The Dude Abides in a Globalized World

Verstrickt - Entangled 22 x 32 cm - watercolor on Yupo

THE DUDE ABIDES IN A GLOBALIZED WORLD

The heat’s rising appareled in odors

of fabric softener, hamburger smoke, stagnant creek

water wafting up to us through the leaves   

as we pass the bong and sip White Russians    

all day long. Thus without benefit of lucid transition   

we’re curled up near a dovecote on a Greek island

or leaning against the Tower of Pisa. You see, Dude,

we could be anywhere and still think we’re somewhere else,

Globalization not merely a “chaotic drift of technologies”  

but a series of artifacts and flavors meeting up

in one distinctly otherish location, each object 

   roughly positioned in its own

immaculate strangeness. There’s a corn dog stand

nearby, and twenty yards away a van

   from which Tex-Mex is dispensed

to Swedish tourists. It’s jazz made in Algeria,

Dude, a Wagner festival in Seattle. I’ve been working on this poem,

gentle reader, since landfall and have no idea if it’s good enough

for you nor am I sure what it “means” half the time

thoughts like seedlings  

scattered over white paper, struggling to take root

and go crazy, yet we’re happy here, the Dude and I, including

a modest contingent of groupies down on the beach,

partly because it smells like jasmine and warm nutmeg

   and partly because there’s a bowling alley adjacent to

a shattered amphitheater its broken statue

   of Marlon Brando wearing sunglasses. 

Blue Rondo A La Turk

 

Lichtblick - Beacon 100 x 80 cm (39 1/4 x 31 1/2'') Acryl/Oilpastel/Ink on canvas

PAGAN EPISTLE

Do you remember when our knees touched

beneath that faded sundress you always used to wear?

I think it had belonged to your mother

or possibly to an older sister who, curiously enough,

became born again, gave up pleasure, gave the dress to you.

Funny how some people court rejection while others,

namely you, reject courtship.

Okay, I’ll stop.

Anyway, there were midges, and a golden light

dripping down manicured hedges onto warm grass,

the boxwood maze with its structured pauses, sweat drying 

in the spicy breeze, a man in motley playing Shakespeare on a lute.

I woke up to the noise of a coffee bean grinder, the scent of frying bacon.

Nobody should live

merely to be overwhelmed by contingent

fluids or barbecued flesh which of course

we love to eat

or the pressure of the perfect curve

or the tanned skin

both of which we love to touch, given half a chance—

is there anything else we can do?—

ask the sun, you might have said, had you ever

   answered a question with an answer.

Okay, I’ll stop.