the last known poem of Peterson's--He died shortly after completing it...
CABIN FEVER
two weeks solid wind & rain
rasp of chainsaw up
white rock creek
bisecting a blow-down
read voyage of the beagle
'til you go crazy
talk to the fire, lamplight
at noon. voices in
the storm-blacked night
sing your name
this is called
cabin fever
~
truck broke down
hike 2 miles to the ridge
on iced gravel then
3 miles down
to the county road before
i get a ride
run out of rum
tired of canned beans
low on tobacco
last year planted
3 gardens 'fore i got one
to grow
~
bound for a week-end in town
drizzle glistening 101
fuzzy neons advertising
nefarious destinations
boomer's, timber trails, redwood empire
adrenalin & smoke in the brain
clatter of jukebox & dicecup
flash of a dancing thigh
gun-metal dawn
in a drunken motel room
half-pack of marlboros
split the last 3 beers
both secretly wondering
how did i get into this & how many lies
did i tell?
~
stock the cabin four day's wood
two inside by the stove
two in the box on the porch
that way I only have to hit the pile
every other day
canned ham cabbage & corn fritters
can of beer & a shot of brandy
typing poems on a typewriter
half a century old
ice crystals forming all over
northwestern america
Wildwood Falls, Or., 1986
Robert M. Peterson's Last Poem
- Scootertrash
- Posts: 519
- Joined: August 15th, 2004, 8:04 pm
More poems of the late great Bob Peterson, from FAR AWAY RADIOS
BLUES FOR DISMAS
dreaming in lost L.A.
downtown glooms
gospel stew & beans
navajos at the ritz
high sad song of spade queens
in perching square
hipsters of melrose fade
into wallpaper
& golden-headed angels
from berdoo on howling
choppers
crusade the night on black
highways
jamming out across eternal
mojaves
to scream at the moon
(dismas was
a jail-mate of mine
with tales of glasshouse
& lincoln heights
black dahlia &
fatty arbuckle's coke bottle
echoes of wardell gray
in the fading woodwork
CALIFORNIA CLUB
jukebox - mi vida
loca!)
sing a blues for the lone booster
hoofing it down to meet his Man
for the spectral girls of venice beach
carrying books of gibran
out of pacific wash & barefoot
sand
humming like faraway
radios
San Francisco. Ca.1964
AUSTIN CREEK
over the hump
from fort ross
string of alders
near the road
in long green meadows
the king snake
glides
sit on a log
by austin creek
smoke a joint
& drink some wine
watching linnets
nest
put me in mind
of one that used to come
mornings
& sing at the window
of my cell
Cazadero, Ca. 1964
SAN JOAQUIN
remembering back to
these grim valley towns
across wide groves
a hot iron moon
along the road from loci
whole families in pick-up trucks
groups of brown mexicans
from zacatecas
all turning sadly night homeward
drear clapboard farmshack
california
...to the dim heart of fresno
& the grape-pickers strike
VIVA LA HEULGA they sang
all the way from delano
women carrying babies
on their backs...
