Bees and art

Bees are wanderers, but only so far as flowers
Which nourish their incessant whizzes,
By reciting poems composed for bees
In spring meter.

Whether they understand intricacies of peony
Lineation or just pretend to be
Buzzing over sublimation of impulses

A great mystery in knowing their choices,
For daffodils or daisies,
Roses or rhododendron, hyacinth
Or Hibiscus.

Yet, even on their high trails among tulip
Poplars, towering in Sunday skies,
Bees hear the structured
Recitations and wonder

If metaphor is properly placed,
And marvel as they buzz and buzz
At metrical patterns more

Than their own regurgitations,
And by this frantic puzzling we know
They still have not an artist’s
Heart encapsulated

One single concept of expression,
Because the motherland demands
A certain droning labor
Ignorant of marvelous beauty.

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Aires hung there dimly as we smoked,
The dark night luminescent with fireflies
And jasmine perfuming fat summer air.
The Ram I said, the Ram as though I knew
All about it, that low, homely group
Of far away stars, no more a Ram
Than the commercials bleated.
My dad – he knew about a Ram,
Walking his drunken old legs over
Rocky slopes strewn with cacti,
Winded from thin air far higher than
His delta homeland.
He told of a Ram standing not two
Hundred yards, cliff side.
“I could have shot him, but he
Looked straight at me, and I thought
About the long walk down dragging
His carcass and I laughed.”
I always remembered that walk,
Those cactus.
That Ram was the real Aires
Dimly lit and plain, flat
Along the far night sky.

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Take another pull on the glass and live a bit more loudly.
Tell them the story of falling down the side of Atwood,
With no one within twenty miles and surviving in spite,
Cold for anesthetic, crawling the first mile with no feel.

Better than eating oysters with the others and talking
About dead singers while the blondes blind one another,
Trying to sleep with every man who talks on his cell,
I swear you should hike them all there and leave them.

But you. You stumble into the back finding a couple
Copulating to Neil Young and fumbling with the door,
A shadow of the former lion, running scared now, sick
And tired of trying, dying, dying yes I said dying,

Lying to your soul, looking to the bowl, smoking life
Away for lack of effort, and here I still think you
A man, a lion, still want your hand in mine to live,
What fun we had then and tonight, but you slip and fall,

Mumbling damn it all, damn it all, and I lift you back
Dragging you to the bed and lay you down softly
Whispering to your dull head it’s alright babe, its
Alright. Wanting you to fight. Wanting you to.

Wanting you.

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Of course

I was all set to go and she came out to the truck.
Damn, she would always look like a cat anytime of day,
Long and lean, every muscle firing in sequence perfectly,
Lush, perfectly smooth, perfectly distant in her demeanor.

Her hair fell along the back like Angel Falls, except more brown,
And the down, the down on her soft legs was the reason I had
Not left years ago, when I had swore and swore at the top
Of my lungs as she just sat there with her head up serene.

You see what she does, without even me talking of her breasts,
Her lips, her full hips and the way she looked out of the shower.
What good does it do to tell of the way she lay in the sun
With sweat pooling in her abdomen listening to the Allmans

Dragging on a cigarette and looking at nothing as the rays
Turned her a golden color and the wind collected her hair.
No need to talk about the walk, the look, the touch of her
Hand upon mine from across a table at Mack’s over mussels.

She came out to the truck and I rolled down the goddamned
Window because you know how it is, when you are done
And you are really done, I mean really, really done,
You know how it is then, when the pictures start playing

Over in your head of the times, the places, the love
The deep night hours when she rolled towards you, her
Arm laying upon your side and you woke and made love
For an hour, no, more as the music played, then rose

With the moon, and smoked, listening to some dog
Bark in distant trees while it seemed no one rose
But you and her and her drink was vodka and yours
Scotch and the smoke curled into warm night air.

Of course I rolled down the goddamn window for her
Words, but she said nothing, just looked at me
And reached in and touched my face, trailing to
My lips, God I wanted to bite her in that moment.

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Late in the evening

Got to get myself together,
PULL myself up

Got to make myself stand again
Got to stop.

Blues is all I play
Blues is all I got.

Blues is just one way
Not the top.

Got to get myself together,
All right, all right

Going on a trip forever
Going tonight.

In between the riffs
In between the shit,

Blues is what is in between,
Blues is why i got to quit.

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Solitary Mockingbird on a Winter Branch


Still the air when snow becomes,
When flake on flake lays down
Upon the one below and comes,
Another then without a sound.

And crystal palaces lush,
Hold every creature cold,
Now thickened with the winter flush,
Embrace their lover’s quiet hold,

As silent white enduring,
Wakes natural interlude,
For lives we thought secure in,
To now reflect incertitude.

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Four Bodices

In Garcia Lorca’s poem, “The Unfaithful Wife”, the Spanish Revolution is seen through the eyes of a gypsy pistolero and his encounter with a woman of means trapped in a loveless marriage.


Out beyond the brambles,
the hawthorns and the reeds,
beneath her mane of hair
I made a hollow in the sedge.
I took off my necktie.
She took off her dress.
I, my belt and pistol.
She, four bodices.

From, “The Unfaithful Wife” (from “The Gypsy Ballads”), Published 1928
Federico Garcia Lorca



The fourth means beauty captured,
As a caged bird for singing.

The third is reptition and routine,
The Taming of the Shrew.

The second the master’s whim.
An object of derision.

The first is tightly laced, firmly
Forming the breasts.

One, two, three and four.
So that she will understand
Her death.


The one enhances my beauty.
I want him to want me.

The second gives to whims,
I then live comfortably.

The third keeps my promise,
However cold and lonely.

The fourth flashes desire,
For secret lover to see.

You are cruel to speak of death,
With pistols at your belt.

Garcia Lorca.jpg


Civil society,

Hypocrisy rationalized,

Oh debauchery!
Libations fail us.

Killing the dead over.

“Revolution!” cries the piper.
Too late.
No one follows.

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