Road Movie, Joshua Tree Part 3

1997 Broken Beauty Joshua Tree, part 3






the journey
nearing an end
in the desert
Arizona, Blythe
something else to begin--

this is a different place,
hot wind blowing
amazing sunset last night
I’m as big as all this
this and my end

is a beginning
for the everlasting breath and display
of eternal arms juggling
the yellow changes, the flare
lighting that chocolate hill

my ideas in present form,
mantra remembering
the order and repetition
driving through it all,
drinking this bottled water
from the metro media Mobil Station

heat building, cars speeding, past to their futures
California ahead, watching the sun coming up
in rearview, a full moon going down ahead
the dread I felt years ago,
is real, I feel I am-- but

at the starting line of a Grand Prix
road race the revving of engines all racing forward
to the city of Los Angeles
out there, the desert
dust devil whirling, tower to the profane world

can this profane be returned to the sacred?
continual present, eternal return
here locating this “tree of the world”
cured from the fall
renewal of time

ordered from all this rubbish packaged,
how not to forget, my mission?
clear the mind, throw away the Sunday Times?
or don’t buy it, trade for that moment
last night

the saguaro cactus in the sunset
a classic second, frozen
romantic reminder of the larger soul
and here, Easter spring yellow into green
each day, the whole eternal process

reaching into Armageddon
chasing twirling pillar of dust on the horizon,
specter of arising hopes
beyond mortal self, making of it
something of this earth, physical-- to stay

this poem
the shape
the arrangement
and thoughts
representing a world

we’ve made our own world
from what is already here
So what do I bring?
dive deeper, again the question
to meet it all

the whole process
keeping on, the painters
the rotted instrument of string quartet
strummed for the deeper
tune of endless variation

what I buy back,
in this unending process
like lilies, new each day
a longer journey
from distant perspective, on going

becoming part, even as I die into
the ever broadening moment
at once
vibrant in the sun
the bright idea

the zip
the waved wand creating beautiful ocotillo
adds a red spice, chili pepper to the scene
changing into saguaro cactus and cholla,
spilled from higher elevation

sprinkled with these spots of color
and spinning, become large swoosh
time in the comets tail,
some fate dies into deeper
deep is gone

an idea,
forward as boon
a stay-- against passing, changing moments
strung along

California

the broken promise ,
of this new tomorrow, not what I thought
remembering the sparkling
beyond of my dream

still sweet on my lips, crossing into ambivalent
paradise, palms
on this abandoned road
a prairie chicken, headed south
roadrunner toot-- toot

I follow from sacred to road movie genre,
looking for a place to camp,
I arrive to suburban
camp of water toys, packing up jet skis
from the week end days spent--

varoooom--in around
uneasy, I notice in the orange grove
a small tiny black shape
some how catches my attention, through the noise
and general theme park scene

then a flash,
of red as it turned, the flag! a tanager?
no, a brighter fire-lit orange
smaller shape,
a vermilion, yes,
a vermilion flycatcher

a mascot for this new experience of Colorado River
desert water world, wow,
I’d seen many pictures of this amazing
bird, unreal till now,
I clicked my tongue

as it flew up, with its own sound
and still in mid air
a display of defense or just showing off
in the end of the day sun
amazed, something truly happened,

Ha! you think?
and I was here, then! arriving,
an escort, for the queen
a black helmeted Achean
humming bird, zooming

Darth Vader
sword held in the air, all this action!
adventure, holding up my pen
at the picnic bench, in reverie
this little girl stops,

“was I a writer,” Ha!
but she missed the little bird
she said she saw me, look up
and write
something down!