san joaquin of dusty roads
junkies, ecdysiasts, beat spades
in shades
drawn curtains, hip sing hotel
behind the S.P. soot railtrack
smokey eyes all dreaming
of that warm sweet ocean here
pacific
San Francisco, Ca. 1964
FOR LADY DAY
white gardenias
& white junk
a spoonful of
blues
4 times a day
all those years of
blackness
for an unmarked
grave
&e song
San Francisco, Ca. 1965
EL GUERRERO NEGRO
this alley cat black
with his naked agate eyes
hearing his lady's voice
begins to prowl
his woman is brown & she
is singing
blue fire the city smokes
beneath his
raging hand
& he is singing
simbu be comin' to
kick your ass pretty
soon now
bwana
Oakland, Ca., 1967
BOBBY HUTTON
moon
shone on waiting
rifles
in the dark
flatlands
his soul pushes
up thru glass
& trash clotting
earth
thru curtains
of bitter gas
black avenues
of oakland
helping
a wounded brother
& he was like
a young
eagle
falling
Oakland, Ca. 1968
MOONSTONE HEIGHTS
sweetness of sea wind
caressing gentle skirts
of women in the afternoon
wine & smoke
meat roasting on open coals
kids & dogs
playing
a fervent music
to celebrate this life
the warmth of a few in large
places
Trinidad, Ca. 1970
FOR JANIS
she said call me pearl
our little blue girl
that last time
i saw you at the Mo
we shared comfort
& i teased about your weight
i couldn't know
we wouldn't meet again
& i never told you how much
i loved you
Eureka, Ca. 1970
END OF OCTOBER
end of october
beginning the loco months
wetness of redwood earth
intersticing bright cold days
birds wheeling & crying
salmon thick with roe in rivers
getting wood on the porch
once more feel that old urgency
& am happy for our food &
fire
Fortuna, Ca. 1970
OREGON GRAFFITI
i hear the metallic whisper
steel on steel following
the long lines of the earth
see the snow, oregon chill
hard pines of winter & smoke
thru a frosted kitchen window
watch great northern pass by
y'know that same lonesome train
rolls thru here every night about
this time, pulling my heart along
in a boxcar
Black Point, Marin County, Ca. 1973
HE WAS A FRIEND OF MINE
weird how it goes
with beginnings
& endings
again
this year
winter's over
end of the loco months
new green
appearing everywhere
sweet lunacy
birds & blue skies
eternal snows
glutting the Avers
brown with earth
whales starting north
with precious
young
& pigpen died
my eyes
tequila-tortured
4 days mourning
lost another fragment
of my own self
knowing
the same brutal
night-sweats & hungers
he knew
the same cold fist
that knocked him down
now clutching furiously
at my gut
shut my eyes
& see him standing
spread-legged
on the stage of the world
the boys prodding him
egging him on
he telling all he ever knew
or cared to know
mike hand cocked like
a boxer's
head thronged back
stale whiskey blues
many-peopled desolations
neon rainy streets
& wilderness of airports
thousands maybe millions
loved him
were fired instantly
into forty-five minutes of
midnight hour
but when he died
he was thin, sick, scared
alone
like i said to laird
i just hope he didn't hurt
too much
weird
all these endings
& beginnings
pale voices of winter
faces, Avers, birds, songs
lunacies
i wonder
how many seasons
new green coming once more
to the land
fresh winds turn
bending the long grasses
we'll hear him sing
again
M'. Hermon, Ca. 1973
five from LAMA MOUNTAIN for max finstein
hard
to define
an unfamiliar
land
pronounce
a language
one don't
rightly understand
hands
like claws
faces
like mud
feet
pounding
rattles
thundering
young green
corn
as lightning
dances all
over the
valley
large drops
thud in
dusts
of truchas
like
arrows
wooden flutes
bull-roarers
bells & horns
a flight of crows
a penitente dirge
dark men
on the edges
listening
to pitchforks
of the north prairie
whisper
ing
green patches
laid over
brown
earth
laid over
logs & withes
fire at
the heart of any
house
& drums
to keep the fire
going
(snow lays deep
on lame mountain
well
into spring
& in good years
water all
summer)
viejo
bearded coyote
his tracks
festoon
the sand
spooky
voice in the
wilderness
sarcastic grin
lined with
teeth
fucking in
arroyos
to spread a healthy
lust upon this
land
& above all
prosper
azul! azul! azul!
a small
bird
flew by
as i sat
just
after dawn
in the
outhouse
so i looked
& sure enough
everything
was
temperate chord
multiplied suddenly
into gale
force
hailstones
like
buckshot
inhaled deeply
this high mountain air
grabs a lung
& holds
on
viejo, coyote
fingers
of the wind
playing
castanets
& pointing
west
toward questa
where we will buy
more wine
San Cristobal, NM. July 1974
six from LAMA MOUNTAIN for max finstein
stars
climb above
a stoney
gorge
tres
piedras
looming straight
ahead
conejos
on the highway
all golden-eyed
or dead
westward
thru clouds &
arizonas
over a
low mud wall
singing
slow mad
guitars
of the moon
owls spread their
soft wings over
firmament
hollow calls
with echoes
of their own
hovering
the meadow . . .
water flavored
with pine needles
medicine for
the heart & bone
dreams follow
sandwiched
in between their
hootings
a sudden
rush of
wings
brought my
eyes to
this place
a tiny
plot of
graves
among aspen
along
the road
filled
with bones
of those
who
came to
whip this
mountain &
lost . . .
