away,
leaving him remembering
the stately red clock
on a different corner,
just over that hill,
long since it ticked or tocked
or called out the time,
now it watches the wild procession
of revelers
decked out in
playfully garish, sexy attire,
walk under its gaze
and towards the red door
spot-lit by a solitary streetlamp.
yes, that door,
the door that opens,
pouring out whiskey light,
along with a cacophony
of live music,
actors barking out their lines,
merrymaking,
applause,
hoots and hollers...
all of it spilling
onto the alley,
across the sidewalk,
and into the almost-deserted street.

the door closes,
the clock watches the night
close in again
like a dark blanket.

he has been there,
inside the magic red door.
he has been there.
now, he watches the night
close in
like a dark blanket
that offers no warmth.

~~~

through the fog of dusk,
in the stony gray silence,
his ears twitching, listening,
wanting to hear, to taste
the feast he knows is there
just over that hill...

where dance-hall rhythms
catapult revelers
across the rough-hewn floor;

where poets bark
and howl at the moon;

where troubadours
regale with mythic song;

where lithe bodies carve
a graceful arc of strength
and beauty
above the stage;

where hearts, and souls,
and bodies
are bared to the shrine
of creation and eros;

where cherished men and women,
the most delicious
friends, brothers, and sisters,
put everything on the line,
fresh and exuberant
for every performance,
every guest,
and each other...

~~~

“just over that hill”
is not a long way,
nor a difficult journey...

... until the synaptic dousing
of signal fires
along the way
twists into a clusterfuck
and leaves fingers and toes,
soldiers of movement,
wondering what to do...

... until the wind
steals breath away
and rain
fills passages
so he struggles
to suck in precious air,
sounding like a busy hookah
in an opium den...

