Does a dog have Buddha nature? Woof!

Sitting in a mobile home high and with low light on the pad in the floor, on the floor, the purple room with the flowers on the wall and the large closet for a lady's clothes and the vanity mirror is dirty and the rats still need to be excommunicated from the holy roman ceiling and if the hole in the dining room gets dug into for the root cellar and the floor is framed again and the rocket stove with the cob bench warming the living room all gets set up, and if the roof and the sunroom and the roof in the sunroom are all fixed and adjusted and that green house is built on the side and all that is done and the kitchen between the two shipping crates on the other side gets roofed in by the roof from the fallen down 80-year-old barn, roofed on in between the gap for between the shipping containers and then an outdoor stove and kitchen sitting area for nice days and cold days is constructed and piped up, then perhaps this will be a good place to sit and type of all the ways and the schemes and recycled materials and shitty tools and the internet research and waiting on someone with money to buy the supplies and to make the decisions while we sit in joint-smoked rooms on the unclean floor on some pads and a sleeping bag with our typewriters writing about how weird and uncomfortable the houses of other people's families can be when the family is mormon with traces of mormonism hanging around and a baby and the mother talking about moving to the big toilette and poo poo while you are just trying to eat some broccoli and macaroni and cheese and cabbage salad with all of the hot items from the Astoria Children's Center sit crammed around you and you want to choose the level of squalor that isn't filled with humanity.

A room devoid of humanity: the only place to write.

After a Fast, Mastication : Turtle Rock, Buena Vista, Colorado

Split rock fit with green growing grass. Life comes from the crags, budding and defiant, tender and tough, spiny, arid-loving flowers and limegreen fluorescent algae moss on the rocks. Pine cones and pebbles on the ground. Sticks and pine needles on the ground. Down and up, many granite avenues to climb, all cracks and producing from so much geopressure, the tufts of grass and shrubs of green that squeeze out with a slow inaudible moan. Thousands of years of granite rubbing on granite and from that infinity, out springs a twiggy shrub. In an instant, after all that grainy abysmal granite chewing.

Jump in! : St. Edwards Park, Austin, TX

St. Ed's. Ed, the common man's saint. The common man's park. The suburban stream. And I arrive blasted with preconceived word tumblings all forgotten in the face of the flowing frankness of the common man's saint. So many times the water sits still and stagnant and there is nothing but disappointment, but the rains came and this is the most pleasant day a common man could ask for. The stream slips green and glassy. Sunlight shines sheens reflected off ripples. I sit in the roots of the waterside trees, uncomfortable only in theory. The rope swing hangs still over the slippery green pools fed by gentle rushes from the rapids. A dislocation of the shallow shelf of rock, stretching back around the bend in the trees beyond, and we get to listen to the calming sound of incessant streaming gurgling bubbles, rounding rocks and pebbles, whirling pools and swirls of churned aerated water. And to think, you can get all of this in the comfort of your home or office if you just go to the Sharper Image, or leaf through an airplane shopper's catalog.


Post Script - What was there to do but to strip down to brass boxers and jump fresh into jittering cold water? What was there to do but to rise back through the broken surface whooping high pitched from the jittering cold water? What was left but to take the still rope swing by its end and swim back struggling out on the roots of the waterside trees just to swing in again? And after that? What was there left to do but re-robe and leave?

The Silverman Shuffle : Union Square, NYC

The silverman stands still waiting for a drop of money in his postal service container. I explain to the children how a typewriter works and thus ruin a line. He must stay so still for so long the silverman. It was raining today and the square is not so busy. But the sun is trying to come out. The clouds are burning away and the day is being the day. How long can he stand still and staring with no one around? No one walking in front to even pause and look out of sheer curiosity. He's got an iron will but his smile is fading. It takes many muscles to hold that up. The kids throw coins into the spittoon of a fountain and one needs to tie his shoe because it is time to go. Once you are outside and sitting you - buttons for a dollar, buy three and get one free.

The silverman takes his show to the shade or he's going to sweat all his silver off. Black leather hat photographer. The lone man mystic exalting the word of god to no one. His congregation: a woman purple jacket tweaked face silent; the corduroy book reader. These are all. God, I give you one day, just one day God. And everyone goes about their business. A man sweeps water. His hair is curly fuzzed close to his head. Texting on a bike, slowly fixed-gear ratios. Drummer starts to drum by the tall man on green iron horseback. The squirrels are bold and domestic, sit on their haunches expectant. Hardcore billing forty hours a week. Floating conversations pass on quick walking feet. Umbrella, a mustache, a sachel. The old man walks white-haired. Brown green faded floral girls with curly hair. Cowbell syncopation. Business suit, earphone, suitcase. God and women! My first record man, very good music, where do you live? Barcelona. Fifteen songs for five dollars, this is how I survive.