I tried to show the little kid, the bird
now, on the spicket of the drinking fountain--
Oh well, seems like it all should work
out after all, that bird is amazing
somehow here, right now

existing with me in this world
the red bird
why the red bird, the red ocotillo?
organizing the world
looking around

this idea becomes common
now, they are every where
I look, two flying around,
I count eight in this burnt desert
the elite brought down,

but still unseen
I’m looking for the glint
going through all the paintings
again in my head, maybe I should leave it
but I can’t, traveling through this fairy land

bringing them all together
hero’s head
I try to shed it making
room to see, a future,
add that new bird

Joshua Tree

snowing? what a surprise, not what I expected,
but I’m at 5000 ft. so it’s still cold, 3” up top at
the Ranger’s Station! Not quite ready for this reentry
to winter, I drove back down to Cottonwood Oasis
south a bit, to see if there was a temperature change

it was still really cold, clouds obscuring the sun
I was impatient to get out the paints,
nature is all change,
and the snow was gone by afternoon
the evidence gone of what I saw, what

I felt at what I saw
but these conventions, they replace feeling,
the oil paint itself, a signal for something
signal for authenticity?
THE REAL THING

I’m suspicious, becoming, hack painter?
what am I doing out here?
plain air convention from France
through American Regionalism
but I’m conscious of all this

the Irony
I’m just out here painting--
I just love the adventure--
refueling the precious abstraction,
the mystery, to feel I own it! when I know it!

the colors, shapes, line that make the place
I become a part, becoming larger all the time
the place, no one does this any more,
painting the landscape
this is all thought of as regressive

we’re all beyond it,
so smart to think we know it all,
‘seen it,’ we were told abstraction replaces it all,
that was the 70’s, all abstract, going to minimal
theory mode certainly “painting--

the landscape-- was not art,”
I’m out there painting anyway
arms thrown up in ecstasy
twirling in the space my religion
one, one, one--

out painting, as the hero, in the Sun
stars
we’ve left the earth for second
order, tired of the endless silence,
the blank stare of the sky

but I get out of the car,
one can see everything
and its relationship
with another,
rock, sand, wisp of grass

bush to bush
lizard here to there

bird call in the wind
I spot it over there
the lizard scurries

through there
t t t tracks of a tortoise
sun going down
sun coming up
I’m here to see it all

getting up from dream
to see the flower
way more amazing
than the thought, writing
it all down,

poet in the desert
yes, yes, you laugh
but I’m doing it
Spring time flowers
mountain blue birds

the sun pointing me,

, planet, earth, universe
nature and cycle, in the midst
amazed, I can still
feel this way

up here at the Ranger Station, I’m
up each morning to a shower, making my cot,
smoothing the Indian blanket,
I painted the back of my hat with a pictograph
design, pointing where I’ve been

a red and yellow shield on the front,
leading me forward
making coffee, listening to coyote country radio
as the sun is already hot
songs of ruined love, longing--

trailers and cars, desert loneliness,
simple relationships
busted, explained in songs
easy to see, the order in all this
sun up fast, a glaring shine on cactus flower

wild flower, watching the morning birds
by the dripping faucet, I see some footprints of coyote and deer
The ranger says the Big Horn come at night
early, the comet is whizzing
across the sky, a different language invisible to me

the rabbits, ears twitching
wind blowing
clouds like in time lapse
the blue shadows revolving
the flute like call, the oriole

from atop the Joshua Tree
this bird, to that flower
the desert sage smell and creosote,
raven gliding
coyote, jackrabbit,

make a world
to capture at once, trapping
do I want to own all this? sounds crass
sell it at the store, trophies to be hung
on the wall above the couch

wrestling with “dead boney words
rattling in teeth”
the bone heaps gathered
this special place, woven mysteries
I want to live among

unity of all the features
of the land revealing natures text,
to be interpreted, reading it
I saw a desert tortoise, I noted the time, 12:15
under crystal clouds, wow, wow

everlasting beauty
I’m stretching canvas, cleaning up the Station
making a camp, figured out the water,
made two paintings today
Aga-- at every thing, then, one in the evening

painted the clouds, and then today they’re gone
I never saw them again in a whole months time
pitched the tent and made a fire
painted the sunset
thinking of that desert tortoise as I drift off

like a dinosaur, taking deliberate steps
chopping off the wildflower’s heads
with it’s sharp ridge of boney teeth,
twisting head from side to side,
slowly spying another and pulling it off

with a clawed foot, off to the next to another
leaving a trail of feet and tail markings
a turtle turd, there and here
such a strange thing alien
it seemed this was it’s real home

for thousands of years, it was in no hurry
it had the eye of a bird, beat up and battered
really old, but still sparkling with sight
wrinkled from hot sun
I went off to get my camera and coming back