nueva espana
in the burning south
clanking
with sword
& armor
reeking
of leather
& wine
laying
dust behind
them
choking
everything as
they pass
in search
of cibola
& souls . . .
gathering such men & supplies as
necessary
then proceed up the arkansas
headwaters
turning south toward taos with a
fandango
moon flying like a wild spanish coin
above
the herds raising plumes on the trail
to clot
the clouds & galaxies aloft over this
murderous plain
meat
of lean
jack rabbits
such roots
& herbs
as tewa
are wont
to use
in times
of dire
hunger
warm in a pile of blankets & robes
coals glowing orangery in grate
a house shaped alone by hands
of mud & straw over beams &
wattles
of willow as graceful as the
stream they grew by
long fingers
of wind
pointing
west
signal
the gringo
an abrupt gunman
with hands of
silver
materializes
at the end of an
adobe lane
& fills my
curtain of dreams
with holes
that same
bleak guitar
on a winter day
in the plaza
(what was it
trying to say?)
cielo, meaning heaven, or blue
as pools are
or this exquisite
lupine . . .
blue as
a stripper's
heart, or
the horn
of some
beat tenorman
broke
& stranded in
albuquerque
one night thirty
years ago
drifting
from a
hotel
window
(but that's indigo
another
kind
of
blue . . .)
Black Point, Lama Mountain, 1974
FOR LUCIO CABANAS
by an ancient stone
lake ramp a crucifix
erected for some saint
women pound the wash
eternal mudhens
dip & swim
out board motor sound
far out across
the water
soft gauze
cloudheads mauve
& gold
aloft & flying
above the mountains
of michoacan
smoke rising
from kilns where men are
firing tile
in plazas
the beggar women cry
socorro! socorro!
& in the south
it is said they have killed
cabanas
Ajijic, Lake Chapala, Jalisco, Mexico
December 1974
THIS NIGHT for buddy & celeste
this night. esta noche. lamps
glow here & there, stitching
the velvet with
a golden thread.
nighthawks call amors
with soft cool trumpets.
smell of roasting corn
paints the air as
a girl sings by the dark
lagoon.
horses & cattle fed & penned.
tonight we'll have sierra
with rice & chayote
& spicy langostina soup.
or caguama the way
buddy does it
with soy, pineapple
& peppers.
one-eyed luis
steps down the trail
toward eliodoro's
& an evening
of drunken visionary guitar
& raiceilla...
serpents bend
among the willows.
owls float thru
the selva.
jaguar moves to
feed his hungers as
i move to feed
mine. there is
a communion
between the beast
in my heart
& all of
these
Yelapa, Jalisco, Mexico 1975
PORTRAIT: LAUGHING GULL
delicate design of wing
perfectly fluted and curved
for passage between
the prophetic winds.
dark feathered with white
trailing edge. laughing gull.
slicing thru mists &
pollutions.
cabo falso. bays & inlets.
laughing gull drifts
where black steamers
of commerce
trample the waves.
Yelapa, Jalisco, Mexico 1975
BREAKFAST AT ELIODORO'S
shadow upon shadow. another dawn
conceived.
liquid movement of deer
melting into
a screen of leaves.
first
smoke oozing
from a palm palapa.
horses stand
saddled & tied
to a big jacaranda.
slate upon black upon blue.
pearl grey layered
with dusky rose
as infant light
thickens.
one eyed luis
groans & staggers
thru a thousand
drunken sleeps
bearing his
terrible carga
of dreams
barefoot up
muddy rock trails
interminable.
head strap. back grip.
the ancient way
lost in foggy
millenniums
transporting
lumber, stone
& maize
but today
it will be
cartons
of beer
tanks
of propane
100 kilos
of river
sand
or,
some gringo's damn refrigerator...
a crystal moment, the light is frozen, then alters
to allow turquoise, dull mauve
& gold.
dewy mountain
insect chirp
silent bell
nothing
moves.
fregata
seemingly motionless
on currents of
heaven
pale, changing...
yellow flower
sulphur stench.
perched on the axis
of a volcanic
chain
beheading the continent.
in recent
memory
mysterious
boilings
& bubblings
in the bay
killed off
all fish
& moved
the beach
one side
to the other
where it is today...
currents of the earth. currents of fire.
currents pacifico.
the sphere turns intelligently
& precisely.