My mind so slow and the black preacher speaking salvations and dalmations. Damnations, pardon. A man carries a stone like a waiter upon his shoulder upturned hand and walking. Another crosses his path carrying a box of Cholula sauce like a waiter, on his shoulder, upturned hand and walking. Where the hell are you man? At a concert? no sweat, see you later. You go on the internet, I'm sure. Sometimes, yeah.

Tall Buildings, Lost Words : Central Park, NYC

The wind is blowing up a gale and it will rain like hell here on us at the park. I dig and dodge unemployment and find a stoop on a hill. A raised point of view to see the people passing by on 59th street. The wind blows the paper bows the paper down towards my direction and keeps me from my words, from seeing them, but it doesn't matter much. The street yells and yells and grumbles and groans. Buses, trucks, cars, honks and the endless profusion of traffic. I feel like I must yell these words into the typewriter for them to be heard by the restless paper. Underneath the ground, through the rock and soil I feel the train passing by. When the rain comes I am fucked.

Walked from east 56th street all the way to seventh avenue, from second. All industry and cold fashion. All money and sleekness, sanitation. Sheer metal and the occasional tumble of litter, quickly snatched up by maintenance. Not a lick of personality to be found except for the occasional out of place homeless person. A large number (9) sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. The playboy enterprise headquarters and a bunch of clocks that tell us how relative time is to the world. And here, it's more of the same. Tall faceless buildings. Like the stone pyramid walls. Showing the might, the grandeur, the aerodomesticity of today's modern corporate world. It is all about projecting an image, and the image is rapid. It is momentum with force, all constructed. A cute girl is inappropriately dressed for the wind and from my view I enjoy the sight of advantageous cleavage.

Through the trees, the window of my view, I sit and see and type. The clacks quickly taken and pushed the opposite direction of my eyes by the wind. Jalapeno chips in my backpack and picking particles out of molars. Rustling green and white flowered blossoms of weed plants. All grass bending the direction of nature. But really, nothing to speak of at all. Three men in black suits lean with red ties against a black car that is no doubt also wearing a red tie. Flashdancers on top of the yellowcab. Baldor food truck and the ground beneath my ass starts to shake again.

Banjosushi Collage : Union Square Park, NYC

Lunch in the big city and I have a mini-bottle of Henessey. Craned neck and a spittoon of a fountain at Union Square where the tomatoes are passed down from generation to generation and arrive at the farmer's market for 5 dollars apiece. Some guy in green iron on a horse up high. Tom Waits in the right ear and the sound of buzz. The buzzing sound of street traffic and mumbled conversation. Last cigarette smoked. Baby gobbling an orange passing by on a stroller. Umbrellas, tents and tree shade. Where is everyone going? Some to work. Some have found a bed on a bench.

Subway woman exits with flowers to deliver. Old wrinkled woman, grey short hair, striking a jagged pose, speaks with jagged words of age. And I in this isolated inlet, not drunk enough to go careening in the street with my typing fingers. Also not drunk enough to take the leftover sushi Whole Foods has left on the edge of the trash. There are scroungier people who need it.

Everyone looking, buying , eating. Bags handed and hanging from wrists. Brown leather slippers. White rubber slippers, and the sun finds its way through my tree. Big red bag with more sushi. If she leaves some on the edge of the trash, then fuck it, I am going for it.

And what are we selling? Baguettes? Honey? Comics and books? Paintings? Original and copied art? Photos of skyscrapers and black and white antiques?

A big blue scarf covering up cleavage. A pity.

Hunchbacked, headphoned gremlin rummaging through bag, squinting into the infinity of his bag, struggling with the zipper function of his eternal bag.

Provocative pigeons and forward squirrels.

She eats her sushi with chopsticks, speckled, Dalmatian-shirted, sitting on the steps of this spittoon of a fountain. Blue-green-grey metal walkway. Trees are pure green of trees.

Hand-made hugging salt shakers?

Scrounging pigeons, raptor clawed. I know where there is some sushi if they are hip enough for it.

The hunchback changes his headphones for a phone. He dials with girth, holds the phone up to his large cyclops eye and shaky-dials a number for five minutes. You'll get there old fellow!

Got to keep an eye on this woman with the sushi. She's on her next package and girls have trouble finishing their meals. That's why they are the best dinner companions. Her hair is still wet, darker than her dry brown hair would be, and her Dalmatian shirt is slightly fluttering light in the breeze. But she doesn't slow down on the sushi. What a champ.

And the steady flowing stream of walking people going by hardly catches the eye for more than a second or two. So much walking cloth. I need a Snapple!

Banjo tuning. Fountain spewing. What are you doing?

"I wish I was born in the grave. My lady was a knife on the shore."

