On the Dusty Banks of the Rio Salado

I saw him the other day,
Not as an apparition at a seance,
Conjured by a second-rate Mrs. Rita,
Or brushing past me in a club.
I didn't see him at the mall.
He wasn't holding someone's cellphone,
Singing into it,
Like he used to do at concerts,
(And maybe still does).
He wasn't standoff-ish,
And brusque,
Trying to ignore me,
In some VIP backstage area,
Like that time,
We played together in Hayden Square.

No,
I saw him in a video clip,
On social media.
(Like we see everything these days!)
He was playing a song,
Live in the studio,
He didn't look like a rock God anymore,
He looked like someone's dad,
(By the way,
I'm aware that I too,
Look like someone's dad!)
Actually,
He kind of looks like,
That Food Network guy.
No,
Not that Guy,
The other one,
The serious,
Bespectacled one.
You know,
The guy that used to do the irreverent,
DIY cooking shows.
Anyway,
I forget his name*,
But seeing that video,
It reminded me of 90s rock,
And the little-known,
Tempe Sound!

There was a time,
When the desert blossomed,
Becoming,
(Forgive the pun),
A hotbed of sound,
A little like Seattle,
Only not as rainy,
And not so gruff or grungy.

The Tempe Sound was more cactus,
Less Pacific Northwest.
More jangly chords,
Less brooding garage rock.
¡Mas tequila!,
Less heroin.
More sunshine and melancholy sadness,
Fewer dreams.
But with the same amount of ill-advised flannel,
And the same tragic tales,
Told,
(At some dive bar, of course),
Of the ones who didn't make it.

I missed out on that Tempe by a few years.
I never saw the glory days,
Back when Mill Avenue was crawling,
With musicians,
Of every type and quality.
Back before the mid-90s rockstars-to-be,
Punched the clock on their 15 minutes.
When they were all still only plotting,
And planning,
To meet up that mission at midnight.
I never followed them,
As they traipsed boozily,
Between Long Wongs,
And The 6 East Lounge,
(Known ominously as The Beast),
Or up the street to Gibsons,
And over to the The Sun Club.
I never had to worry,
That maybe,
They'd fancy a drive,
Before things got too blurry,
And that they'd crash somewhere,
As they swerved over to Nita's.
I never had the pleasure,
Of hearing a new tune,
As it was worked out,
While having refreshments,
At the Yucca Tap Room.
Alas,
I missed those times completely.

I heard the echoes, though.
I witnessed the rusting hull,
The withered Workshop.
I walked the abandoned wreckage.
I stumbled,
Much later,
Into those establishments myself.
I stood nodding my head,
To lesser bands,
In those same beer-soaked places,
Full of memories,
And stories,
(Some of them true.)
I even rubbed shoulders with a few of the survivors.
Legends,
All.
And I heard all about the casualties,
The lamentable,
Cautionary tales of woe,
And youthful misadventure,
The twisted nature of fame,
And the quintessential tortured artist,
Flowering,
And then,
Falling apart in the desert.

Anyway,
When I saw him in that video,
It made me wonder,
Does he still let the cops chase him around?
And when they catch him,
Do they exclaim:
"Oh, sorry,
We were looking for someone else,
You look like Alton Brown*!"

3-26-19

Replacement Therapy

I used to write songs,
But I don't feel like it anymore,
Or maybe just not right now.
If I'm being honest,
I'm not sure they were all that good,
To begin with,
So,
No loss.
But maybe,
I just dont know anything anymore.
Creating something,
Out of nothing,
With rhythm and melody,
From a small buzz inside the head,
Feels like magic.
An overwhelming rush.
It was everything,
But my feedback loop is broken.
I can't hear the muse.
I've lost touch with the spark.
And my fingers,
Once so reliable,
Have forgotten all the right chords.
But maybe,
That's not important anymore.
So,
I write poems instead.
Which is much the same,
Because a poem is really just a song,
A song without the tune.
Or maybe it's the other way 'round.
And sometimes,
It is still like magic,
Words coming from the mists of my mind.
And I wonder,
Are these words mine,
Or am I merely the antenna?
Regardless,
Whether it's one or the other,
I still don't honestly know,
If they're any good.
And it doesn't matter.
The only thing that matters,
If I'm being completely honest,
Is catharsis,
The lightning strike of creativity,
The purging of inner demons,
The airing of mental laundry,
Radom thoughts,
Coalescing into ideas,
On paper,
Or in the cloud,
Yes,
The cleansing of the soul.
And if that means a song,
Or if it means a poem,
Maybe it doesn't make a difference,
And that's more important than all else.

3-31-19

Equinox

Vernal Equinox,
First day of spring,
Stock up on tissues!
The pollinating,
And,
Um,
Frolicking,
Has begun...

