Hashtag Tucson

They caught Dillinger here-

still wild, still west

now it’s crowded with the

unwashed hipsters’ beards

the sunglasses hanging on V-necks

the “like likes”, the “YOLOs”

the instagrams of barefeet in sandals

navigating the 4th Avenue  train tracks

tattoo parlors, burlesque fliers

and Fanny Galore out on the sidewalk

with bums checking the trash cans for remnants,

reminiscent:legislating, discriminating,

but still gay, still  bustling

the storm is calm

just before the light turns purple

The Mountain is on Fire

It’s breathing and I’m raining;

tasting creosote in my soul.

In that old abandoned building

down town by Ronstadt Station

your pop punk band would play:

Chuck Taylors, candy colored beaded bracelets

and chick pants.

I miss those summers:

the De Anza drive-in,

Gates pass, Fruit Rollups,

above ground pools and

boom boxes.

Running barefoot over wet asphalt,

my jeans would cling to my thighs,

my red tank top soaked to my chest

we'd splash in the greasy rainwater.

Now it's July 4th

and the mountain is on fire.

Sixth Street Station

This jazz

is frantic.

Not for any reason,

Loud, squawking, baratoning, atoning,

twinkle tweaking,

guttural resonating- but not resigning-

certainly not

This jazz

said my poetry is real jazz

It's didactic

Poets are obsessed.

I told you

I'm frantic

in this smut punk subterranean Bohemia

where words did howl-

an echo

led by Beats in Berkeley in New York,

and on and on into the city lights

of this saxophone, sounds like a traffic accident

and I wonder if it would talk to the train

this horn to it's horn traveling through

time- away too long

but

still coming- my fingers on it’s lips

And in it’s mouth

quiet, confessing,

waiting, wanting,

this is why I have been writing.

But

Lyn Hejinian and I both agree

it doesn't matter.