rohnbayesjourney

finding my shoes

every morning it seems like
the same ritual
where on earth did i dispose
of them last night before

i dropped my costume
unveiled my bed
and slipped off to sleep
into a place of utter forgetfulness

i don't remember a thing
i'm sure i laid there all night
detached from my shoes
and everything else i would know as mine

maybe they're in the bedroom
the room of the bed
the altar of oblivion
the boat on the water

one toe sticking out from
under the carapace
the other laid up against
the wall my shoes

reveal a truth i was here before
and one more thing
i am here again
slipping into place

in the sauna

i'm writing in the sauna on my yellow legal pad
the pencil is dripping with sweat
drops fall off my nose onto the paper forming small puddle shaped no-write zones
that i must navigate around carefully     to reach my destination

  my writing    is becoming squiglier and some letters have gone issing
only a fain t recollection  of   wh  at might have b een

the next page is sogg   y too
real estate       scarc   e

   encroaching from the     south
the swift heel of my hand prints it's own stamp
   while the fingers   of the sea
reach up quietly into the rece ding m  ap

into           the   mangroves    and into the   f arms and valleys of         my land
the   cities and towns of my construction 

cvilizati n itself     and the s elf

     the tide is     rising
                  the sea is winning
            it's 128 degrees in here
         ti  me t o jump in t he po     ol

how we make our own

bread
gardens
arrangements of flowers
wars
baskets of fruit for the
invalids among us
beds
and lie in them peacefully
at sleep
mistakes without counting
apple sauce
shopping lists
yes how we make our own way
as if the way was made
without us
how we count within ourselves
on time
the ticking metronome that
has no sound

like the underside of the
leaf mulch on the side of
my house where the trees
have dropped their curious
shapes and matted into a soft
blanket
known only to the cats and
the small insects that roam
there living their lives
unseen unknown unspoken

if time had a smell it might
be this must of changingness

we make our own analogies
for time

how we make our own
each one of us
is unknown

an ode to snow

the record snowfall in north america is  Mt. Shasta Ski Bowl, California on February 13-19, 1959. 189 inches of snow fell (480cm) in one storm.
that might be my spot
i could dig myself out in the morning
huge 15' snowdrifts covering the front porch
and shovel my way downtown throwing snow to either side
slicing thru the soft glittery stuff still falling and find my way to doc's cafe
and sip a hot camachito store up enough energy to dig my way home as
the snow forms a dome above my head blocks out the sun and i still burrowing
below finally find my house and make my way in
to watch movies all day and read some poetry when i'm not practicing
yoga or living each moment at a time   
what can you do with the snow all piled up halfway past the second floor window and a sky the color of a warm mouse ??

'peace and love'

i got the blessings of the bum
when i walked out of the stop n go with my colas
in a bag he was sitting on the ground back
against the wall next to the door munching
on his dinner kfc nuggets or whatever in a box
my bike was leaning on the post nearby
two cop cars from terrell hills were gassing up
in the drive 'you didn't take long' he says
'yeah in and out gotta get my colas'
'you oughta get a chain for that bike' he says
'ahh don't need it i figured you'd watch my bike
plus got two cops over there'
'they don't do nuthin' he says 'but i watched you ride up
i knew it was your bike'

i load the bottles in the pannier and get in the saddle
about to roll off
i look at the bum sitting on the concrete outside
the stop n go hunched over his dinner
he makes eye contact without fear
without anxiety - so unlike the good citizens of the city
it occurs to me that he probly prefers having dinner on the ground
to owning a house and paying the bills and cutting the yard
'you have a good evening' i say to the bum
'peace and love' he says

picture in a poem

you see it in chinese poetry
a plum tree and the winding pathway
climbing the mountain
the bird landing on the tree
a leaf falling
the poem standing next to the tree
chinese characters composed on stage and left
suspended in the air which signifies the space between heaven and earth
the picture
the poem
gaiapod