a crow
interrogates
the sky.
tiger heron
walks
the glade.
aloft
an aplomado
scanning coastlines.
men
in tiny log canoes drift & bob
beneath
a morning star.
oceano,
the huge leap of
manta.
huachinango,
swift jaws
of the tiburon.
auks,
porpoises
& the high clean voicing of
whales...
bright, & brighter yet
dawn moves
west
conquering everything
call of the trumpeter in passage
alcatraz on the water, egret on the shore.
countless tiny tracks
web the sands of rio tuito
parrots & scrub jays
splinter the air like glass
quarreling over papaya.
burros stamp & chew
in a stone corral.
further light streams
from behind the mountain
abolishing shadow
& slicing the film of night
from our eyes with
a gentle sword.
releasing secret warmths
& aromas...
schools of mackerel
riffling the calms of
banderas
poseidon, slamming
watery
doors.
far out, tres
marias
& the penal
colony
nightmare!
cold rattle of
chain
glint
of machine gun...
don angel
stands on the playita
barefoot, pants
rolled to the knee
his brown shirt torn
& greets each facet of the morn
with
equanimity
saluting surf, stones, trees, birds & all
creatures simultaneously.
myriad glitters
of the sea
clouds bunched on
the crown of
sierra
punta mite
north
& corrientes
southward...
deep
in selva
a tigre yawns
sheathing
& unsheathing
its claws.
el conejo
didn't stand
a chance.
& dig zopilote, there
always the early
bird
reconnoitering
last night's
murders...
imprint of scorpion
on the wall
like a fossil
imbedded
in strata.
men with arms
like rosewood
women with magic tongues.
obsidian eyes
reflecting hidden rhythms.
we should learn to think like eagles
dream like
serpents
fuck
like bears,
turn the eye
inside out
so es to
really see
the impossible
mathematic
finally
solved
not vision
obscured
but vision
strengthened
the brain
a seed pod
just waiting to
explode!
good herbs. root of mezcal. buds of peyotl
el gusano rojo who dyed the walls
of teotihuacan
blood red
at sunrise on
the equinox.
the poles revolve a wheel
of season terminating
another circle
of extended evolution.
a campesino walks
the trail from town with
sombrero & machete.
at eliodoro's
the crazy gringo poet
apples a breakfast
beer
scribbling delight
as a drunken horseman
clatters up
the stone ramp
wearing
big iron spurs
& tennis
shoes...
upriver the sun suddenly breaks loose from
the ridge
vomiting molten white gold into
the canyon.
a great bronze gallo
blinks, ruffles
his wings
and shrieks
loudly & gleefully
heralding
another
beautiful
day
bees. scarabs & crickets.
it is the dry season.
dogs bark at nothing
mariposa dances
on the breeeeze.
tlaloc dozes in
his hammock
drunk
on time
& raiceilla...
BLUES FOR DISMAS
dreaming in lost L.A.
downtown glooms
gospel stew & beans
navajos at the ritz
high sad song of spade queens
in perching square
hipsters of melrose fade
into wallpaper
& golden-headed angels
from berdoo on howling
choppers
crusade the night on black
highways
jamming out across eternal
mojaves
to scream at the moon
(dismas was
a jail-mate of mine
with tales of glasshouse
& lincoln heights
black dahlia &
fatty arbuckle's coke bottle
echoes of wardell gray
in the fading woodwork
CALIFORNIA CLUB
jukebox - mi vida
loca!)
sing a blues for the lone booster
hoofing it down to meet his Man
for the spectral girls of venice beach
carrying books of gibran
out of pacific wash & barefoot
sand
humming like faraway
radios
San Francisco. Ca.1964
AUSTIN CREEK
over the hump
from fort ross
string of alders
near the road
in long green meadows
the king snake
glides
sit on a log
by austin creek
smoke a joint
& drink some wine
watching linnets
nest
put me in mind
of one that used to come
mornings
& sing at the window
of my cell
Cazadero, Ca. 1964
SAN JOAQUIN
remembering back to
these grim valley towns
across wide groves
a hot iron moon
along the road from loci
whole families in pick-up trucks
groups of brown mexicans
from zacatecas
all turning sadly night homeward
drear clapboard farmshack
california
...to the dim heart of fresno
& the grape-pickers strike
VIVA LA HEULGA they sang
all the way from delano
women carrying babies
on their backs...
