The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_
GERRYMANDER©
AT DAWN
the ancestral legend is a study of aliens, freaks, criminals, fools
some possibly well meaning
a scattering of geniuses
a churning of topological islands in vast flows of lava
and a few farmers who have avoided blisters
palace intrigues and surviving art
my focus is nowhere, admitting everything
advice of the well meaning to focus elsewhere
tabled with the ancestors
even homely garden images
sheaved in words
are tossed on the compost
I will rot
happily
even though that ludicrous metaphor is akin to limburger cheese
biological armpits
familiar stuff
comprehensible to anyone
my parade has no drummers
as many mathematicians
probably fewer aristocrats
the route leads anywhere
everyone is welcome
no one is in charge
one thing, though
it certainly is fun
and there are no flags flying
no sacred relics
no chanting
even the sun takes no precedence
mysteries of an old wife's tale told in a gale
of legends past
ANOTHER DAY
imagine that the best thing
better than any dream
was realized
and that it was nothing like any dream
that all the horrible stuff that would go away
didn't
that sunrise glory could not possibly match
and it was better
that people you hated were still hateful
yet worthy of admiration
way beyond their dreams
yet speaking was still not possible
that the whole panorama was not different yet changed
and then simply wash the dishes
update files
put clothes on hangers
all the usual things
who would know or needs to know or could know
all dandelion seeds in the wind
permutations of Persian rugs on the floors of tents
of desert kings
falling in fields beyond freeways and overpasses
settling in creek beds
with makeshift barbeque grills
and doves cooing overhead
waiting for scraps
if any
I could not fathom it
would a roving news cameraman ask my sanction
and would I reply
at all?
shaved heads and robes pass by
chanting: Ho!
and I reply: Yo!
my bowl is empty
strange, is it not
how the day changes
there have been and will be Santa Anna winds near LA
fires to rival the destruction of San Francisco in '06
and in the meantime
in my exercise yard here in Santa Clara
god's country is spared again
heat waves, floods, tornadoes in the Colorado high country
and doing heavy work I hardly break a sweat
Rosie reclines on her backyard throne
a lawn couch provided for infrequent visitors
and on the planter box beside her
the compost bird alights
and looks at me, then Rosie, who doesn't stir
I have told her the bird is family
does she understand or is it just too comfortable there?
all this floating by
as though I knew how to swim
but it is moot
egg shells and coffee grounds from the kitchen
are appreciated
and I hope Rosie will not eat my friend
the mower has been running better
awhile back Garden Land had a new product:
Mechanic in a Bottle
years back my sister sent a clipping:
Gloves in a Bottle
way, way back there was a story someone told:
Genie in a bottle
and then there was that famous caterpillar on a mushroom
who had a good rep until machines stole his name
and ripped out Blossom Hill
slowly the advantages of brown rice, lentils and barley
have been made known by my gut
which is chief quartermaster for the whole enterprise
and my stomach has issued warnings about eating too fast
the whole organization has been my fortune
from the beginning
I do wonder about all this writing
there was no order from headquarters
well
perhaps you will figure it out
people do foolish things
in the meantime, somehow
there are dishes
yards and Rosie
Susan and everything
ALL BETS
the next mass extinction will be interesting
or mistaken or irrelevant
nonetheless
the record shows that past extinctions
took longer than a few years
would anyone's grandmother remember?
but our records do
and somewhere in the genome
my records do
on which aisle or shelf is beyond my expertise
but Nostradamus lives there
the moon is a record which anyone
with an internet connection
can read in detail
and so I tend my tomatoes
they are not for sale
do not vote or pay taxes
are perhaps revolutionary but certainly not
alarmist
we are Siamese, if you please
here on the plantation
tsunamis, asteroids, thousand year volcanoes do not please
after all
the ash settling and settling makes it hard to breathe
trading carbon chits
as the next gamma burst of stellar inconvenience
makes world leaders and trees, harbors and so on
into ash and insects will not inherit the earth
the odds are spectacular
maybe the lottery is better
plunk down a buck or two
hey! and a hot dog
there
aren't we better now?
