Sunday, October 30, 2011

Lalo Kikiriki

That ribbon of highway

One more time we're
weaving through Morongo,
Lay Down Sally
playing on the Eagle,
down the Pass with
the bassline bumping
and the windmills slapping time.

No matter what
is on the radio,
the long blades always
seem to keep the beat
and we sing,
"Doncha ever leave" like
the colored girls doot 'n' dooed
for Lou Reed...

but we're leaving the wild side,
the desert is behind,
and the next song stutters
at White water,
"she had to -hic- me right
"... the river...
as if, like vampires,
rock-n-roll balks
at running water
and the desert radio
loses its wild power
in the white noise of
the city's frequency

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Radek Ozog


I wonder if Lennon survived the
5 shots would it be gangster

I know the media would eat
it all up.

Would Paul McCartney take

Aye, and that flashily-dressed rocket man.

Elton John, symbol of
a bullet.

Monday, February 21, 2011

David M. Harris


Half a century ago, I carried a flag and grinned,
with the Young Republicans,
in my town's parade, the one that ended
in the square.
Later, in the band, no uniform,
and just good enough at it
for a junior-high band.
Proud to be in that parade,
marching for a future
we could smell just past the horizon.

In 1970, we paused from marching and plotting
the perfect world to follow
Apollo's fires. Even later, at Canaveral,
standing by the great supine rocket,
I was moved from faction to remember
an explosion in space, a moment
of common fears and dreams.

Today, I watch the marchers,
fighting two more Asian wars,
try to puzzle out their chants and signs,
wave to them, and return to my magazine,
exhausted by hope.