san joaquin of dusty roads
junkies, ecdysiasts, beat spades
in shades
drawn curtains, hip sing hotel
behind the S.P. soot railtrack
smokey eyes all dreaming
of that warm sweet ocean here
pacific
San Francisco, Ca. 1964
FOR LADY DAY
white gardenias
& white junk
a spoonful of
blues
4 times a day
all those years of
blackness
for an unmarked
grave
&e song
San Francisco, Ca. 1965
EL GUERRERO NEGRO
this alley cat black
with his naked agate eyes
hearing his lady's voice
begins to prowl
his woman is brown & she
is singing
blue fire the city smokes
beneath his
raging hand
& he is singing
simbu be comin' to
kick your ass pretty
soon now
bwana
Oakland, Ca., 1967
BOBBY HUTTON
moon
shone on waiting
rifles
in the dark
flatlands
his soul pushes
up thru glass
& trash clotting
earth
thru curtains
of bitter gas
black avenues
of oakland
helping
a wounded brother
& he was like
a young
eagle
falling
Oakland, Ca. 1968
MOONSTONE HEIGHTS
sweetness of sea wind
caressing gentle skirts
of women in the afternoon
wine & smoke
meat roasting on open coals
kids & dogs
playing
a fervent music
to celebrate this life
the warmth of a few in large
places
Trinidad, Ca. 1970
FOR JANIS
she said call me pearl
our little blue girl
that last time
i saw you at the Mo
we shared comfort
& i teased about your weight
i couldn't know
we wouldn't meet again
& i never told you how much
i loved you
Eureka, Ca. 1970
END OF OCTOBER
end of october
beginning the loco months
wetness of redwood earth
intersticing bright cold days
birds wheeling & crying
salmon thick with roe in rivers
getting wood on the porch
once more feel that old urgency
& am happy for our food &
fire
Fortuna, Ca. 1970
OREGON GRAFFITI
i hear the metallic whisper
steel on steel following
the long lines of the earth
see the snow, oregon chill
hard pines of winter & smoke
thru a frosted kitchen window
watch great northern pass by
y'know that same lonesome train
rolls thru here every night about
this time, pulling my heart along
in a boxcar
Black Point, Marin County, Ca. 1973
HE WAS A FRIEND OF MINE
weird how it goes
with beginnings
& endings
again
this year
winter's over
end of the loco months
new green
appearing everywhere
sweet lunacy
birds & blue skies
eternal snows
glutting the Avers
brown with earth
whales starting north
with precious
young
& pigpen died
my eyes
tequila-tortured
4 days mourning
lost another fragment
of my own self
knowing
the same brutal
night-sweats & hungers
he knew
the same cold fist
that knocked him down
now clutching furiously
at my gut
shut my eyes
& see him standing
spread-legged
on the stage of the world
the boys prodding him
egging him on
he telling all he ever knew
or cared to know
mike hand cocked like
a boxer's
head thronged back
stale whiskey blues
many-peopled desolations
neon rainy streets
& wilderness of airports
thousands maybe millions
loved him
were fired instantly
into forty-five minutes of
midnight hour
but when he died
he was thin, sick, scared
alone
like i said to laird
i just hope he didn't hurt
too much
weird
all these endings
& beginnings
pale voices of winter
faces, Avers, birds, songs
lunacies
i wonder
how many seasons
new green coming once more
to the land
fresh winds turn
bending the long grasses
we'll hear him sing
again
M'. Hermon, Ca. 1973
five from LAMA MOUNTAIN for max finstein
hard
to define
an unfamiliar
land
pronounce
a language
one don't
rightly understand
hands
like claws
faces
like mud
feet
pounding
rattles
thundering
young green
corn
as lightning
dances all
over the
valley
large drops
thud in
dusts
of truchas
like
arrows
wooden flutes
bull-roarers
bells & horns
a flight of crows
a penitente dirge
dark men
on the edges
listening
to pitchforks
of the north prairie
whisper
ing
green patches
laid over
brown
earth
laid over
logs & withes
fire at
the heart of any
house
& drums
to keep the fire
going
(snow lays deep
on lame mountain
well
into spring
& in good years
water all
summer)
viejo
bearded coyote
his tracks
festoon
the sand
spooky
voice in the
wilderness
sarcastic grin
lined with
teeth
fucking in
arroyos
to spread a healthy
lust upon this
land
& above all
prosper
azul! azul! azul!
