Once I had tricks up my sleeve--
Can't pull one out today,
Always felt one day you'd leave
And feel you near now you're away.
I know--they say that love is blind,
But clearly, you're still on my mind.
Growers pull the best they've grown,
Probably spotted, overflown.
Leaving what they grow in shade,
Pull up emeralds, rest is jade,
Shade-bud being their last hope--
What else is there growing dope?
Growers split between two camps:
Those ganged up for gentle crime
And those who think like macho champs
And wait for breaks to seize the time:
Revolution in the hills,
Starting out on heady thrills.
Hardcore-farming out so far--
No toilets, dump, no store, no bar,
Aladin lamps light up the nights;
A dish is aimed at satellites--
TV's getting plenty use,
Generators pumping juice.
Get up with the rising sun,
Let it hang outside;
Eat your breakfast, nothing's done
Until it's verified
That CAMP's not coming this-a-way,
Safe by 9 to start your day.
CB's always let you know
Where CAMP will raid that morning;
CB operators blow
The whistle giving warning
To every grower when CAMP shows
Up where marijuana grows.
Womper settles down between
The ridges drowning out
Talk from those who go unseen
By the helicopter scout:
Guiding CAMP from roads above--
Rambo down on hippie love.
The pilots guide their forces in
Sight of plants that grow beneath
The trees, before (below the din)
Growers, by the skin of their teeth
Vanish with their plants, in fact,
Escape with their ID intact.
Growers chop remainder down
And hide it in the trees;
Happy CAMPers go to town
Doing what they can to seize
The plants and growers if they can;
But growers duck the New Age Man.
Unlikely anyone can tell
Us how it lasted anyway.
The burning sulphur fires of hell
Is sandalwood to them I'd say,
When people, hanging on, in power
Need more than just soap and shower.
You get happy feeling strong--
Or when you've shed some light
To help a few things move along
To where we needn't fight;
To where you rarely ever lose;
To where no one gives you the blues.
A woman looking in the mirror
Will soon be out the door;
First she's hiding lines she's sure
She never saw before
That man had come into her life--
And they tried being man and wife.
Haunting loneliness that greets
The evening in disguise,
Is walking aimless through the streets
With hollow, vacant eyes;
Someone passed who they once knew--
Eyes met then attention flew.
It wasn't easy
getting into Ava.
At first,
the only time I could,
I'd been the total jerk.
Afterwards,
I felt like shit.
When I quit
being such a jerk,
I didn't get
in Ava again
until her views
on how we two
could get along for good
had finally gotten through.
It wasn't that hard.
It was fair,
except me being
lazy didn't fly.
I couldn't
be so lazy,
letting things slide by.
But getting into Ava
was everything I dreamed.
Everything I needed came
so easily, it seemed.
Ah, getting into Ava.
Victim of a sadist who
Gets off seeing pain;
Or victim to a chosen few
Who follow those insane;
Or victim of the groups who seize
The planes they boarded overseas;
Or victim to a wild side,
Promising a care-free ride;
We're victims of the civil war
Rich losers want us to ignore.
I'm a victim of romance:
She mugged me with her grin;
I swear I didn't have a chance--
Where should I begin?
I often caught her stealing glances,
And her eyes would tend to roam,
Especially on the nights she dances;
Nights she doesn't make it home.
Going by she says "ex-squeeze me",
Happens every day;
Maybe she just loves to tease me,
When I'm in the way;
Every time my baby sees me,
She's as sweet as honeycomb--
She always knows just how to please me,
Honey, when you coming home?
Every time you stay away
I lose again another night
Of sleep because I'm left to stay
Up thinking thoughts afraid you might
Have found another, one who has
Won your heart and all that jazz
Every day gets more unreal
And you don't feel a thing;
You observe as days reveal
The ugly, hateful things that spring
To mind at night, and that's the pain:
Nightmares driving you insane.
I know why they disappear.
A death-squad walks the streets;
Kidnap to inspire fear:
A way in which the State defeats
The opposition to its rule:
Effective as it is so cruel.
The dirty work's done far away
Or somewhere dark, downtown.
The government makes us obey--
Keeping people down
By taking children from the ones
Who'd overthrow the State with guns.
We march with time, pause for the dead:
Family, friends--the rest unknown.
Death: regrets; the guilt; and dread
The death next time will be our own.
Awesome, sure. Most likely dumb:
From basket-cases we become
To suicides and martyrdom.
Ashes scattered, peace attained
Behind the curtained window, death;
After death all that remained,
Besides the welcome breath
Of fresh air she flew on
(Feather light, and now she's gone),
Were the memories we chew on:
Was she set and strong enough
To pull tomorrow from night?
We remarked she's frail but tough
And thought tomorrow might
See us do a little more,
Maybe this time not ignore
The pain we saw her body store.
We were good at acting nice
Behind immobile, stoic masks
Worn to watch her sacrifice
Her dignity. She finally asks,
Knowing we could see her need.