Here,
In this western paradise,
For weeks now,
A tickle of green has tinged the land,
And tickled my sinuses.
Trees have started to bud,
And to blossom;
To,
In a word feel,
Groovy.
A swarm,
Biblical in magnitude,
Of various insectivera,
Has descended upon our homes,
Which has been followed,
As though it were prearranged,
By a proliferation,
A mob really,
Of randy,
Marvin Gaye-listening,
Amphibians.

Today,
On this,
The scientific start of spring,
It is gray skies and showers,
But the yearly meet-and-greet,
A biological drag race,
Of competitive reproduction is,
As Mr. Samuel L. Jackson might say,
(And I'm paraphrasing here),
"On like motherbleepin' Donkey Kong!"

3-20-19

True Measure

These things,
Small,
But made large,
Are not half as important,
As the true measure of love.

Our capacity,
Gigantic,
If unfurled,
And given a chance to blossom,
Is the true measure of love.

Conversations,
Awkward,
Delicately negotiated,
Bourne by open hearts and ears,
Are the true measure of love.

Listening,
Patiently,
Deliberately waiting,
To understand and not just to respond,
Is the true measure of love.

3-18-19

Simple Math

"Why are people mean to each other?"
The kid asked,
In the middle of class,
Wide-eyed and earnest.
I had no response,
Because what do you say,
When each and every day,
You wonder the same thing?
Perhaps the answer is with the 12 Tribes,
Scattered and wandering,
Dividing and conquering,
Forever doomed to clash.
Maybe we should blame it on Babylon,
This forgetting our sisters and brothers,
This one against the others,
And the multiplying confusion.
Our preference for sects and gangs,
Perhaps ingrained in us as animals.
Yet we are not cannibals,
But we sure love to eat our own!
Why are people mean to each other?
We should surely ask,
Because the divisions mask,
Our strengths for working side by side.

3-17-19

Cosanti Bell

When the wind blows here,
On the edge of the world,
And it does,
Quite often,
And fiercely.
I am comforted,
Reminded,
Happily of home,
By the ringing of bells,
So sweetly.

Out on our patio,
A bronze chime hangs,
A gift,
From a thoughtful sister.
Housewarming,
For a house long gone;
Oh, Arizona,
We've missed her!

But with all these breezes,
That little bronze bell,
Sings out often,
Each day,
And each night.
From Paradise Valley,
To the edge of the world,
It makes all our days,
Happy and bright.

3-13-19

We Are All Revolutionary

We are all revolutionary,
Simply because we had the good fortune to be born on this planet.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we possess the power to effect change.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we have the capacity for forgiveness.

We are all revolutionary,
For we can speak our minds.

We are all revolutionary;
We have infinite love within us.

We are all revolutionary,
Because our national ethos demands it!

We are all revolutionary,
Because we stand up for what is right.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we speak up for those who can't.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we are able to advance our cause,
(Even when it seems hopeless).

We are all revolutionary,
Because we are capable of surprise.

We are all revolutionary,
Because sometimes we surprise ourselves.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we persevere.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we buck the system.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we "never say die."

We are all revolutionary,
Because we are able to read and write,
Rage,
Love,
Mourn,
Change our minds,
Recite poetry,
And dialogue from movies,
(Like The Goonies).

We are all revolutionary,
Because we want to make our mark.

We are all revolutionary,
For we are humble before the universe.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we can be self-congratulatory.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we believe in tomorrow.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we can be both selfish and selfless.

We are all revolutionary,
Because we can learn from our mistakes,
Sometimes,
(When we're in the mood).

We are all revolutionary,
Because we are complicated.

Yes,
We are all revolutionary,
Because we live on a planet that revolves around the Sun,
And so much more.

3-12-19

Clockwork Hoax

It's quite a cockamamie scheme,
Interrupting my slumber and dreams.
It isn't useful or fun.
This ritualized hoax is not what it seems.

A ruthless national mass hypnotism.
This task hasn't prevented a civil schism.
It's a farce, for we can't control time.
It's an exercise in Federal feudalism!

Benjamin Franklin was making a joke,
For this plan of ours would sure make him choke.
'Stead of saving on candles,
Now we're all tied up to this yoke!

Ol' Arizona has got it just right,
The same time all year and each night.
What is it we think we are saving?
Whatever it is, is not daylight!

3-10-19

Arizona Haikus

2-2-19
Desolate desert,
crawling with unseen critters.
Arizona home.

Storms, sudden and fast,
sweet Sonoran summer gift,
strange place for a toad.

Sky ablaze, molten,
immortal cliffs bear witness,
the sun paints the sky.

Stoic saguaro,
sentinel of the desert;
cactus wren comes home.

2-4-19
Imperceptible,
magic from the desert floor,
wildflowers bloom.

Tarantula hawk,
black and orange death from above,
hunting for a host.

Muddy red ribbon,
no longer flows to the sea,
river overdrawn.

2-5-19
Forty-three degrees,
Packers Jersey and flip-flops,
Snowbirds have arrived.