it was nowhere to be seen
I could follow its tracks
but then got I got mixed up, settling in
the sun and the landscape, all revolving
that range to the east in shadow

then better at evening with
long lines across the canyon
the yucca and cactus bloom
already dark in shadow
by 3 PM shadows moving fast

across the valley, new wild flowers
arrive daily, I take note with paintings,
a Scott’s oriole singing
from the top of a Joshua Tree flies--looping
from bloom to bloom, yucca flowers

a chain link snake slithers at my foot,
in an ‘s’ curve
between bushes disappearing -- but there,
I can see it’s whereabouts-- finished another painting
and now dumbly staring in exhaustion

into the fire
some car headlights coming down the road
haven’t seen a car for awhile backs up stalls
starting up again and winding up the road
out there somewhere

the hero, a contemporary figure, drifting
into and out of mythic stance--
my god that, blue jay is a pest
I’ve fed crackers to it, what’s it up to now?
it’s pecking the hell out of a poor dove

it is standing on the doves tail and bloodying
its neck, pecking until its head is now severed
I run over to frighten it off and see it is too late
the jay comes right back, no guilt
the other doves ignoring the scene

I can’t even speculate?
the turtle out there continues
out of time
I’m reading poetry
from California and some Chinese

wondering about meditation
as birds fly in, trying to get a
telephoto of that oriole
yellow, black
and blue sky shapes

the shapes large and elegant
between profane and of symboled world
bouncing around in my mind
walking back home ,
racing out of control

“through howling mental wilderness,”
journeying towards the grail
just to see
these spiraling ideas
flying in and out of convention

the forms
the most pure tradition of seeing
of Egyptian and Greek simplicity
seem as nature itself
The Hero arriving

in the morning sun
crows accompany, at shoulder,
led on by the oriole
the gesturing
trees, the blue hills

I have a headache,
maybe I’m over exposed
and the elevation, closeness to the sun
this thinner air hot then-- immediately cold
in shadow, the black and white cycles

change places with speed

the shield
the sun
blinding
the arriving hero
in the blaze

that oriole chasing the crow--
we found a petroglyph of a figure, I felt to be offering up
something, saying thanks for the day,
saw a black-headed grosbeak, today and a nashville warbler,
and a hooded warbler traveling together

in migration, we thought it a hooded oriole
at the oasis in the palms
Tim knows and I impress him with my knowledge of bird calls there! the oriole,
“Yes” he says “The flute-like call”

I have to get into town
for some ice
gas, lantern fuel
pick up the mail
film, avocados

tomatoes, cheese
juice--

There! the god
stopped
the shield
brought forward
dreaming to ideal
form
stop
oneness
with the world
clap of hands
bang
ther--e
the god is!

Thursday, I ‘m off on another excursion
with the ranger checking the sides of the road for
a desert iguana, a zebra-- tailed lizard, a chuckwalla,
I want to learn that world
so plain

this to that
that to this
we saw sparrows eating insects off a grill
of a car pulled in from Interstate 10 to Desert Center,
I’m wondering where the Mall is? I remembered seeing

it on my way here, I need a new pair of
Levis, maybe a better hat, the newspaper
talked of a lost kid they found buried in the rocks, Tim said
another ranger saw vultures revolving, circling--
I see a girl that looks like

the one in the Vogue article I saw in the supermarket
gingham cowgirl shirt in a Guess jeans ad or
movie-- like desert scene, old cars cigarettes beer cans
bottles of Jack Daniels, ice melting
the turtle taking another step

and tired from the blazing, sun
we check the wildflowers, in another wash, not so great
this year but still I like the sparse
spacing of each species room for each, spiraling
off into petroglyph depth,

the days are mixed with trips to
desert town
K-- mart-- Wal--mart
I got a cowboy hat, a piece of cotton duck from a fabric store
some more gas,

back to paint cactus in shadow of afternoon
and the brittle bushes , yellow flowers
KDHI 96 Coyote Country
sun coming up, coffee brewing
already out on porch with sunglasses reading

watching birds with binoculars
making some more stretchers
a tomato and cheese and
avocado sandwich,
that jay is awfully tame

getting hard to think
of the city, the crack and cranny
of black grease and dirty birds
these finches here are
brighter and care free

not to impart a fallacy onto them
but its true
well, the dead dove
it’s scattered feathers all that’s left
brings the

moon in cycle--
full tomorrow
the comet continuing
faint barking of the coyote
a moth circling my lamp

the stars all over pattern
thinking about my rounds, painting
wish I could tell my friends
I love this world
I drift off with the desert breeze

