Foreign Intrigue

Dancing the Night Away 40 x 30 cm

TRIPPING

The edge of a periphery, the blind old

sky scrawled upon by cook fires—smells good, looks weird.

But all I have to do is close my eyes half-way and  

   do the radio talk fandango, Rush at rush hour,

for it to remind me of Oklahoma City

                         on a sultry afternoon.

Blueprint for disaster? We just might have one

or two left over from the last one. Let me check. Yep,

a career of some sort does seem to beckon

through the wood smoke: glitter of poplars,

opium deserts, feckless self-created experts

in a cluster-fuck of mutual confusion, collusion—you’ll fit right in.

Here’s what happened. Special Ops

                          transmitted grid coordinates, and a rare variety   

   of shit hit the fan. It took

years to clean up and a treatise or two (“think tanks”), but now

                                    the flanks of smoking camels

(ever addictive) loom on a mountain ridge the color of

a suburban sofa, i.e., beige, and we like it here, could

be, not on, but BE the cutting edge of something interesting

if only we can stick it out. So, fill the pipe, my love,

my dark-eyed friend, remind music she’s heiress to

                        the wind, and that the river of life in these parts  

burns with a million fevers no tablet can cure. 

Led Zeppelin - Kashmir