maybe now
but it has happened before
if not for monks in the Dark Ages
our memory might have been erased
a method of reading the earth
and recording it
remember when you were a kid
and civic mucky mucks dug holes around your high school
and buried time capsules?
it was the genes talking
INVISIBLE LUMINESCENCE
all the wiring of the world
airports and sewerage treatment plants
infiltrate the front yard here
microscopic roots in communication
crows swooping overhead in the morning
as we exchange greetings
on the natural internet
so begins the end of a night well spent
in unlikely ruminations
grave and wonderfully humorous
perhaps a Mark Twain moment
passing by while clinging to a log on the Ohlone river
the wiring is twisted
colored strands wrapping strange shoots
birds that peer
then fly away
a wonderful land in the morning
creeping vines and tiger lilies
in everyday yards
in my limitless domain that laughs at rulers
I laugh at myself
in roughly an untended rhythm
an unintended rhyme
oblivious as hindsight at sunrise
isn't it just as tinkly as Christmas?
a waterfall
bats emerging from their caves
books with allegories
boon companions of stranded heroes
bouncing stones
in a desert
dryness of the air in climate's heat
pastoral assumptions of history replete
with sudden reversals
that wrench mustard and ketchup bottles from accustomed shelves
dryness brings natural cooling
for the time being
and kids on razor skate boards gliding
assumptions
to strike the common theme
are peregrine falcons in their sleep
that awake after that good night
and clean their claws
on primitive beaks
love is a many splintered thing
even though it is Thursday and I stabbed myself with a splinter
the wound is disappearing
there are miracles
ruminations
the Maginot Line for instance
protecting France with generals of the last war
and our entire infrastructure in the same position
as nerd devils plot our destruction
but don't they have the wrong target?
couldn't it be our way of thinking?
perhaps neuro-devils will find the code
convert our error, or alternatively
amplify it
leading us all to the oven we have constructed
so this is not your average newscast
where Geico lizards and Budweiser frogs
bring comic relief
to a climate disaster that is profitless
but not blameless
the wiring is there for all to see
most don't
but no matter
for those who do
it is a wonderful land in the morning
wiring?
to be sure
wonderful?
not a poetic expedient
wiring, words . . .
all fading in plain sight
POINT MIRAGE
there are no flags here
no memorial day
no sacrificial BBQ
world disaster proceeds with a notable lack of celebration
Tabitha, in her purrful way, does not notice
her squinched eyes are focus enough
mercenary armies, chess boards, suicide bombers
bankers and other criminals
have nothing to do with her water bowl
she does her best, as a cat
and we try to understand each other
as the sun rises she waits until I have stretched
to begin her petition
for release into the new day
these fortunate circumstances exist in a vacillating dance
of pressure systems
high and low
relationships which bode well or ill
for our sweat index
and air conditioners
Bart strikes, traffic clots
all the tin cans and fairy tales
but then
I have signed no contract
fear no fury of postponed publishers
and
in fact
the digital code which represents this ephemeral presentation
may have provided a clue
the missing link
from a chain of deception dating back to
who knows when the secret was hidden
not to be revealed
quarantined in solitary confinement
and forgotten
perhaps an exaggeration
but sufficiently real
to raise a suspicion
that things may not be as seemly as deemed
and perhaps your secret mind
is
SUFFERING
as house lights dim
a flickering hologram captures the virtual stage
animals in cages are enjoying virtually instant food
dormant violence of captors then forgotten
simple arithmetic calibrates the degree of imprisonment
only commodities are real
for debtors or those refusing virtual food
would you prefer life imprisonment?
suffering is a sort of fiction
cut my arm off
undeniably excruciating
if I live
suffering reverts to the pain of existence
pathways out are offered
practices, rituals, observances, moral laws, beliefs
and such
an accretion of precedent has established the rules
not lost on the observant few
in danger if not already imprisoned
it has been said, probably by Christians
that everyone has their cross to bear
distractions branch out from there
what matters is how we deal with it
suffering
a virtual reality
can be exposed by seeing through the ruse
which is or is not easy
depending on an unflinching observation
of everyday, ordinary life
right here
when computing damages
pain and suffering are linked
eliding precedents of violence
but suffering is not illegal
it promises real freedom
as the virtual cage disappears
IF IT PLEASE THE COURT?
