O Little Rooster, O Little Cock

O little rooster,

O little cock,

your broken song makes me weep.

How forlorn or gravely ill you must be.

A mob of black doves wrecks my skull,

and an earthquake fractures my chest.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says,

"He always made me cry.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

I don't get it.

We had nothing in common.

That piece of shit.

Why did I marry him?"

Her lover draws near.

He presses his stomach 

against the curve of her back.

"We should never have had any kids,"

she laments.

"He might have been a missionary

somewhere in South America

or a football coach in Texas

or some poor, penniless writer

living in the foothills of New Mexico.

And I might be living in Kentucky

a Baptist minister's wife,

or living in a shack in Durango

a devout Catholic

or living in Pakistan

on a holy journey to Mecca.

"What an ass," she says, clenching her fist.

Her lover sighs

lost in dreams

of bhang fields

and young virgin girls.

The moon presses against the windowpane.

Its sovereign light undresses her;

she pulls the covers around her shoulders.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says.

"We had nothing in common.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he adored roosters.

He always made me cry.

That piece of shit."

A mob of black doves wrecks her skull,

and an earthquake fractures her chest.

Outside, dogs bark,

and cowbells clang.

The night slowly withdraws,

and the earth begins to chirp.

In the yard, the rooster crows.

"Fucking little cock," she cries.

"We had nothing in common.

Why did I marry him?"

O little rooster,

O little cock,

your broken song makes me weep.

How forlorn or gravely ill you must be.

A mob of black doves wrecks my skull,

and an earthquake fractures my chest.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says,

"He always made me cry.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

I don't get it.

We had nothing in common.

That piece of shit.

Why did I marry him?"

Her lover draws near.

His stomach presses against

the curve of her back.

"We should never have had kids,"

she laments.

"He might have been a missionary

somewhere in South America

or a football coach in Texas

or some poor, penniless writer

living in the foothills of New Mexico;

and I might be living in Kentucky

a Baptist minister's wife

or living in a shack in Durango

a devout Catholic

or living in Pakistan

on a holy journey to Mecca.

What an ass he was."

Her lover sighs

lost in dreams

of bhang fields

and young virgin girls.

The moon pushes against the windowpane,

and its' sovereign light undresses her.

She pulls the covers around her shoulders.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says.

"We had nothing in common.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

He always made me cry.

That piece of shit."

A mob of black doves wrecks her skull,

and an earthquake fractures her chest.

Outside, the dog barks,

and there's the clang of cowbells.

The night slowly withdraws,

and the earth begins to chirp.

In the yard, the rooster crows.

"Fucking little cock," she cries.
"We had nothing in common.

Why did I marry him.

Santa Fe

The sky is bluest

in the clean, thin mountain air

of Santa Fe.

Seven days in the city

of Holy Faith,

but my faith is anything but holy.

It's 3:30 a.m.

The cottonwood's arms scrape the window,

as rain thrums a web 

and unsettles a lover in a mad tango.

My woman sighs and says,

"I've always loved you."

I roll out of bed

and, in the dark, I reach for my clothes.

By 4:30 a.m., I'm on the road to Albuquerque.

My thoughts are on the hot air balloon

that, for a while,

will suspend me above the earth,

above the rattle and hiss of the world,

above the candle burning on the horizon.

The clouds are icebergs

floating in an azure sea

carried past Sandia peak.

"How's the weather in Chicago,"

the pilot asks.

"A Heatwave is blasting the city," I reply.

"My brother says the sky is hazy, dirty."

"Do you like the Midwest," he continues.

I shrug, " I love the city."

The roar of the flame drowns my voice,

and the hot air balloon rises.

I think of the adobe house

at the foot of Cristo De Sangre mountains

and the soft, warm body waiting for me.

"I drove by Chicago back in '94," the pilot says,

"So, how do you like living in the Midwest?"

The balloon brushes a treetop,

the Tampa Bay newlyweds squeal.

I shrug, "It's okay."

No one listens.

Coyote yelps, and his brothers begin to sing

and the moon dissolves.

He streaks across open space, 

and the young lovers scream with excitement.

He lifts his tail, and excrement streams through the air.

"So, how do you like Chicago,"

the pilot asks.

I mumble, "I loved a woman there once."

But no one cares,

as the hot air balloon descends

and the land of enchantment unfolds

before an ascending sun.