Why I Love Mountains: Part II

In walking the hills around Juticalpa I have found it difficult to make myself climb over or under barbed wire fences. This is not for fear of getting hurt; the fences are short, the wire is loose, and one could easily break the posts in half. My city education has taught me that trespassing, particularly through barbed wire, is a way to be legally shot and killed. I realize now that the barbed wire is for animals, not people, but naturally, my sense of danger has translated to Honduras where the murder rate is famously high.

So, with this apprehension in mind, I walk down the bending roads toward the mountains and approached houses. To see if the land is private. To see if it is OK. Invariably, I am told that the land is not private and invariably I am told that it is OK. Me standing out front, soon the whole family is there. The little boys and girls with fingers hooked in their mouths. A grandparent hunched behind the screen window like a stuffed falcon.

Then, someone, a son or daughter says "Pass. That you go well. Straight ahead." But why is there barbed wire if the land has no owner? And how can you give me permission if you do not own the land? And if I ask them anything at all, I ask them their names. Names are like flags.

The dogs snap at me again, then I climb those fuckers and come back down covered in shit they didn't even know they owned.

One time I aimed for a solitary palm tree atop a ridge and was delighted when I found a trail break off from the barbed wire, lead up to a windy landing, and continue into the middle of a line of lush, leafy, rustling bushes that lay in the shade of the palm tree. Stepping first around a large snake hole and then into the clear air of the top, I stood in the temporary darkness of the palm tree where, no more than four feet away, a white pony jerked its head from the deep green grass and bolted across a hidden saddle, then froze, like in a film, at the base of a grassy peak that rose from where I was to a point of perfection.

That's Why I Live in a Car

Being single is like subjecting your heart to the disorienting sensation that’s common when you are sitting in a car and the adjacent car begins to drive away. At first you think you are the one rolling away so you hit the brakes and then panic and look at a thousand things at once before you realize you had it right the first time. The sickening ripple of equilibrium returns you from the accident you thought you were in, but weren’t, to where you already were.

Eventually you start the car, put it into drive, and take off like an idiot. You stop at a gas station and talk to a homeless man for an hour. His puffy jacket reminds you of going to Sears with your mother to buy winter jackets when you were a kid, and the guilt of losing them. Mom checking the tags to see if they are down or not. Those were low times.

“Hell!” the homeless man says. “You’re just like me!” and you look at him, and look around, and yell out: “fill it up!” but it’s not that type of gas station. You’re walking toward the car.

“How come none of my children ask me to live with them?” he calls after you. A flash of lightning above. You get in the car and close the door. Starts raining. You settle back, noticing the gas tank is full. Smile as the muffled voice comes through the door, remembering your favorite part of childhood camping trips was being in the tent in the rain. The safe feeling of--

“Ahhhhh! ya!” SMACK!

It’s the homeless man. Smashing his cave head against the window.

SMACK! again. The suction-cup mouth. The tongue trying to find a way out, maybe to find the teeth. “AHHHHHHHHHHHH! Where are you going!?”

“Get the fuck off my car!”

“Ahhhhhhhhh ya!”

SMACK!

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh ya!”

SMACK!

“Ahh! Ow! Ohh. Wow. Haha.”

“Serves you right!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. ohhhh. Oooooo. Ok.”

Then he rears the head back, seeming, for whatever reason, triumphant.

“Ahhhhhh...”

“Hey!” you yell.

“…..ahhhhhh!”

“Hey!”

But it’s too late. He swings his solitary brain toward the glass, putting his hand out for the retractable side mirror, which retracts, and he falls, letting out a retroactive: “Ya!” He rises with a squeegee, no worse for wear, wiping the rain and blood from the window. He looks inside. Looking for a change. His face an ocean. You look into it, and at it, but..and he sees the change, and lunges for the door, which is locked, and he drops the squeegee and you drive away.

It’s fucked up. Some people have nobody.

So you drive onto a main street with lights and bars. An attractive woman is standing on the corner. You’re an OK guy so she opens the door and sits beside you and instead of telling you where to go she says thanks for the ride. And instead of asking her her name you drive without aim and pretend the car or the rain will go on forever.

“Hey,” she says, looking out the window, “is that blood?”

You look over your shoulder.

“No.”

“Well it looks like blood.”

You think, “Now what does that add to the conversation?” and then she says, “So! What do you want to do?” and you slow the car and ask, “Why do you care? Didn’t you just want to get out of the rain?”

Having been in love, you forget to tell yourself the little lies that make people want to have casual sex with you.

So then you’re parked again. Same spot. If only you could go back. That’s another thing that you forgot when you were in love: the importance of location. Single people always worried about locations. Why is that? You have nothing to do and you get finicky about time? Worried about wasting it I suppose. That’s a waste. Worrying. I'm single again and I'm loving it. That’s why I live in a car.

The Game

I had a dream about you and I
We were playing a game.

I was walking ahead of you

on a Main Street on a long hill

that always curved to the left,
so one could not see around the corners.
The goal was for us to meet.

Like most dreams

this one was full of illogical rules

and they were followed to illogical ends.
I could stop, or turn into a store
on the left side of the street,

but I could not turn back.
You were behind me somewhere,
but I couldn't see very far 
because of the curve in the street,
and I didn't know if we’d agreed

that you could stop

or turn around.