a small
bird
flew by
as i sat
just
after dawn
in the
outhouse
so i looked
& sure enough
everything
was
temperate chord
multiplied suddenly
into gale
force
hailstones
like
buckshot
inhaled deeply
this high mountain air
grabs a lung
& holds
on
viejo, coyote
fingers
of the wind
playing
castanets
& pointing
west
toward questa
where we will buy
more wine
San Cristobal, NM. July 1974
six from LAMA MOUNTAIN for max finstein
stars
climb above
a stoney
gorge
tres
piedras
looming straight
ahead
conejos
on the highway
all golden-eyed
or dead
westward
thru clouds &
arizonas
over a
low mud wall
singing
slow mad
guitars
of the moon
owls spread their
soft wings over
firmament
hollow calls
with echoes
of their own
hovering
the meadow . . .
water flavored
with pine needles
medicine for
the heart & bone
dreams follow
sandwiched
in between their
hootings
a sudden
rush of
wings
brought my
eyes to
this place
a tiny
plot of
graves
among aspen
along
the road
filled
with bones
of those
who
came to
whip this
mountain &
lost . . .
nueva espana
in the burning south
clanking
with sword
& armor
reeking
of leather
& wine
laying
dust behind
them
choking
everything as
they pass
in search
of cibola
& souls . . .
gathering such men & supplies as
necessary
then proceed up the arkansas
headwaters
turning south toward taos with a
fandango
moon flying like a wild spanish coin
above
the herds raising plumes on the trail
to clot
the clouds & galaxies aloft over this
murderous plain
meat
of lean
jack rabbits
such roots
& herbs
as tewa
are wont
to use
in times
of dire
hunger
warm in a pile of blankets & robes
coals glowing orangery in grate
a house shaped alone by hands
of mud & straw over beams &
wattles
of willow as graceful as the
stream they grew by
long fingers
of wind
pointing
west
signal
the gringo
an abrupt gunman
with hands of
silver
materializes
at the end of an
adobe lane
& fills my
curtain of dreams
with holes
that same
bleak guitar
on a winter day
in the plaza
(what was it
trying to say?)
cielo, meaning heaven, or blue
as pools are
or this exquisite
lupine . . .
blue as
a stripper's
heart, or
the horn
of some
beat tenorman
broke
& stranded in
albuquerque
one night thirty
years ago
drifting
from a
hotel
window
(but that's indigo
another
kind
of
blue . . .)
Black Point, Lama Mountain, 1974
FOR LUCIO CABANAS
by an ancient stone
lake ramp a crucifix
erected for some saint
women pound the wash
eternal mudhens
dip & swim
out board motor sound
far out across
the water
soft gauze
cloudheads mauve
& gold
aloft & flying
above the mountains
of michoacan
smoke rising
from kilns where men are
firing tile
in plazas
the beggar women cry
socorro! socorro!
& in the south
it is said they have killed
cabanas
Ajijic, Lake Chapala, Jalisco, Mexico
December 1974
THIS NIGHT for buddy & celeste
this night. esta noche. lamps
glow here & there, stitching
the velvet with
a golden thread.
nighthawks call amors
with soft cool trumpets.
smell of roasting corn
paints the air as
a girl sings by the dark
lagoon.
horses & cattle fed & penned.
tonight we'll have sierra
with rice & chayote
& spicy langostina soup.
or caguama the way
buddy does it
with soy, pineapple
& peppers.
one-eyed luis
steps down the trail
toward eliodoro's
& an evening
of drunken visionary guitar
& raiceilla...
serpents bend
among the willows.
owls float thru
the selva.
jaguar moves to
feed his hungers as
i move to feed
mine. there is
a communion
between the beast
in my heart
& all of
these
Yelapa, Jalisco, Mexico 1975
PORTRAIT: LAUGHING GULL
delicate design of wing
perfectly fluted and curved
for passage between
the prophetic winds.
dark feathered with white
trailing edge. laughing gull.
slicing thru mists &
pollutions.
cabo falso. bays & inlets.
laughing gull drifts
where black steamers
of commerce
trample the waves.