do not read this
(written by one who disavows debt)
the mortgage company has made a share cropper of me
by rights assigned, effectively, at the point of a gun
the land called "mine" and all that it contains
is subject to what is erroneously termed "repossession"
should I miss a payment
(called "default")
making me a criminal
a moral outlaw
though I was free
so the story goes
to assume my debt
consider some alternatives:
living in the desert, or down by the creek
under a freeway
which is not in the least free
where cops periodically come through like the Pied Piper
in reverse
with guns, tear gas, batons
and the whole façade into collapses
truth
unvarnished
an inconvenient truth
like the weather
who says the mortgage company gets to do this?
law
an inheritance rooted in slavery
slaves are owned
property is owned
and who is the owner?
if you get my drift
and who owns the money?
isn't that simply a matter of definition?
and why do I have to pay interest?
oh, I am duty bound
words assigned by whom?
as long as there is a gun to my head
however camouflaged in legal garbage
I pay
or barbeque frogs down by the creek
but I am not the least confused about slavery or honor
if ownership is honorable
it was denied from the beginning
and having escaped through the narrowest slit
in our American Constitution
I am not a slave
in the coming debacle
primed by the "foreclosure mortgages" of our national meltdown
a global conflagration fueled by climate change
definitely
I will not do the honorable thing
and you have read this far
haven't you
3-D PRINTING
in the world of decisions and judgments rarely
does the fundamental peacock spread its plume
yet suddenly in waking life the dream
supersedes
and all the training of a lifetime
recedes
sulfuric fumes invade the discourse
hurriedly fanned away
in polite society
we cannot talk like this
rather the next iteration of Pi, or of persistent majorities
must set the theme
and all the while our schemes run amok
so assign them to machines
which also get stuck
having followed our instructions
so take the presumption further
perhaps a fractal algorithm or a hierarchal pyramid
and let them generate generations
of their own dimension
to show the way
eliminate terrorism, welfare moms, senators
and other extremes
and I recall a circus tent encountered in my teens
a booth with a Coke bottle and a long handled fork
place your bet, gently tilt it up, without overdoing . . .
oops! goodbye quarter . . .try again?
checks and balances
nothing could be more amusing or instructive
than to pit the fundamental divide against itself
of course this is rationally defective
which is precisely the point
the peacock ruffles his magnificent display
I clear my throat and step out the back door
sitting on the power line from the pole to our roof
my tufted friend emits a chirp
soon I will emerge with a bowl of kitchen scraps
all the world's a stage
actors ad libbing
their wholeness in parts
FREEDOM RIDE
a bumblebee in a sea of pollen
does it know it's bumblesome?
the county Ferris wheel has given up shedding tears
pigs and cows and chickens lining up for menial jobs
at Amazon.com
my shed is not rain proof
in fact gaping holes expose the sky
and up there, at a great distance, a jumbo jet
is not quite bumblesome
there are people playing cards
in shadowed nooks amongst the pigs
cows, and chickens clucking, cards slapping down
there will be a payment of brides
hidden from wandering yokels
"Call!"
a scattering of chips
and the deal is done
chickens, pigs and cows obediently file offstage
it is a travesty of justice
lost upon all concerned
except the sow cowering in a corner
her day
has come
C'mon! I say
and raise the gate
we'll get out of here!
and she follows
we cross the fairgrounds
passing strangers in holiday hats and blazers
a young girl with blonde hair and braces on her teeth
eating cotton candy
no one seems to notice, really
C'mon girl, we'll make it
she waddles her best
until finally, just coming round the teriyaki chicken booth
we get to the main gate
the smell is tempting and the sky is blue
but gate keepers are the first to notice
something strange
the sky flickers like a silent movie
buttons are pushed
it has all gotten out of hand
as we exit the circus
sirens crowd in all bumblesome
security cameras spy our guilt
it ruffles unbrocaded
a suffocating curtain crashing down
onstage
officers with stun guns and tear gas
choke themselves in the blood of their own batons
blind rage
stumbling in haste
justice its own author
unanswerable
we catch the muni bus
riding free
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The Gardener
Santa Clara, CA 95051
theroot_