Greyhound Dreams
I am born
in Greyhound dreams
sleek and wild.
I hear the rumbling music
through the night
smell of diesel
fast yellow light lines sliding by
through the magic time and space
of the interstate.Catfish shacks beckon
but we don't stop
I turn, longingly, thinking
of fishing poles
and a long and lazy man
on the river bank,
waiting for me
home rolled smoke between his teeth
humming something blues
but we don't stop.The fried chicken lady
snores softly
fourteen children
in her lap.
The big man next to me
slumps against my shoulder
pinning me to the dusty diesel window.I peek through the windows
of ticky tacky houses with
night lights and burglar lights
and motion lights in the yards
fear me, I think to them, and
fear the big bathless guy and
the fried chicken lady and her
fourteen kids, for we are
terrible to behold,
after three days in the Greyhound dream.I see the late night sidewalk people
as we pull in, huffing and grinding.
They aren't afraid of us, I know.
What's it like to be them?
I think I knew, a long time ago
but now, I forgot.But I'm a flea
on a big beautiful fast moving dog
I can jump off anytime, and be reborn
and I can remember
whatever I want, and see
whatever I want, and be
whoever I want
when the bus that births me
sets me free.
We're All Parades, Here
The whole town was in
the Memorial Day parade
old vets young vets war horses
scouts bands clowns on bicycles
They waited for the audience
arriving unaware on the Greyhound bus
because a parade
needs an audience
at least someone on the sidelines
cheering and crying for
the brave little parade.
The passengers cheer on cue
knowing their roles
in between tunafish casserole conversations.At Christmas time
the bus driver is late
the roads are slick
He doesn't want to stop for
the little Christmas parade
But the parade is too smart for him.
The parade jumps out in front of the bus
stopping it and then runs down the road
fast because its forty below
and the parade is cold.
The bus follows, warm and angry,
part of the parade now.A reluctant jester sneaks off the bus
hides in a patch of foggy steam
and watches for awhile with
the ghosts of audiences past
two Cheshire Cats and
the statue of a Civil War hero
before slipping back onto the bus.The bus, still thinking it's a
rolling sideshow audience
ambles down the interstate
bleating its horn sometimes
at little cars and diesels and hay trucks
and old farm pick ups with baling wire
sticking out the back.
The ravens on the telephone wire
watch the cars and trucks and the bus
and the puffs of black smoke
and listen to the horns
and snatches of tunafish casserole conversation.
They sometimes wish
the parade would just go away.Two parades pass in the night
and stare at each other
curiously.
Blue Lady
I watch the faith
sometimes
looking at the auras
of the faithful
listening to their gentle
songs and mumblings.
I sit on the
dirty curb
my feet in ancient mud
seeing their parades
the peregrinos
drumming, dancing
walking calm
floating over potholes
all eyes and hearts
on the Blue Lady.
Miles and miles
but they walk on air
for love and mercy.
I hear the voice of
the one legged man
rising above the rest
as he hobbles by
crutches on cobblestones.
He sings to the Blue Lady
and I sit in the gutter
with chills and tears.
All that love
makes me cry, and makes me
love humanity.
I watch the faith
sometimes
with sadness.
Roads Don't Jell Easy
Hang around with too many
like minded people
in a closed society
and pretty soon all those minds
get together and get together and get together
and don't fool around with any
unlike minds
and next thing you know
you have a pile of inbred brains
lying around
boring each other.But the road
keeps on going
and the road thinks its own
various and lonely
thoughts.Cardboard townA Pack of Cards
You look just like I remember
Just like I expected
Nothing's changed
Everything's changed
The magic's gone.The magic music
doesn't hum
through the desert
and the lonesome
desert ghosts
aren't wandering
over the big dirt hills
with their ghost burros.The hill I sat on
the little rock I cried on
the night John Lennon died
when the little desert gnomes
cried with me
That hill is still there
The rock is still sticky
with my ancient tears.The men at the bar
are the same men
telling the same jokes.
Are they older?
No, only I am older.
They're only mannequins
Propped there
for eternity.I leave
but the maple syrup air
is sticky as the rock
gluing me here.You're just a bunch of cardboard cutouts
I shouted
and they all fell down.The dust devil
dances around the
cardboard town
and winks at me.
To DavidWait for me
under a tree in Wales.
I’ll find you
when we’re both free
to dance in the fields
where Mad Welsh poets
once wandered, thinking.
Where minstrels sang
of courage and love.
Wait for me.
We won’t be young and carefree.
No, we’ll be
sanded by time
Lines for laughter past and future
Nicotine stains, chipped teeth
voices raspy
The way we were
When we loved most and best
When we wished we’d met sooner
Or had more time.
When we knew that all the others
were just friends or lovers.
Wait for me
Under a tree.
Dance me into eternity
With you.