for Chauncey Brambach
& Jerome Rothenberg
He had seen it all in his day
the town square that afore came decked in quetzal, turquoise & deep gold now turned into a pyre
for the kids are loosed like bloodhounds now & from the looks of it you'd think they're running the place
Sweet little ones turned wild-eyed over night
laughing out from beneath garbage heaps & running
always running door to door
knocking on some but smashing most
& making a fire out of anything
Like little Julio strutting the border with his cart of wares
grinning snare to every tourist
smoking his 3000th cigarette while pulling his 300th con
& at end of day taking his loot back to town with an eye to spend it on the ladies
Hardly a hair on the sack but acting tough in front of women old enough to be their mothers
…to turn your back on this won't hurt a bit
All his life spent wandering
& no end to what he's left behind
He had settled in the forest once
where first bugs got to him & then bandits followed
the kind you spot a mile away
stumbling through the bush & hacking at it blind
another low-down wrecking crew out for sacred sites to plunder
They found instead an old man who hadn't lost his killing skill
who gave them what they'd come here for when he piled their bodies up against a clump of trees & named it
Dead Fools’ Grove
soon strangers flocked to see it, crowding round his forest home, boring him with questions
& so he sought once more to leave & breathe a different kind of air
He made his way through towns he'd heard of long ago
hoping to drop at each juncture a bit of what his years had taught him
(as is the custom of the aged)
but no one cared & no one listened
no one there had any use for old-man wisdom
& they turned him away
The patient few who sat with him along the way spoke fondly of the beach
& so he tried it
raised a pretty shack on poles just by the shore & called it home
& for a while the old man almost prospered
he hauled in clams & fished for snapper
made potions for his joints from seaweed & what other green things he could find
& by season's end had dressed his walls with shells of many colors
But then the tide rolled in with a stench of slow death
a current of black tar
& with it came rotting fish, broken bottles & eventually more bandits
He killed pirates on deck
he killed pirates on shore
he killed pirates until he was knee-deep in their gore
& didn't even bother washing then but set out for he knew not what
Came to a patch of desert in the end & sank beneath the nearest tree
laid there one hand upon a rock & put the other to his face & when he felt a likeness
knew at once what spot he'd come to
knew this place for what it was
knew then he'd see no further stops along this trail of daylight
knew better too than to look for his reflection in a pond
nothing there he hadn't seen before in dreams
or long for house or tent or temple
& so he left it at a makeshift stove
cooked himself some beans & coffee
didn't even bother adding hooch
& drew out a cigar he had carried with him for a good long time
He sat then on a folding chair & faced the setting sun
lit his smoke real slow &
blew it to the south
blew it to the west
blew it to the north
blew it to the east
blew it on himself
It is said by those who still remember the old ways
that what they found on that chair by sun-up was only some of him
yes, only some of him
& that most had gone up with the smoke