Yelapa, Jalisco, Mexico 1975
BREAKFAST AT ELIODORO'S
shadow upon shadow. another dawn
conceived.
liquid movement of deer
melting into
a screen of leaves.
first
smoke oozing
from a palm palapa.
horses stand
saddled & tied
to a big jacaranda.
slate upon black upon blue.
pearl grey layered
with dusky rose
as infant light
thickens.
one eyed luis
groans & staggers
thru a thousand
drunken sleeps
bearing his
terrible carga
of dreams
barefoot up
muddy rock trails
interminable.
head strap. back grip.
the ancient way
lost in foggy
millenniums
transporting
lumber, stone
& maize
but today
it will be
cartons
of beer
tanks
of propane
100 kilos
of river
sand
or,
some gringo's damn refrigerator...
a crystal moment, the light is frozen, then alters
to allow turquoise, dull mauve
& gold.
dewy mountain
insect chirp
silent bell
nothing
moves.
fregata
seemingly motionless
on currents of
heaven
pale, changing...
yellow flower
sulphur stench.
perched on the axis
of a volcanic
chain
beheading the continent.
in recent
memory
mysterious
boilings
& bubblings
in the bay
killed off
all fish
& moved
the beach
one side
to the other
where it is today...
currents of the earth. currents of fire.
currents pacifico.
the sphere turns intelligently
& precisely.
a crow
interrogates
the sky.
tiger heron
walks
the glade.
aloft
an aplomado
scanning coastlines.
men
in tiny log canoes drift & bob
beneath
a morning star.
oceano,
the huge leap of
manta.
huachinango,
swift jaws
of the tiburon.
auks,
porpoises
& the high clean voicing of
whales...
bright, & brighter yet
dawn moves
west
conquering everything
call of the trumpeter in passage
alcatraz on the water, egret on the shore.
countless tiny tracks
web the sands of rio tuito
parrots & scrub jays
splinter the air like glass
quarreling over papaya.
burros stamp & chew
in a stone corral.
further light streams
from behind the mountain
abolishing shadow
& slicing the film of night
from our eyes with
a gentle sword.
releasing secret warmths
& aromas...
schools of mackerel
riffling the calms of
banderas
poseidon, slamming
watery
doors.
far out, tres
marias
& the penal
colony
nightmare!
cold rattle of
chain
glint
of machine gun...
don angel
stands on the playita
barefoot, pants
rolled to the knee
his brown shirt torn
& greets each facet of the morn
with
equanimity
saluting surf, stones, trees, birds & all
creatures simultaneously.
myriad glitters
of the sea
clouds bunched on
the crown of
sierra
punta mite
north
& corrientes
southward...
deep
in selva
a tigre yawns
sheathing
& unsheathing
its claws.
el conejo
didn't stand
a chance.
& dig zopilote, there
always the early
bird
reconnoitering
last night's
murders...
imprint of scorpion
on the wall
like a fossil
imbedded
in strata.
men with arms
like rosewood
women with magic tongues.
obsidian eyes
reflecting hidden rhythms.
we should learn to think like eagles
dream like
serpents
fuck
like bears,
turn the eye
inside out
so es to
really see
the impossible
mathematic
finally
solved
not vision
obscured
but vision
strengthened
the brain
a seed pod
just waiting to
explode!
good herbs. root of mezcal. buds of peyotl
el gusano rojo who dyed the walls
of teotihuacan
blood red
at sunrise on
the equinox.
the poles revolve a wheel
of season terminating
another circle
of extended evolution.
a campesino walks
the trail from town with
sombrero & machete.
at eliodoro's
the crazy gringo poet
apples a breakfast
beer
scribbling delight
as a drunken horseman
clatters up
the stone ramp
wearing
big iron spurs
& tennis
shoes...
upriver the sun suddenly breaks loose from
the ridge
vomiting molten white gold into
the canyon.
a great bronze gallo
blinks, ruffles
his wings
and shrieks
loudly & gleefully
heralding
another
beautiful
day
bees. scarabs & crickets.
it is the dry season.
dogs bark at nothing
mariposa dances
on the breeeeze.
tlaloc dozes in
his hammock
drunk
on time
& raiceilla...