And who stands watching the stomping fellow who changed into his banjo hat not a while ago to play his banjo? Woman plucking her teeth with a plastic spoon, staring off at nothing in particular. Phones filming and people standing. Old man, tweed suit, beard white, and the string keeps breaking. Pipes next to me on a table, free if you smoke weed and are a poet, which I claim to be. And who else is watching? The Obama face of Hope pinned against the red-curtained table across. Levi's brown bag with tight jeans and a big camera standing next to him. White Sox hat, grim-staring goatee, slightly shaved, Buddy Holly glasses. Conspiring old couple, not so old, just conspiring in the corner with their nice clothes and shiny shoes. Maroon shirt, black-belted brown pants. Big sunglasses, pink shade. Mocha Latte. Broken strings, music is over. But come buy some pipes!

White shirt tattoo peaking out of the top, black on black. Somebody buy a baguette! A bagel! An Obama shirt! My god! This is a recession. Show the love.

Tall brown buildings. I will watch the pipe shop. People tsking and tasking about their day. All bunches of bags. Big gray trash bags piled by the trash can. Green breeze still blowing. DVDs, Jesus! The man laughing tears walking all by himself. Looks like he's crying. Vegetable ivory pipe head. When they say they'll be back, will they be back? FREE INK CARTRIDGES on the yellow backpack sign.

My page flutters in the wind and all the words are wiped off with trying to read them. A gang of orange-clad bikers begin their course check. Helmets orange and everything. Black bike shorts under the floral skirt, walking quick. Scarves, lettuce. Nothing happening until the banjo player gets back. Holy Moly! That thick mustache and the odd grasping lovers on the left. They should be wearing that mustache.

A Garibaldi Comedy : Washington Square Park, NYC

A tree leans in to hear a saxophonist, bass, and drums. Bicycle backpack walks against the traffic. Next to the pick nick tables people are eating their wraps and sandwiches. Baby strollers and baby carriages. Everyone in Washington Square Park pleased by a pleasant day. Who has to go to work soon? I feel sorry for you.

'Keep park clean' green leaf umbrella vendor. Garibaldi pulls out a sword and nobody knows who he is. High heels look like hammers, plucking out nails with each step. Electric egg-shaped cockpit of the car parked picking up the trash, the maintenance man. And the jazz goes on. Muted bass and drums. And the tree leans in to hear it.

Camera and fuzzy microphone next to the fountain. A table full of ladies: '...you would love it. It's a romance novel...'

Fuck it. We can sit our Pepsi's right here to play cards. Lip-dangling cigarette.

Bags and hats. Hats and bags walking by tagging rides on bipeds.

Hi, we were waiting. You were waiting? I was waiting. But at least they all found each other here by the pick nick tables.

Big Union Jack peace sign shirt. Woman, black and green, pudgy, short red hair, photos the jazz band as the tree gives them shade, leaning in to hear.

Put your hands together for the tenor sax, for the alto sax, for the Arlo Fullman flowing on the base. They do indeed have sells for CD's only 10 dollars or best offer/interesting trade like those black shades on the water-bottle-swinging youth clustered around other youths.

Another camera crew by Garibaldi, but not interested in his frozen bumbling sword extraction. They film moving people. Motion. Groups of Asian walkers, ladies short-shorted, showing thighs, head-phone-corded, belly-bouncing joggers. The little egg car patrols back, yellow-yolked and white. Girl with the shawl makes an aside, interrupting her drinking motion, deferring beverage to comment. Confident conversation from the white shirt, large-pecked. Personal pizza box tossed in the trash. The look after the picture is taken by a couple: don't we look darling? my hair is out of place, I've always had a fat face.

Garibaldi photo moment. His chance to show what he is made of. Just get that sword out Baldi! So close to an epic pose but too brittle boned to be timely.

Cream suit, back pack, black pinstripes, flannel, jeans, jeans, jeans.

Gossip talk at the table and the man has little to say: but she knew she fucked up...she knew what she...yeah and she...but shouldn't she...well I thought she...

"Stop that, Oscar." The dog barks twice more before obeying.

Water bottle, water bottle, iced tea, iced tea, blue floral shirt down to the knees, sandwich.

Pleased to meet you, I have a purple bag, and you? Pleasure is all mine, I have a green one.

Bubbles blown back into the face of a rail-sitter, thin as a rail, nose also like a rail. White pants with too many pockets. Colored shirt with too many colors. Too busy, the lines. Simplify! Pony tail tall. Grey-old walking. Time's a wasting. What are you doing here and where did you get those pants? What a skirt! I should put down this clunker and flirt with her. Cowgirl chique. Hat, bandanna, and boots. Green cotton candy! never in my life...

Once again, we play all the fucking time here in this motherfucking park, you guys get up and lean in like this tree here.

.
.
.