Looking After Lorca

for Kelly

"A hundred ponies are prancing,

their riders are all dead"

saddle straps flap against the thighs

and the cries and steaming nostrils

howling winds like spinning tops beat the reigns,

hawks fly into nothing and collapse

and in the darkest hour of them all

comes the same incessant whip

that has left scars

and the straps

have been pulled too tight

and we brake to a light gallop of solitude

and big as my beast

and tight as my reigns

my time has gone.

So I straighten up and saddle down

and prepare for the long haul tomorrow.

This desert breeze across equine skies

has left me winded on this foolish terrain,

my clouds are on the ground with my dusty

whip and thin skin.

I have the mirage of you on my desert sheets

your name is in the skies.

 In Search of Jackson Pollack

Just another morning robbed of dreams,

in shadowed alleys, whose lifts begin to creak

and scream as teenagers sneak outside to smoke

cigarettes and marijuana under the cover of night.

Pillow cases stained like Jackson Pollack

with salt water and moans

from some girl whose face you can’t remember

and whose smell is still fresh in your sheets

the next night when she is just about forgotten.

Just another morning, filled with hours and minutes,

But this morning has come bearing gifts

in the shape of questions;

staring at pictures of people that are unrecognizable,

hearing voices call your name and asking you questions,

and they say it is time to ask yourself these questions,

and they say there may be answers to these questions,

and these questions leave me with more questions

that will never have answers.

And where did all this darkness come from

and one voice calls my name and says

who says you can't smile?

He treats her like a whore to make her write better,

and in turn pulls the plug on his own words

and they come pouring out leaving the tired, withered body of a poet.