ON RUGS, RINGS, LIFE, DEATH AND THE SANTA FE RAILROAD

SOONER OR LATER I WILL FIND OUT WHAT MAKES A GOOD RUG GREAT OR THE REASONS WHY SOME RUGS ARE SOLD THE FIRST DAY THEY ARE DISPLAYED AT THE STATION WHERE THE AMTRACK STOPS TWICE A DAY. ONCE EAST AND ONCE WEST, IT'S BETTER HEADING WEST, THE RUGS SEEN ON THE WESTERN JOURNEY SEEM BEST, AT LEAST TO ME, BUT NONE ARE AS GOOD AS THEY WERE WHEN IT WAS THE SANTA FE INSTEAD OF AMTRACK THAT STOPPED LONG ENOUGH TO FIND THE BEST TURQUOISE RING FOR THE PRICE. BUT HOW CAN A RING, OR A RUG, OR ANYTHING, REALLY, BE JUDGED BY THE PRICE? SURE, I COULD SAY IT WAS ALL RELEVANT; THAT'S THE ANSWER I RECALL GETTING ANYTIME I HAD A QUESTION THE PROFESSOR COULDN'T ANSWER. THAT WAS SO LONG AGO, LIKE THE TRAIN CALLED THE SANTA FE. THE TIME WILL COME WHEN THE LAST PASSENGER THAT RODE THE SANTA FE WILL BE DEAD AND GONE. THE PROFESSORS TOO. GONE? GONE WHERE? LET SIMPLY SAY DEAD AND LEAVE THE WHEREABOUTS ALONE. IF I COULD ANSWER WHERE THEY WENT I WOULD KNOW PRECISELY THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN RUGS AND RINGS AND WHAT IT IS THAT MAKES IT SO. ONE WOULD THINK WE WOULD KNOW BY NOW, CONSIDERING HOW MUCH MORE WE KNOW THAN OUR GREAT AUNTS AND UNCLES KNEW. BUT WHAT ABOUT THE INDIANS WHO MADE THE RUGS AND RINGS? ARTISTS ARE THE LAST TO RECEIVE THE RECOGNITION AND ACCOLADES

A PICASSO KIND OF SUMMER AND IT'S OVER

IT WAS A PICASSO KIND OF SUMMER AND NOW IT'S OVER. SOME COLORS WERE TOO BRIGHT FOR THE SUBJECT, SOME MUCH TOO DIM. IT WILL BE SUMMER AGAIN, SOMETIME, SOMEDAY, BUT WILL IT BE THE SAME, OR JUST A SHADE TOO COOL?

SOME OF THE TUBES ARE EMPTY NOW, THEIR CAPS GONE, LOST, FOREVER OUT OF SIGHT, LIKE A STARFISH PICKED UP AND TOSSED BACK...

DOES ANYONE KNOW WHERE THE OREGON HOTEL MIGHT BE?

IF THAT ISN'T THE MOST MORONIC QUESTION I'VE EVER ASKED IN QUEST TO BE LITERARY IN MY OWN UNIQUE WAY I DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO SAY. BEST TO LEAVE OLD HOTELS ALONE, THE CHARM IS LONG GONE, THE TENANTS WHO KNEW ANYTHING WORTH SHARING LONG DEAD, SO WHAT ELSE MATTERS? SURE THE NAME MIGHT SEEM ROMANTIC FOR ANYONE WHO STOPPED IN WYOMING AND

LOOKED FOR AN APPRENTICE POSITION AS A JUNIOR COWBOY, BUT THAT'S ABOUT AS FAR WEST AS MOST THIRSTY DRIFTERS WOULD GO, DRIFTING WEST ANYWAY. HOW WOULD AND HOW COULD ANYBODY BUT A BUM END UP IN A DUMP CALLED THE OREGON HOTEL FOR SIX BUCKS A NIGHT? THERE WAS LOTS OF ROOM FOR NEGOTIATIONS, BE SURE ABOUT THAT. ONE THIN SURPLUS ARMY BLANKET WITH SEVENTEEN MOTH HOLES AND A SINK WORN SMOOTH BY YEARS OF PREVIOUS TRANSIENT'S FLESH SAVING MONEY SKIPPING A STOOL THAT FLUSHED CAMELS CIGARETTE BUTTS DOWN THE PIPES FOR A FINAL CRUISE DOWN THE SEWER RIVER. SPELL OREGON WITHOUT SKIPPING TOWN .