Orion turning, the comet whizzing
through my small idea
hop and skitter
the jay
here I am, cocking head from side to side

a sip of coffee, balancing my book on a knee
I throw a piece of cereal, a fly buzzing
anxious
to make something of all this as I always leave
I must take something along behind

a humming in my head kept me awake,
like a ships engine the cities whine could it be LA?
or just the clogged sinuses from this high desert
dryness, gone now, I hear the breeze, the creak and
crack of expanding metal and wood

the book flips in the breeze and sharp shaft of light
and shade, my lip split dry
do some sit-ups, waiting to paint
watching the close ups of flowers and birds
abstract into color shields, stop!

ongoing
scene-- the
beginnings of a world-- the images
revolving, cycling from
dark to light

from romantic to classical
furnish a story in the journey
of cycle dark to light
plunging to depth
and back to surface

representation
the comet hurling
the cactus
flower
surprised!

Ah, there!
the god is
in the experience
the feelings ordered
to art, a feeling for this

beauty and oneness
of possibility, held there
cycling world
then, it leaves, the feeling
gone and an anxiety of loss

produces want, need of something
a higher refinement
do it again, the jays come like murderous thoughts
taunting, taking wing
reading about John Muir,

the scrub jay on the roof bends
it’s head around to see down and around to eye me
writing self, through the landscape,
what of the accomplished oriole?
far above the fray elite, polished

highest perch flight of extravagant fancy,
dipping low
soaring to height ever present
cheep in bush brown chink
flash of yellow there,

raven way high
gliding and falling
on the wind, passing behind,
as glint of oriole--gold
severe black in this
desert ordeal

the characters
hardening to symbol
silhouette
passing clouds
hero arriving
restoring--

a prayer, the dream
of another to come
the night filter produces
a shudder
of what approaches

all the images swoosh--
here and vanish
starting to see
a pattern
standing out

My God!
a Lazuli Bunting a caged bird of such fine detail
elegance of perfection full lit in the sun
the Mormons I read saw the trees
like Joshua leading them on to the promised land

nature presenting experience
rejuvenating art,
art has forsaken the first order
falling from its height, art
and nature, a lost partnership

nature in the way of progress,
pushed to the side
it’s just plain our loss, to pressures of reality
I take the abstraction of the cycle
and add it back to representation,

making a larger modern nature,
fantastic in large color form and elegant line
putting the content
back upon that great abstraction

cycling, mythos
the sun comes up
the sun goes down
the hero
still arriving
from dream
the morning light

the mock epic
pop pilgrim
art flashing
at the end,
a beginning
flashing
before our eyes
all the cycles

out of the recent forest fire,
black earth
out of which an amazing show
of orange poppies, blue Canterbury bells,
a thrilling sight of cerulean hills behind,
silhouetted jagged gesturing

burnt Joshua trees in tragic shape
orange and blue electric
bells and pop
amazed at reaching my age
to see

arriving
to oriole,
black crows
Crispin holds flowers
up to the sun
sees oriole
sipping nectar
sun wildly revolving
turtle plodding
comet whizzing
sunset
stars

cycling through light,
its lonely out here trying
to make this connection to you,
never quite by my side
I’m leaving
the different flowers,
discovered, to give way
to the twinkling lights,
lines of freeway traffic
soon I’ll be gone,

making my paintings in the studio
retaining these memories,
I’m trying to write
the moths knock themselves against
the light, as always hurling themselves

over and over
the painting is finished
maybe another for Harold,
for David--
so many others have left,

back to the supermarkets
check out, the magazines
seductive clutch
mountains ahead
and still so much further to go

morning to come , soon
I hope
and all this love
and all this anxiety
between.