This made me anxious.

All I could do was continue living my life

and hope you were still playing the game.

Of course when I woke up I realized 
this wasn't much of a life,

nor much of a game.

I rolled out of bed for a cigarette
and sat on the balcony.
I picked up my journal
to write something down
and realized I could have left notes 
for you to find on the street.
I could have told you where to meet me,
and slept there without fear of missing you walk by.
I could have encouraged you to find me,
told you I loved you, 
and if it was too long,
I could have told you 
I quit.

Of course, I'd never know 
if you'd read what I'd written.
But it's tough to play

with someone you've hurt.

Good Company

Charles Bukowski

at seventeen i was a Marxist and an idiot.

i read the Beat generation because

everywhere i looked were rules

and the only alternatives I’d seen

were hobos.

then i found the literary misfits

the bad boys

burroughs kerouac whoever

they got it right

and they got right to it

for better or worse

usually worse,

like me

they had no patience

and didn’t love themselves.

reading them is a bit like drinking tasteless beer.

there’s no reason for it.

besides that it’s cheap

and once you’ve gone through two or three

there’s no reason to stop;

two or three just leave you tired.

so you burn through it all,

like the author

and come to the end of a living body

of work

unsatisfied.

so i took a chance

and tried my luck with a different crowd.

i started with Joyce

only to see what i was up against

then went to Baldwin because he reminded me of my mother

and finally settled on Hemingway, the father

i never had, who showed me

that great feat, the novel, could be done.

it became clear that the writers i'd sat around with

the poets

the bad boys

breaking silly little rules

were just like teenagers

who never stopped wearing silly shit.

they wanted desperately to do what the masters did

but never had the patience or bravery

to see if they had the gift.

i feel sorry for them,

but not too much.

sure, sometimes

i worry that i'm drifting to the right,

i'm drifting to the right.

so what?

i wonder how much farther i'll go.

anyway, i'm not afraid of living

any more.

because i met Bukowski.

thank god for Bukowski.

crude dirty old Bukowski.

i met him at the wrong time

and found him sort of juvenile.

i pictured Hemingway saying,

“Just capitalize the letters, Hank. If you have something to say, say it.”

and someone else, who never, God bless them, ever

wrote nearly as much as Bukowski saying,

“Acknowledging the authority of the oppressor in order to subvert their authority

is itself an act of subservience.”

which is

very good

horseshit.

Bukowski was unkempt

and like my old friends he broke the rules.

he began all his sentences with lower-cased letters.

but, what’s different about Bukowski, and what matters,

is that he wrote one hundred poems a night for fifty years

on a typewriter

perhaps if an ordinary man is to accomplish anything

he must cut corners.

so you feel like crying when an amateur mexican boxer goes down.

and you feel like murder when management changes the odds

at the last second of the 8th race

at the Santa Anita racetrack.

feel like cheering when the gamblers climb the gates

and management directs the jockeys to start the race

and a small moan comes from the crowd

as the men

who have nothing but their bodies

lay themselves down on the track

and glance over their shoulders

as the jockeys kick the horses into a gallop

and plunge the animals into them.

for once all the bodies are touching.

there is an exhale

then it's over.

writing thousands of poems

dozens of books

burning like oil

eighty years

whoring

and

gambling

and

pumping the iron.

Bukowski showed up.

if Hemingway’s metaphysic was the bullfight.

Bukowski’s was the horserace.

there were one hundred bad ones for every good one.

and every good one came at the price of ninety nine.

but unlike bullfights or horse races  

you never see Bukowski’s bad poems.

after his death they published three books of his poetry

and they’re all good.

one is called

"girl in a mini-skirt reading the bible outside my window."

you can imagine what it's about,

but you'd be wrong.

another is called "art."

here it is:

as the

spirit

wanes

the

form

appears.

Bukowski was cheap

but he wasn’t tasteless.

sit with him.

fifty years at a typewriter

is as good company

as wine.

The Next Step

You fucking pig

You loser

You have no idea

What you’re doing.

This young police officer

finally laced on the handcuffs.

“The first step...” they told me.

They were incredibly white

and kind,
but it was obvious 

that the first step was getting out

of the handcuffs.
And I did.

I took them up on their advice,

went back and found the people

I had hurt by simply being present
in their lives
and I said:

I’m sorry I’m a pig fucker.

I’m a loser.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

And they smiled and let someone else

lead me away;

they wanted to see if I'd figured out the next step;

they wouldn't be the ones flying through the air 

if I hadn't learned a damned thing—you can count on that!

Well, I never took that step,

but I haven't fallen over either.

As they float away to marriage land
I look up the wedding dresses

and yell:

"If you’re going to heaven, you owe me one! 

Show me those panties! Just one last time!"

And they do,
but in a medical way,

and I see handcuffs stashed in the lace.

That's smart, I figure.
but sadder than hell too.

Mental Health

There is no such thing as mental health

(Though it can be a hell of a friend)

There is only what you do.

You walk from one place to another

punch a person in the face

and wake up.

The couch has been peed on.

Your neighbor’s tortilla press

is sitting in the sink

and the workday is half over.

The phone rings and rings.

You turn it on.

Worried little voices

come out of it.

They tell you:
i'm here for you

i understand
i understand
we'll get to the bottom of this.

you understand. 
Don't you?

to water.