N  a  p a  l  m     H  e  a  l  t  h     S  p  a  :     R  e  p  o  r  t     2  0  0  8








Strip clubs are so sad, but the saddest

Are those rundown roadhouse joints,

The ones at the edge of town,

On county roads across from cemeteries, like

Foxy’s, where even on a good night

The girls don’t make enough gas money  to get home,

Even if the men turn over entire paychecks.


The women must be higher, more desperate

Than those playing the higher class clientele,

Lapdancing for guys that can’t pay the mortgage,

That sleep in cars behind old barns filled with swallows,

Pulling aside a triangle, a few threads of pink thong,

For someone not even on the unemployment rolls,

Taking home less than a poet at a pass-the-hat reading.


The men don’t learn the consequences of frequenting brothels,

Laying with a different woman every night,

And the ladies, not really making love to them,

Not knowing who they were, not caring who they are,

Only seem like the weariest of ghosts, even the beauties,

Constantly turning their faces to the mirrors,

Checking their reflections glazed in neon.


26 April 2008






Clarity, you’re like the lavender sheets for my bed,

But right now the ones on the bed are blue.

I love you more than Catherine Deneuve, Uma Thurman,

The prophetic tradition, raw forces at work

Undisturbed all around us, the emptiness nothing can fill.

It’s all pretty unsettling, the things we cannot control,

Twisted to the breaking point, until the flesh falls away.

I think you said what needs fixing doesn’t need to be fixed at all

And still, I’ve been thinking about you all day,

Brilliant and green, sharp and terrifying, adorned with disks of light,

Meditating on envy until surrounded by consorts and deities.


11 May 2008




Air Show Day Dream

for Dave Cope


Leafing through an enormous hardbound copy of Recording the Beatles,

Feeling like I’d just rolled a pair of sevens,

Even after reading Levon’s telling of how Richard really shook things up

When he hung himself by his belt in the tour bus bathroom.

I see that China’s premier has his own new Facebook page,

Same as Dave Cope, who lost both parents within a three month span, Only the premier’s page is filled with videos of himself spinning niceties to Earthquake victims & Dave’s is like the violinist

That left his Stradivarius in a cab.

There’s no such thing as ordinary or holy.


Everything––meadows, birds, mountains––all embodied compassion.

Unfocused Mind––not blue or black or without excruciating feeling of Solidity, falling away––indiscriminant of rich or poor.

How sad sd the poet & then he himself said––no one knows this person.

The key is don’t overthink it, Bonnie told me.

I was putting shucked corn into a pot of boiling water,

Just come in the door, raining as it was, big sheets of rain.

Joe drowned on a fishing trip, Ruth stayed in the bar business.

Helping me out of the lean depression years, when I could not make

Myself focus on what had changed and what was real

And what was for nothing and what was a dream

Was a dreadnought of experimental places

Under the influence of a highly experimental black star.


The floors were maple, but covered with linoleum.

The walls were brick, but plastered over and painted red.

Free in all ways, uninhibited, giving and taking away freely,

Acting conventionally, countering convention––

I had my own bizarre audio trip going,

Stacking the voices like I’d loved in soul music,

Happy to sing all night about rivers and goddesses.


29 May 2008




Ode To Emmylou Harris


Her aim was that there be a place to enter,

To gouge the wound in healthy flesh

And wear it like the finest embroidered silk.

I would come back from where thus will do,

Where not thus will do, where thus and not thus will do,

All the while weeping into the heart of song

Knowing none of it could be grasped.

I would come back from my isolation of dismantling or constructing,

Attentive of the favorable and adverse swept away,

Of all the strict ways of carrying an open jar of oil across a white rug,

Making cement in a crystal wine glass.

The sun lives lightyears, the moon a night––how do you understand it?

Who would you tell of the one great matter worth reporting?


Red Rocks, Morrison, Colorado

6 June 2006




Super Death

–after the painting “Super Muerto” by Artemio Rodriguez


The humans were all dead, killed when the Fourth Sun fell in a

torrent of rain. . .


. . . apparently saw Romero’s original Night of the Living Dead somewhere

around 60 times prior to the age of 5. As a result,

childhood fear of Graveyards, dead returning from the grave

hungering for human flesh. There’s a photo my father has of mom

as a zombie showgirl, him as a zombie hippie gnawing on a hand


Delighted and surprised, I embrace her; but as I imprint the first

kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death.


She had a lethal way of expressing derision toward anything

The Count  cared for. It would appear on her face as a holistic

rejection. Then, in a moment when suddenly The Screamers pulled

the levers . . .


Super Frankenstein examines what may have happened if

Frankenstein's monster had been raised as a crimefighter instead of

a monster. The creator, Victoria Frankenstein, is more gentle to her

creation than the original scientist. The result is an unlikely

superhero who protects Germany from any form of villainy

inducing trances, ecstasy, the experience of the divine, the

realization of one’s own secret nature, and, finally, mergence into

the divine essence.


The “fear not” gesture (abhaya-mudra), bestowing protection and peace,

is displayed by the second right hand.


He is the dissolution of the universe, (Yamantaka) –– Ender of the

Tamer, He who exterminates Death


11 June 2008