Blue Sheep In Bhutan

Have I sinned
to love snow leopards

I have heard
rock-and-roll
and blues too

Scampering up cliffs
blue sheep make me cry
freezing to hide

Snow leopards
must eat —
I will not look

Kayaking down the Mochhu
I see only splash
only sky

Blue is clean
red I deny

Prayer flags on the mountain
let me be of slate color
hiding my friends

Can I sing the blues
in the sorrow of the lamb
with only wool to give
in cold comfort, or

must I be the tiger
to growl at my hunger
to dominate

Backward Train

Backward Train

I’m fond of her biases because
she notices differences
like the eye on the back of my head

She’s the only one who
ever came onboard my train
not thinking it impolite
if I stood with my back to her
while I shoveled coal, and
still watched her front.

She did insist once
to stand in front of the furnace, but
we did take a vote to see if
we’d face to embrace–
it was four eyes to one
the ayes had it — although,
I did turn my gun backward once
shooting a bandit thus
keeping the cuddle just
so moving along
the track and train, but

next time I think
I’ll let her take the gun
in her third hand

Autonomous Evil

Autonomous Evil

While some are wise enough
to search for the next
reincarnation of the Dalai Lama,
I am not, but

I have found Mao
as a fly in a spider web

Must I speak to
Tse Tung, or indulge
the tongue of my hatred
by laughing at he
who teachers mocked,
the angry secularist who
revenged himself by
collecting grievances, in
confusion, hate for relics,
for Religion, for Buddhism,
who is caught
in a spider web?

Han shopkeepers in Lhasa
speak with condescension
of Tibetans they call
unworthy and lazy
ungrateful for smokestacks

Wang Zhongyong
calls us
“white-eyed wolves”

Yuan Qinghai
a Lhasa taxi driver
calls us filthy
not clean
like Han on their high tanks,
we on our horses

The science of the missile,
the rocket, entices
the Han jackals to embrace
the harmony and unity
of delusion

I know nothing of Lhasa
while plainclothes police lurk

I know Tibetans
have died

Maybe I have strayed, but
how would I know —
all my elders are dead, and
in ignorance of my faith I cry

Aloofoe

Aloofoe

He kisses tragedy like a clown.
Aloofoe I call him;
his true name
I shall not speak

He loves everyone,
a true romantic
though clowning around

Aloofoe has many children
born to many mothers
who rarely hear him speak

Many of his children are infamous:
one has killed millions

Occasionally he visits a child, but
the little one doesn’t recognize him
just cries when he leaves without gifts

Aloofoe knows the little one
will be bludgeoned to death by his brother
watches it happen

Everyone loves Aloofoe, just clowning around.
He loves everyone as a romantic does

One child will rape his sister
another already has
though Aloofoe murmurs softly
barely heard,
says he loves his children
while the Mothers are abandoned

Everyone loves Aloofoe as they must

His children run wild
run amok as
free spirits will

He would teach them
if he could, but
they don’t know him
a multi-dysfunctional
poor parent

Such a prolific father
bringing flowers and such
many admire him because
Aloofoe is God

Pens Lost In Digital Snow

Seals and polar bears swimming.
Pens of explorers lost.

Many digital articles on Eskimos
laughing together
transcribed from pen works, but
not much left from
writings in the snow.

Ambiguity must be earned, for
never would one know
there’s no flower in the snow.

Returning to the laughing igloo
he brings home the food and fur
of a work without a pen

Spear and club are shrug-ugly
piercing the seal in blood
opening the seals of soul, a muddy
ambiguity of his spirit to live
to eat, and return to the igloo,
though now his child has a computer.

The blessed child is the after-laugh.
Oh such a giggle rainbow, colors that grow
in many modal drawings of love,
in crayons, in finger paints, in ink, in
the paint of explosive jello
and the wiggle of love with cosmic pen
writing in the streak of laughing stars.
Many articles about stars, ice,
the noble hunt, and he, the warrior
may someday look for
his pen in the snow, when
he began to take notes for a researcher.

His child doesn’t need
a pen or spear anymore
nor a need to ever return to the igloo.

Adopt A Martyr Lottery Machine

It’s in the Supermarket
between the frozen vegetables
and the fish monger concession

It takes credit cards or bills.
Many photos of women and children.

A charming photo
on my lottery card
the family I adopted

My adopted family on the news:
machine gunned to death; means
I won a prize: a million dollars. Now
I can afford sizable fresh fish.

Went across
from the vegetables
to buy a fish, and

showed the aproned man a copy
of my winning card. He

fell to the floor, flopping around
gasping for air, whispered
“My daughter, my daughter…
I told her not to join the revolution.”

I said,
how many pounds is the fish? He

didn’t answer so I shot him dead,
and several people had his card —
they all cheered because
some days are lucky