bear witness

i was a lad of 13 my dad & i used to go deer hunting.  i had my winchester 30-30 that i rarely fired & my dad had his bolt-action browning 30-06.  now my old man was a good hunter.  patient, steady & calm.  unlike his usual workaday self.  i've seen him take & make incredible shots.  like shooting a running buck in nevada at around 20 yards.  that magnificent beast hit the ground running & was still deep breathing when we got on to him.  my old man took careful aim and fired into the buck's neck as i watched the wild eyes of this grand animal spin wide until they glazed over.  this afternoon we sat on a fallen log at the end of a deer trail.  behind us was the forest with a slope of around 30 degrees that dropped off into even more thick foretst.  i was a bored 13 year old.  i didn't like hunting.  i hated my rifle.  it was too loud.  too powerful.  too deadly.  but on this occasion we got our bear tags.  these tags were regulated & administered by the state of california allowed us both to kill one adult male bear each.  why we got those tags i can't say.  we had never seen a bear.  until now.  daydreaming i sat on the log until my dad whispered in my ear, 'bear!'  i swiveled off the log & looked behind me.   15 feet away was a male black bear on his hind legs.  my dad had his browning in position.  the bear stopped sniffed the air & froze in mid-step.  i forgot i had a rifle.  he was beautiful.  magnificent creature that stood on his hind leg i shit you not.  he looked 20 ft tall.  the bear sized up the scene & immediately turned down the 30-degree incline & vanished from our sights.  my hands shook when they found my rifle & i could hardly hold it.  my father was already placing his rifle at rest.  'why didn't you shoot it,' i asked.  i don't remember my dad's answer.  all i remember was that this beautiful animal an adult male black bear was a mere 15 feet away.

a touch of fall haiku

revved up like a rocket

anna's hummingbird blurs out of frame

pistil to pistil 

bloom against bloom

in what language do i give my praise

my gratitude in witness

the hard light of the workday

bows out to cooler evening

& i am a pitiable poet

who lacks the courage to say

anna's hummingbird 

speeds out of focus & is my judge

in memorium koon woon

the other side of summer

 

pay no heed to the poor poet as he does his nightly walks thru his beloved city.  he's a failed flaneur.  a damaged poet who thinks his imagination can power a rocket engine.  take no pity as he looks toward the backside of summer.  the flat calm bright iridescences of a late evening sky & the stilled pool waters vacant of swimmers.  this doesn't stop him.  the failed poet is off on one more fancy.  watch him go! 

be seen green haiku

 

                                    when one plays with water 

                                    come upon my shore

                                    water is fine

                                    it is good to be wet

                                    a shower

                                    is all the wisdom i need

be like water

 

today's rimbaud

scrolling thru social media today i came upon a thread that asked what the visionary, & asshole, poet arthur rimbaud would be like if he were alive today.  okay, i confess.  rimbaud still is a lodestar poet for me.  as he is for a great many of us rhymesters today, including musicians like patti smith et al.  i'm almost 60 years old & the brilliant electricity of rimbaud's poetics & life thrill me as it did when i first read him when i was in my early 20s.  i called rimbaud an 'asshole.'  because i think if i knew the dude i would probably hate his fucking arrogant guts.  he was a selfish prick.  he was mean & low & vicious.  & yet.  & yet.  his life is a goddamn fireball.  i love his poetry.  i love his life.  even the wildly unsavory parts of his later life are thrilling even tho parts of it are abhorrent.  if rimbaud was a teenager today who the fuck knows how he'd behave.  maybe one of those pesky social media dudes who do the worst kinds of pranks on people & post the videos online.  maybe he would reject the world we live in.  but he did tell us that one must stay 'modern.'  so perhaps he would post his wild poetry online via blog or other social media.  while stories about his conduct would start to circulate.  drugs, the refusal to cut his hair & bathe.  sexual adventures, of course.  tattoos?  perhaps.  i think i read somewhere that verlaine had a crude tattoo made by rimbaud.  i don't know.  but then when he gave it all up where would he go.  what would he do.  africa?  one can't be a gunrunner & slaver today.  i think.  so someone in that thread suggested rimbaud would become a real estate agent in dubai.  fucking perfect!  i can see that!  rimbaud as a real estate agent in one of the wildest, & bougie, places on this planet.  would he be successful?  he was kind of successful in africa.  but then he was later out-maneuvered & out-matched by king menelik ii.  however, rimbaud did manage to acquire considerable amount of gold too.  anyhow, it's fun to think of how rimbaud would live today.  after all, he was a real person with real needs, desires, prejudices, self-destructive impulses, that all are well-documented & researched.  we are no stranger to rimbaud.  besides, i got a kick out of the thought experiment of rimbaud working in a real estate office in dubai doing his level-best to make as much money as he can.  because that was his goal in later life.  first to run away, reinvent himself, & then to make a lot of money.  & that's partly why his life remains so thrilling.  because he was so poetically human.     

it's saturday nite & you wanna see the great antipoet nicanor parra praise american troubador bob dylan & trace dylan's poetic lineage all the way to allen ginsberg & walt whitman

 

light in august