- Zlatko Waterman
- Posts: 1631
- Joined: August 19th, 2004, 8:30 am
- Location: Los Angeles, CA USA
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- Scootertrash
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- Joined: August 15th, 2004, 8:04 pm
FOREWORD
to Bob Peterson's Alleys of the Heart
If a tree must be felled to make a book, let it be for a book such as this. Behold these resurrected branches. Taste the rare, translucent fruit in scattered clumps among its leaves.
This book contains all manner of living things disguised as words, crafted by a master with seamless artistry, speaking of things that matter to the soul.
Asked to deliver a eulogy at Petersen's funeral, I began riffling through the poets for inspiration, fixing upon a letter of Rimbaud: "The task of a man who wants to be a visionary poet is to study his own awareness of himself. He must seek out his soul, inspect it, test it... learn all forms of love and suffering; search until he exhausts within himself all poisons and preserves their quintessences. He must endure unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith and superhuman strength, where he becomes among all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great outcast - and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! And if he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them!"
Petersen did time in the State Pen, time in the gutter, time in the clouds. I've seen him reeling down the street with blood flowing from his head where the cops had had a wail on his vagrant skull. Time to head for Mexico or Oregon, depending on the season.
There are few low dives along the west coast of North America where his short, square figure went unrecognized, from Vancouver to Guadalajara. He drank hard while persuing his fickle whore of a Visionary Muse across the landscape of the 60's & 70's, and delivered a blistered wreck of himself into the 80's.
Once in a while, in the latter days, the light still sparked behind his blue-gray eyes, which only sharpened the pain of beholding a decade long death agony, punctuated with heart attacks, of a man of overt genius.
This is not a light poet you hold in your hands. His aim is true. He will take you somewhat deeper than is comfortable, if you enter his lines rather than flipping through them. This is what a poet should do. It is all he can do. If he does it well, he has done what can be done with words and has earned the right to die proud. He has drunk the wellspring dry. Not drowned in it, like so many of us...it has drowned in him!
The voice of Robert M. Petersen will endure, for those with ears to hear, crackling through the static of our generation like the sound of a far away radio.
--Robert Hunter March, 1988
EDITOR'S PREFACE
to Alleys of the Heart
From time to time Petersen would appear on my doorstep with a new sheaf of poems, or an old one recovered from some half-forgotten corner. I was his depository.
He was a good archivist and editor of his work, careful and meticulous. Alternative drafts exist for only a few poems; in all cases it is clear which is the most recent. In a very few cases, I have invented titles, choosing mostly the first line.
Petersen jumped full-blown into his mature voice with Blue Petre (1964). The consistency after that is remarkable. There are only a few poems which seem too personal or fragmentary to warrant inclusion. Prior to Blue Petre, there is a file of early poems, not included in this collection, which in my view would have detracted from the impact of the mature work.
Another category of work not included is the prose. This is not extensive and is very early. One exception is the prose that Petersen himself placed in the middle of Fern Rock. Likewise, I have not included the lyrics which he wrote for the Grateful Dead - New Potato Caboose, Pride of Cucamongo and Unbroken Chain. Both the prose and the lyrics, though of value in themselves, seem to me to sit uncomfortably beside Petersen's pure poetic voice.
Unlike the first three sections of the book, which existed as already complete entities, Cabin Fever had to be constructed on the basis of the title which he had told me he intended to use for a new collection of poems. This gave the clue to content; I believe the collection was meant to include those poems written after Far Away Radios - all of these relate to his theme.
The poems are arranged in chronological order, the sequence ending with those poems of Cabin Fever which were written at Wildwood Falls, Oregon, in 1986.
The exception to chronology is the last section, Dream of California. Unlike the previous three, which are Petersen's own collections and titles, this last suggested itself to me upon review of the remaining material. The poems here are nearly all undated. They include the unpublished collection Pecker Poles, which Petersen had cannibalized for Far Away Radios, and several of his longer poems. I have made up my own sequence, choosing to end with Seismic Disturbances, the last fifteen lines of which might well stand as Robert M. Petersen's epitaph, expressing, as they do, the modesty and warm determination of his nature.
In preparing this collection for publication, I am grateful for the help of Bobby's family and friends: Jane and Didrik, Phil Lesh, Laird Grant, Robert Hunter, Mountain Girl and Dick Wilcox.
Alan Trist, Eugene, Oregon, March, 1988
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