Survival was our stingy creed,
With silly prayers that she succeed.
Labor saving. What a laugh.
Machines are treated better
Than a stiff whose epitaph
Reads like a Dear John letter:
"This, to whom it may concern:
This old body had its turn."
Labor saving means one thing:
Now there's time for more to do;
Freed from one job, bosses bring
You around to working two.
Working forty-plus a week,
If that's progress, future's bleak.
You never knew that you could feel
So good, you want to break;
Wishing it was all for real
While you can't help but take
Another little honeymoon
You're going to suck up from the spoon.
Your latest lover, like no other
In your wasted life;
Any time you want another,
You unfold your knife
And shovel in another hit--
As much as you think you can fit.
I saw where the monkey dies:
If it has a choice
It buys a ticket for blue skies
And lands where hearts rejoice--
So happy it won't stop to eat,
Monkey drops dead on its feet.
You tell monkeys it's your last--
You don't want to die;
Cheap vacations were a blast
But what a funky high.
When monkey see and monkey do,
The monkey in the picture's you.
Get a job. There's too much stuff
Crowding retail shelves.
Get a job. We've got enough
Goods to glut ourselves.
Get a job. Hey, what's the use?
You go to jail or produce.
How much better could your life get?
Babe on your arm and ready to jet,
Plenty of change and buddy you're set.
Get up, get in,
Play the game until you win.
Everything's right and going your way,
Everything's fine but safe to say,
Everything isn't exactly O.K.:
It's her, for sure,
She made you blue, she's got the cure.
Better get ready, better get high
Anything handy that's getting you by
But don't ever try to do something twice
That won't leave you feeling twice as nice
She couldn't stand to see one hurt.
How can someone choose?
One she's needing to convert
From what might prove to be bad news:
Changing love of men who ache
Into one love that she can take.
Parties promise, faces pledge
To clean things up and then
Behind the faces stories dredge
Up bodies while the yen
Sinks bankers letting dollars float
To prime the nativistic vote.
Faces in the race allege
Another ticket's been
Handicapped. Opponents hedge
Their bets on some good men.
Parties gamble. Dollars vote
To keep a stable line afloat.
Before a bomb explodes
And takes the child's life,
A patriot unloads
His story while his wife
Sits behind him with a smile--
Been there for him all the while.
Those taken by her calm,
And mild, gentle eyes,
Take comfort that the bomb
That drops from morning skies
Is dropped accordingly to bring
The crashing peal of freedom's ring.
Their questions on the air,
While politicians close
Their speeches with a flair,
The child hears the whispering death
And quickly draws another breath.
From a ditch the child sees
The truth as metal rips
Apart the air and leafy trees,
Slowing as it skips
Through the body of the child--
Yet the woman's eyes are mild.
So we think we know the truth.
Or so you'd think from what we say.
Once a year the voting booth
Lets us in to make our day.
Seems to me we're out of touch.
Perhaps it's that we trust too much.
Read the papers, watch TV
Thinking that we know it all.
The thing on which we all agree
Is that we're up against the wall.
Uptight, mean, or scared to death
That our next is our last breath.
I know it all from all I've read
And seen or heard from earnest friends;
Can't seem to get it through my head
That everything I know depends
On news that's spread by those who own
The means to let the truth be known.
I can't wait to hear you say,
"I can't wait," to me again.
I can't wait, I loved the way
That night you said you couldn't then
I heard your breath catch in your throat;
You couldn't wait, and you went on,
Leaving me with words to float
Around me knowing you were gone.
You drew me in and I came to
A place where feelings spread and glide.
While ahead of me you flew--
You couldn't wait. I can't decide
I love it that way best or better
To hear you breathless, cry, "Together?"
Over rip tides strong winds blow
The whitecaps off the peaks of waves;
There're corral covered rocks below
The surface marking open graves.
Underneath, a surging tide
Worries ragged canyon walls;
On the currents heartbeats ride
The ebb and flow and waterfalls--
I once was strong and I could buck
The tides below and waves above;
But letting go, the currents suck
Me deeper into seas of love.
I'm stronger now for giving in
And going where I've never been.
Songbirds, now, no longer sing;
A shadow creeps across the land;
Stalking is the single thing
All creatures understand--
Anything that smells or sees
Knows when something's in the breeze.
We're camouflaged to hunt
Or camouflaged to hide,
Or armored so's to blunt
The slash across the side:
Some have warnings plain to see--
A sting adorns the flashy bee.
Hunt/be hunted: that's a choice
That's given those whose thoughts take voice
Who make the hunter prey to bluff:
A voice, like sticks, might be enough
To shepherd out the rattlesnakes--
A voice, I'm sure that's all it takes.
Squinting down into the glare
Coming off the steaming soup,
Bloodshot snake-eyes coolly stare
As the spoon dips in to scoop
Up softened tripe and pigfoot bones.
Your Sunday breakfast, Mr. Jones.