THE LEGEND OF THAT OLD GOLD STAR MOTHER

That old home back in the woods was there for years and I took it for granted that it would be there forever so I never missed it, really, just looked at it in every season and felt good because I knew it belonged to a widow lady up in age who no longer gardened but sat beside the big west window and watched the world change the way it has, the wars won, the war lost in 1972, the others tied, the thousands who died for no reasons like a Pearl Harbor kind of war. There was the two gold stars in the west window; they finally dimmed, even in the sunsets they stop reflecting. There was the gold someone said she had since her husband died and where she kept it nobody knew and there were other things said about the woman who sat beside that west window keeping her own notes on neighborhood payments to keep lights on,and those writing letters to old friends before they died, before the internet made ballpoint pens obsolete. Somebody said her sons were killed by snipers, the eldest while reading a letter from his girlfriend beneath a palm tree somewhere in some south seas islands called the Solomons, Tulagi was its name.The other son,the second son,the younger of the two, died from a single sniper bullet that struck him right between his eyes. Killed in the Philippines where he was arming Hucks with 45s,though they far preferred their machetes for close-up and hand-to-hand and just killing, killing, killing. Yes,alive until a single bullet hit him right between his eyes. The body never came back. Purple Hearts were delivered by two tall Marines, so they say. That old home was not always in the woods I've heard. There was a street with lanes and the water mains were in with plans for a suburban project planned, then she backed out time and again,so many times the city finally left her alone considering her grief and everything. That house is gone now; it's been gone for nearly ten years. I know she must have died back then, nearly one hundred years old I'm told and I know that's right because I've done the math on things and times like life and death so many times before.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BEATNIKS AND DEADHEADS

POTTED PLANTS ON THE TABLE WE BROUGHT ACROSS THE BORDER ENJOY HEARING OUR CASUAL RECALL ABOUT HOW WE WERE PULLED ASIDE TO SEE IF WE WERE TRYING TO HIDE MATCHING CHAIRS WITHOUT A DECLARATION OF OUR LAZY KIND OF LIFESTYLE BACK THEN WHEN MUSTANGS DIVIDED THE INTELLECT BETWEEN POETS IN CONVERTIBLES AND WRITERS ASLEEP IN PSYCHEDELIC VOLKSWAGEN VANS AND BUSES PAINTED PURPLE AND GREEN WITH PEACE SIGNS THAT WERE MISTAKEN FOR LUXURY AUTO LOGOS.

A MERRY-GO-ROUND POEM

ARE WE THE ONLY ONES ABOARD?

A MERRY-GO-ROUND , THE MOTION, THE MUSIC, THE MEMORIES. TO BE ON THE MERRY-GO-ROUND JUST ONE MORE TIME, ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE, WHEN YOU WERE YOUNGER THAN I AND I WAS YOUNGER THAN YOU, DAUGHTER, WIFE AND LOVERS ONE AND ALL LONG GONE, WHILE YOU REMAIN, SPINNING WITH ME FOR ONE MORE DAY AT A TIME. AROUND AND AROUND, FOREVER GOING, SPINNING, YET NEVER QUITE ARRIVING AT WHEREVER WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE FOR MORE CARNIVAL AND LIFETIME FUN. THE MUSIC PLAYS AGAIN AND AGAIN, HOLLOW SOUNDS IN HOLLOW HORSES HEADING RIGHT AND AROUND AND ROUND. WHY MUST THIS MERRY GO ROUND EVER STOP? WHO SAID IT WOULD OR IS IT ONLY RUMOR? THE MUSIC THRILLS MY SOUL, AND YOURS? DO YOU LIKE CALIOPE MUSIC OF THIS SORT? OR IS IT TOO CARNIVAL, TOO MUCH FUN FOR YOUR MIND? WHO IS THAT GHASTLY AND GHOSTLY FIGURE WITH THE CHISEL? THE NOISE FROM THE CONSTANT BANGING, CHIPS OF GRANITE AND MARBLE FLYING, A RINGING HOLLOW SOUND, A KIND OF FINAL MELODY, NO HYMN OR DIRGE, A CIRCUS MARCH OR MILITARY PARADE MUSIC. WE ARE MOVING UP AND DOWN LIKE WE DID WHEN WE WERE HERE BEFORE. WHERE ARE WE NOW IF WE AREN'T HERE? KEEP CHISLING IF HE MUST BUT BIRTHDATES ONLY, LEAVE THE OTHERS BLANK.

GRANDMOTHER WOULD BE SORRY THERE IS NO PALESTINE

GRANDMOTHER'S FONDEST WISH WAS TO SEE THE HOLY LAND SOMEDAY BEFORE SHE PASSED AWAY. BORN IN THE 1880S, HER VIEW OF THE LAND EVERYONE CALLED PALESTINE WAS QUITE A CONTRAST TO WHAT HAS TAKEN PLACE SINCE THE DAY SHE DIED IN 1963. OLD SUNDAY SCHOOL PICTURES OF A HOLY AND PEACEFUL PLACE WERE IMAGES SHE CONSIDERED SACRED IN HER DAY AND LIKE THOSE OF HER GENERATION, SHE NEVER REALLY KNEW THERE WAS NO PLACE CALLED PALESTINE, EVEN AFTER BALFOUR AND A FEW OTHERS SIGNED SOME PAPERS THAT CHANGED OPINIONS AND WORLD HISTORY IN A MOST FATALISTIC AND UNREALISTIC WAY.