January 23rd, 2014
his horse’s head hung low
the land was filled with little except
the loom of dusk
his gazing crossed those hills
flowing across red soil
there field-mice would be busy
bees opulent and accompanying
the music of a wind
full of pollen and skylarks
he looked back at the debris
he called time
in a dried-up stream
i struggle with it daily, nightly.
the idiocy of it, the lies,
the lunacy, the fear in the people,
the anger. at times i feel
i walk among the living dead.
the only redemption is love.
the love of a lover, this most of all.
a partner, in soul, spirit and body.
this is the only salvation.
i do not have this at this time
in my life.
so the death all around me weighs
especially hard on me.
i try to stay close to my work.
to the poetry most of all.
i drift away, because i cannot
sit at this computer and write
24 hours a day. i must do
other things. and when i do other
things, especially outside this
small apartment, i am reminded
of how futile it all is, this
life among the rich and
distracted and illiterate.
a woman’s love immediately cures
all this. immediately saves my
heart and gives me pools of
tolerance and forgiveness
which dry up when left on their
own for too long.
have no idea when i was last here
i’ve been riding in the old west
in the desert
listening to the hawks screeching above
avoiding the vultures surrounding my dead horse
it’s been real hard out here
the liars and cheats and greedmongers
the wolves in suits
the women with long canines
the rich insects setting up nests in weird designs
but i’ve been handling it all
howling out in the night
and in the daytime too
morphing myself by pure heart and will
into some white eagle of rage and spirit
a fierce creature i
no doubt about it
and there are nights with the moon watching
over me when i see it
i do definitely see it
and feel it
and taste it
a god a woman a child an old warrior
floating six inches above the wasteland
and coming for me
yes i know it might even be tonight
and carry me away from all this
Izzy Buchanan watches old movies
until his eyes rim red, utters
‘Rosebud’ (mysteriously) on the bus,
sidewalk and convenience stores.
He talks about bananas in pockets
and asks everyone if they think Rhett
ever returned to Scarlett.
Oblivious to stares, he sings the
Brigadoon song and taps his way
across the throughway, horns honking,
cars veering, people screaming
on their cells to 911 reporting
a lunatic on the loose.
He thumps his chest, pretends
he’s King Kong, grabs a blonde
from a stalled car (she reminds him
of Fay Wray) and disappears back
into Brigadoon’s mist on the other
side of the highway.
Izzy prefers living in Movieland.
It’s better than his almost foreclosed
house, a boss who threatens to replace
him with a twenty year old and a wife
who turns her back whenever he reaches
over to touch her.