Views and Such

I don't often attempt a view
beyond a tomorrow or two - oh maybe tickets
to some must-see viola recital,
but these can be easy to bypass.

Too far into the future, say a month or so
and a life of ease can be ruined.

It takes calendars, budgets, and imaginations
beyond my current conception . . .
to prepare for that many imaginary tomorrows . . .
but what the hell, let's plan ahead for Spring . . .

Life in all its Glory

I was some 76 years old last June
but don't feel wiser than a year and a minute ago.
I ride my third bicycle (the first two were stolen).

Time seems not to slow nor step aside.
I have not felt as threatened
as I might . . . I had a job until I didn't
and a monthly SS check
slowly building an annuity of sorts . . .

But even though I find food for most tomorrows,
what becomes of all my creature friends?
I see them as I walk about,
some with soddy blankets, and some without;
and what of all those aging bikes with contested owners?

From Odessa, Texas

I never hitchhiked east but always west toward a larger setting sun.
Most times I thought I knew where I was heading sometimes I knew
I was totally without anchor, afloat in a swamp of ideas or ideals.
Stepping to no drummer but my buzzing head of endless ideas
I had a younger, and married, sister somewhere in orange groves
and moved in her general direction for a warm meal and coffee
so kept my feet to the ground and my thumb toward the west.
So many people saved me from me, including me and my sister,
but without lonely, thinking days, alone, I would not now smile.
I am the result of endless searching, wondering who I might be.

Rehabilitation with no Direction

My cat, mute and wiser than me,
un gato malo,
does not understand my direction,
my rambles about sobriety. It is
for the dogs - his eyes tell me this.

There are heavy things afoot:
manslaughter
armed burglary
dangerous drugs
aiding and abetting
and
a federal fugitive warrant
but they, THEY have Pancho
in jail now. He is
being reformed
redabilitated. My cat
doubts it. My cat
sneers cynically.

Un Gato Malo. In
Berkeley, Paul and
Greg have been busted
with no word of bail
--I write
with an eye
on the phone as if
its ring could be
seen. Greg, my radical
and once almost brother-in-law
friend
whose gift of wine
is still unopened; Paul,
would-be-Bokonon
of the desert
friend
would like my mute
cat, my wise Persian
of dry humorless meows.

Un Gato Malo is a member
of our karass. He
expects change. He and I
wait together to see
the sound of the telephone.
He is my only cat,
a perfect companion.
I assist him in his despair.

Circles in Twilight

We all age
and that ain't so bad
(if we're not in a damn cage)
in most of our worlds.
It is expected.

It is respected.
Another of life's countless swirls
from dew on every leaf
to ripened fruit.

Pluck me from the tree
and grin. Or maybe just smile.
This is mere prelude:
we are off for another few miles.