... until the pounding, pounding
thumping, thumping
from his chest
reaches his ears
and rattles his bones
and makes knees buckle...

~~~

the tux is still laid out
across the back of the chair,
the dog-eared spiral notebook open
to the poems he chose to read
for the evening performance,
his hair still wet from showering...

sinking into his chair,
a flash of awkward pain
creasing his face,
his gaze passes the clock
that reminds him it’s too late,
and stops at the window
yearning to see, to feel,
just over that hill...

a rambling, purely stream-of-consciousness, non-edited, non-directed diatribe...

(relating back to my writing about being in a steppenwolf-tinged weird experience...)

... the edges of reality becoming more and more obscured, whether by my lessening grasp of sleep, or my increasing forays into some loosely transcendent-or-nightmarish state that leaves me yearning less and less for the banal... the toothless, mind-numbing scrounging for the best vintage, the puffiest crumpet, the most devout sirloin, even the most explosive, joyfully convulsive, rapturous cumming, all banal in the shadows...

one feeds the other, like that long-ago small boy leaving treats for his ghost-friend, coyote, whose existence he could only imagine since mom dutifully woke him and insisted he enjoy the sun, her fearful of the moon shadows, so he learns to despise the sun and, with giddy, fearless, child-faith abandon, not knowing nor allowing what twisted light wends through the shadow realm, peaking through portals that look like eyes of owl, raven, coyote...

he...

no, i...

i, i plunge into the labyrinthine fantasy realm, looking for escape or confrontation (refresh my memory, what’s the difference?), cordially shaking hands with the bus driver (“...you never know when you might die,” they keep reminding me, “...on any given day, you could step off a curb and get hit by a bus,” which somehow makes me strangely endeared towards curbs these days), the bus driver who laughs at my outstretched hand, his real persona poking through matching civil-servant blue twill shirt and slacks and baseball cap, his hand changing to course fur, calloused paw-pads, rough-edged claws; his cap being shoved off his head by disproportionately large, stiff triangles of fur...

(“the best ears in all god’s creation,” i hear begrudgingly from government trackers intent on decimating the brilliantly adaptable dessert/woodland menace & vermin whose encroachment on urban turf defies the naturalists)

... off-set by an equally disproportionately long and slender muzzle laughing through always-hungry teeth and ending in a wet, black, leathery nose...

(“the best sniffer in all god’s creation,” i hear begrudgingly from sheep ranchers who believe the creature prefers his livelihood over moles, ground squirrels, voles and the like – they don’t, if for no other reason than any self-respecting hunter would feel foolish springing into the air with its signature pounce-dive to land a... lamb? how embarrassingly unfitting!)

... a nose that leads your gaze to rest on disproportionately small, piercing points of never-ending, fathomless, black-hole darkness swimming in pools of neon-yellow haze that pull you in with promises of being ridiculed and embarrassed and the brunt of many life-learning’s...

(“the best eyes in all god’s creation,” i hear admiringly from a Lakota Sioux, “even after he’s thrown them away trying to steal someone else’s magic.”).

yes, he is indeed disproportionate by the noble standards set down by Canis lupus, great-grandparent of our own best-friend canid, Canis lupus familiaris, both wolf and family dog standing in glaring opposition to the declared vermin, trouble-maker, domestic-pet-gobbling, anti-christ Canis latrans, Coyote.

i’m shaking... paws with the author of my demise, the instigator of my exploration of the life-affirming erotic muses offering gifts of poetry, song, dramatic metaphors, pontification of some gravity and worth...

i see coyote as he wants to be seen, mythic, powerful, handsome, athletic, confident, god-like with a sleek, thick coat of fur, bright-shiny eyes that pierce any contrivance or falsehood with “it-takes-one-to-know-one” wisdom glowing from sharp-lined pupils in a pool of neon yellow-green, bushy ears reacting to the smallest sound and turning-tilting like a radar...

i blink, reopen my eyes to see coyote as he is, a ravaged victim of his own exploits of deceit and trickery and greed, of his misadventures and ridiculous machinations: his hind-quarters burnt crisp from stealing fire, his one eye dangling from stealing another’s magic and ending up with one mouse eye (too small) and one buffalo eye (too big), scars from however many times he fell victim to another’s wrath, only to be beckoned back to life by fox or wolf...

then coyote, right here in front of me, limping, drooling, one-eye-dangling, his breathing heavy and labored, blood-smeared coat – my heart goes out to this endearing creature, a tear of sympathy emerging from my eyes, a tear that turns to horror and grief at seeing the soft brown tuft of fur hanging from the corner of his muzzle, the unmistakable fur of my cat, my beloved cat, my ever-loving, ever-LOVING cat, you fucking bastard, you ate my...

“hungry.”

he is, in a moment, both the early, powerful, muscled, fearful thanatos armed with a sword, with a shaggy beard and a fierce face and the later thanatos, a young man carrying a butterfly, an inverted torch in his hands, with wings and his sword safely sheathed to his belt...

"hungry."

it floats there, a word imbued with nothing save the inescapable truth of it. not a growl, nor a howl, just a word. nothing to hurl it or propel it to any emotion-charged destiny, just a word, floating there, taunting my sorrow, my grief, until it blows away in a breath, a breath from...

coyote? he’s turned away, engrossed in reading the spines of books i’ve intended to read for years, books in still-pristine condition wanting an audience while shrugging their book-shoulders in recognition that it ain’t gonna be me...

so, it’s my breath, then, that blows away the years of companionship? years of curling up on my feet, snuggling up next to me in bed, climbing into grocery bags and looking up at me with a “hey, ain’t i funny?” expression, napping on my desk chair-back and extending his paw so it’s touching my head...

no, it’s his breath... my cat’s breath, taking the wind out of my desire to snap coyote’s neck like a twig...

“i was here. now i’m not.”

i’m here now. tomorrow?

2am - the traveling wilburys playing loud (remastered to pristine, crisp beauty in their new boxed set), that jangly 12-string, acoustic-guitar-orchestra wall-of-sound and the delightfully earnestness of a bunch of musical superstars leaving their egos at the door and having such obvious, genuine fun making frivolous, fun, toss-away masterpieces, and maybe some of the most precious moments of 2 now dead (roy orbison and his best-in-rock voice shining so bright one last time, george harrison having the time of his life) all while reading stephan nachmanovitch’e book “free play: improvisation in life and art” and taking mini-breaks from reading to rework some potential poems for tomorrow’s performance at little red studio (thank you, eileen, for your gracious entreaty to present, your way to bring me back from the desert plains of solitude)...

my god, does it get any sweeter?! while painfully tired and unable to sleep, tripping over parkinson’s induced neural clusterfucks that finds me sprawled on the floor with my 2 cats finding my predicament a suitable opportunity to insist on being petted, i find a way to laugh, sit up, and impose my intent, my desire to live and smile - laugh - spit - scream - chant - think-dirty-thoughts - ...

my 1st performance at little red studio was on october 29, 2004.

up until a few months ago, i had missed but 1 performance and 1 rehearsal. except for the time eileen forgot to bring me onstage to read my poems for that evening’s performance, a humid night in hawaii. i missed that, technically, except i was there and ready. (eileen has apologized profusely, and is, of course, more than forgiven – it is now in the archives of our personal mythology). but i digress...

in the past few months, i have missed many performances, and left early on other occasions. more than that, i have missed the people, the community, the love... the crucible of creative fire, the camaraderie of like-minded friends, the healing and life-affirming gift of touch imbued with genuine affection and transcendent love...

i’m caught up in a twisted steppenwolf-tinted pattern of crawling into my bed as the sun comes up, painfully tired while unable to sleep, having spent the dark hours pursuing my hungry ghost through it’s many incarnations/personalities:

... wisps of poems floating across my consciousness...

... errant songs echoing through airy cathedrals of half-awake/half-asleep dreams...

... scraps of vast stories and thin myths woven with threads spun from my brightest light and my darkest fears...

... and things, apparatus, tools, stuff... all meant to serve my creative urges and inclinations, from computer software to guitar amps and photo/video gear...

... my parallel quest to find healing, to urge my body to match the incredible expansion of my heart, my soul, my spirit...

... and, the ever-present driving desire to write, express, write, create, write, sing, write, pound on my 12-string, write, take photos, write, plan my next film, write...

will someone please rip this pen from my hands, throw this fuckng computer out the window, burn burn burn the stacks of dog-eared spiral notepads and notebooks (some still bearing cigarette-burn scars from when i stupidly smoked 30-some-odd years ago)...

but, no... in a couple days, i plan my return to little red studio, to be at the rehearsal for this weekend’s performance. i hope my body is up to it...