sasha - Version 2

It is

hard not to see

poets as penitentes flaying

their brains for a line. They have

imaginary tattoos that can’t be removed.

They think of themselves as mental Zorros riding

the high country while far below moist and virginal señoritas

wait impatiently in the valley. Poets run on rocks barefoot when

shoes are available for a dime. They stand on cliffs but not

too close to the fatal edge. They have examined their

unfamiliar motives but still harvest the

wildflowers they never planted.

The horizon has long since

disappeared behind




have this idea

that they have been cremated

but aren’t quite dead. Their ashes are eyes.

At night the stars sprinkle down upon them like salt.

At noon they are under porches with the rest of the

world’s stray and mixed-breed dogs, only

momentarily noticed, and are never

petted except by children

and fools.


His Majesty Baba Jim