Salt River canyon,
mother to fertile valley,
trickle for the sprawl.

2-17-19
Thunderheds gather,
they'll break in a rush out east,
swift and violent.

Miraculous storms,
Pharoah would quiver to see,
haboobs closing in.

Here it comes again,
wall of dust devours us,
followed by torrents.

Perspectives On Executive Annoyance

(An imagined conversation, in the form of a poem, in the highest office in the land...)

You called, sir? Yes, sir? You're annoyed?
But why, sir? You should be overjoyed!
All these wordy salvos being deployed,
Are just the cost of being so employed.

"Just look at the things they say.
Attacked on all sides every day."

Come now, chum, don't dismay,
Why this right here, it's the American way!

From the get go, our voices were first.
To King George we were the worst!
And even though words can hurt,
Our free speech is a not a curse.
So, sure every presidential bloke,
Who's ever stood up and spoke,
Has wished he'd had an impenetrable cloak,
To prevent a critique or a joke.
It may seem like intolerable cruelty.
Yet, we dispensed with total monarchy,
And cobbled together a new reality.
Now our leaders report to you and me.

And so, it's par for the course,
When we change riders or the horse,
Our press and voices wield such force,
There's no hiding behind closed doors.

FDR and the press often clashed.
Lyndon Johnson was clearly bashed.
The Bushes smiled, but their teeth were gnashed.
Where exactly was Cheney stashed?
Ford, depicted as buffoon.
Theodore sued to change the tune.
Andrew Jackson was a loon!
Henry Harrison, gone too soon?
Truman's doctrine was so thin.
Taft refused to let Arizona in.
Madison ignored inept Wilkinson,
And let's not speak of Jefferson.
Reagan made of teflon coating.
Kennedy and all that boating.
Years of tears and we're still voting.
Obama's drama is worth noting.
And Clinton? Too easy. Let's not waste the time!
Under Lincoln, half the country resigned.
Even Washington had his principles maligned,
Not terribly long after the Constitution was signed.

So, you see, this is nothing new.
In a country like ours it's what we do.
We cut and jab at the lucky few.
Our words are honed sharp and true.
And that is how our stripes remain,
Through the years of growth and pain.
One man's sorrow is a nation's gain,
When we question in liberty's name.
Beneath this beacon, this shining tower,
Political animals should rightfully cower.
Citizens on watch every hour.
Our responsibility to speak truth to power.

3-5-19

In the Land of Midas

170 years on,
And the echoes of the 49ers still call.
We are the new opportunists,
Come to exploit the Golden State.
I suppose,
No different than those old optimists,
With gold fever,
Who left it all behind and tempted fate.

They say the Siren song of California,
With danger on the rocks,
Lures you in with promise,
But may break you just the same.
This golden land,
Long a paradise,
Smiles at you while it takes your heart,
And makes you scream its name.

To these shores I was born,
Bred for swimming with the sharks,
Before I turned my back,
Left the beach and drove myself away.
Like other fools,
I now return,
But I never thought in a million years,
That I'd be back again one day.

This place where dreams can be found,
Upon the deadly winds,
If and only if,
Your wallet is stuffed with bills.
You pack your things,
Say goodbye to those you hold dear,
Head out west to stake your claim,
And hope to find luck in them thar hills.

170 years later,
And nothing's changed at all.
Optimistic opportunists,
They still come,
Looking for the Motherlode,
Blindly searching in the wild.
I should know,
I am one.

3-16-19

Multicolored Circular Arcs and Narwhals

Doth we have no humanity?
These are strange days,
A seeming return to times medieval.
Great mobs,
Clamoring to glimpse the executions,
In the shadow of the cathedral.

Oh,
To be poignantly perfect,
All one needs is a Twitter feed!
But should we,
Contribute verses perverse,
When our faults are in our deeds?

Ignorant,
I wish to be,
Blotting out the fuss and rattle,
When mere words,
Not to mention devious actions,
Are cause for all out battle!

Alas and alack!
(I've always wished to say that.)
And it fits because I am at a loss,
With what to do.
And who's in charge?
And who wants to be the boss?

But we can't play dumb,
Or ignore the truth,
At least that's what I thought.
What shall we contribute, then?
Maybe love.
Verily, it's all we've got.

Yes, better it is,
For us to remember,
Neighbors need our kindness.
Better would we be,
To remember love,
To let our better natures guide us.

And anon,
(I mean soon--someday, really soon),
We shall overcome this hate.
Yet,
Let us hope,
That in the end it will not be too late.

For with a little more effort,
A little less,
"Us v. them,"
We can be not enemies,
Perhaps a bit more cordial,
Maybe even friends.

Then rainbows,
And unicorns,
They shall decorate the halls.
Or if you'd prefer the scientific:
Multicolored circular arcs,
And a blessing of narwhals.

3-4-19