moment of me

long time no write
time to dust off the dusty pencil
and sharpen the senses
they're putting up a wall
on the rio grande to
stop the illegal activity
the storm clouds are
swirling from the
south surrounding
my house with cold rain
the time of my life is
playing a tune on the piano
and lauren gave me this
nifty pad to write on
fits in my belly pouch toolkit like a
snug marsupial

the new world order
is emanating from
the black eyed peas
and the tree of life
is hiding hawks and
doves and bluejays
and mockingbirds in the mural

at ruta maya it's all
happening and danielle
says don't worry it
won't happen all of a
sudden it'll happen slowly
like a sprout growing
like the oblique angles of
frank lloyd wright houses and
the dissertations of
academicians like the
loose underwear
scattered on my bedroom
floor too disassembled to
pick them up for three days
now i think
is this a happening or
a form of communication
autists don't communicate in
human language but are
in constant vibration
with their environment
maybe that's an excuse or
maybe it's a hopeful prayer
i know a foyer in michigan
with a font and a book
of quotes - einstein among others
once you can accept the universe as matter expanding
into nothing that is something
wearing stripes with plaid comes easily

the tune changes the
clock turns the warp &
woof of all that is
known comes home to
this moment of me
alarming in a way but
there's an early morning
day too and a hungry
feeling something to
hunt and gather i'd
rather catch a fish than
shoot a bird or maybe
the berries are ripe on
mulberry street maybe i'm
on vacation here with
no books to read
and only one to write
 

the universe

was created in an instant of passion
and will end with the death of us all
another passion
i detect a pattern here

all that we call god has come to
pass since our minds grew large enough to
embrace it
before that it was all passion

all the fleeing stars

all the cars in transit
all the cornfields and their tassels
and the spatula in my drawer

all the country music songs
and their twangy guitars
all the words ever spoken
all the frogs in their pond

all the walls and their doors
all the chocolate all the horrors of war
all the horses all the cows
twitching casually all the grass
and it's roots spreading magically through
the tombs of our fathers
all our mothers all our loneliness
all our pride

all our tries to find love
that go unnoticed all my suggestions
to the point of conjecture

all this passion
it's death that dies
when we feel it

city

sometimes a river
winds thru it like salome’s dance
the buildings rise on

the bank
city may be
a bridge a floating
jewell a flash an appetite

i’m in brisbane
thinking these thoughts
they call it city here
the city
a cell

a mojito
lights against the night sky
the river taxi crosses
rippled water

buddha the bottlenose dolphin
swims in during the summer
when the waters
are warm
this is explained in the menu

a girl walks along the pier with a lit cigarette

comanche peach pie

just north of the davis mountains in deep west texas on the edge of the chihuahuan desert
lies the spring fed pool of balmorhea
there is a state park there now and a park ranger at the entrance 
and a parking lot for your car
and a large stone building with concrete floors built for visitors who want to change into their swim suits
before diving into the crystal clear water

on the approach to the pool there is a historical plaque explaining
to any interested guests that before the US calvary built fort davis in the nearby mountains
and drove them off - the comanche used to plant peach trees here
in the sandy soil along the stream that emerges below the pool

i'm pretty sure they made peach pie too
maybe something baked in a stone oven fired with branches
from the cottonwood trees that grow near the pool and drop their heart shaped
leaves on everything

i have not tasted comanche peach pie but i can imagine being a comanche
living in this desert and tending my peach trees at balmorhea or whatever it was
called then and i would
have baked a peach pie and served it with coffee after dinner on
special occasions - a successful raid on a mission somewhere for example

i suspect the recipe has been lost now
after their eviction from the springs the peach pie passed into legend
and ceased to exist
i have been searching for it nonetheless with a hopeful and naive aspiration
in truck stops and likely looking restaurants
also inquiring of friends if they have the recipe
knowing that ofcourse they don't how could they ??

yet still believing that the secret of good comanche peach pie
might reemerge somehow - if beseeched properly - and be called back into
existence at a tea party somewhere with yerba mate
or strong coffee sweetened with agave nectar poured from
a clay bowl glazed and decorated with mountains and a stream
winding all the way down to the base where i hold it
in my hand