So what if Google told Netflix I searched Blade Runner trivia in order to finish your elegy?

When I wrote the last line, you know, 
the one about electric seeds, 
that slant allusion only fellow Dickians 
would recognize (my coded love for you 
now networked, digitized, available 
to you, disembodied brother, loose 
electricity), it felt a marvel, like a message
back from you (as we promised, once, 
over coffee and cheap smokes, to do,
whoever died first) that ten minutes 
after I wrote that line and turned on 
the flat screen (no longer synecdochically 
only metonymically the tube), Netflix 
recommended Blade Runner 
as a Top Pick for You.

The coincidence felt so pure. Like you 
had pulled strings in the electronic world
to say hello, thank you for the elegy,
thank you for not letting me sink,
obituary-less, into obscurity. Until 
it occurred to me, perhaps this is no 
message, no spiritual synchronicity,
just a fucking contract between silicon-
licking corporations swindling everybody, 
kidnapping kids, herding sheep,
linking algorithms for maximum profit—
assholes making sure whenever I search
for something in one place, I get it in another;
I get it, what I want, and they get me—
my time, my attention: virtual currency.

And then, simultaneous to my inner rant,
I felt, no, heard you burst across space,
you maniacal, mystical mathematician, 
you dreaming android, you Dick trickster!
Ba ha ha! you guffawed, Why isn't
the language of math also the language 
of soul, of consciousness? I am an algorithm!
Your wireless desire shot through cyberspace
became my voice’s conduit! Of course! This, 
your final poetic proverb, enigmatic epigram,
your magnum opus of philosophical jokes:
William Wayne Reed: Algorithm and Asshole. 
Under cover of night, I would steal into Riverside 
Cemetery, carve it on your headstone, cosmic
old loner, if you have one. I would sprinkle 
your unlikely ashes over Dick’s final plot.
I would sing it in alliterative liturgy.
Giggle amen. Goodbye, my loyal friend,
my Gordian tempunaut.

2021

Elegy for Ava

Remember when you were young.

You shone like the sun.

Shine on, you crazy diamond. 

~David Gilmour, Roger Waters, Richard Wright

A gently curled smile upon her face,

lids parted in soft, spacious gaze, rose petals

strewn across her tiny form and way,

Ava—drifting like fog along the lowest horizon,

skirted by love, the sturdy hands of six sisters—

passed us on the stone lined path. We followed,

encircled her, held onto each other in October

chill, beheld her wrapped in purple on the pyre.

Four friends stepped out from our circle,

lowered four torches to windows, lit her final bed

from four directions, my brother in the east.

In wait, split logs lay beneath the grate. Others

were leaned like gates against her body,

a modesty, a drape for eventual bones.

In adolescence, the voice of wood cracked,

stood up tall, orange, ravaged her edge, crawled

and licked and spit black coals around a swirling

grey green spiral of smoke lifting languorously

from the center of the pyre. Subterranean viscera,

slowly igniting, finally caught up to rhyme

with the metaphor of her life. Smoke dancing now,

child spinning for joy of dizziness, whirling dervish,

palm up, turning, turning to find the still point

of a god inside, still point of a wolf woman’s eye,

wildness vaporized, rising up from the muddy earth

of her, now a roaring chorus of sunny tongues

reaching, singing the huge bonfire she always was,

released to bend cold air. Her final watery mirage

smoothed to clear space, blue sky, invisible stars.

Our black coats begged the sun.

Feet ice blocks, arms around my lover,

my dearest love, whose quaking stilled

in our embrace, his heart a drum

against my ear, I prayed for more life, more heat,

longed to stand closer to Ava, dreamed

of lounging by her: shoes off, feet naked,

as close to the flame as I could bear,

wondering if my animal prayer was sacrilege

or reverence. But then, the invitation came.

“Come,” the woman said, “Come closer. Enjoy

Ava’s warmth.” Our circle tightened inward,

innocent as moths. Her generous heat glowed

across sighing faces, chests and limbs,

surpassed the weak sun behind us, just above

the eastern peaks, foil to the full moon

in the west. I offered Ava my back,

and to the sun, my squinting eyes. Ava won.

Stories went round. Pagans howled. Buddhists

bowed. Mostly, for hours, all stood silent, humbled,

proud of our friend. It’s all love, she had said.

Oh! to witness this wondrous woman burn!

One day would come our turn to watch

the other become light. Soon, a small white dome

appeared near the end of the pyre: her skull,

I presumed, crown too perfect in circumference

to be wood. I thought of all the hands of family—

born, chosen, beloved Scot—who stroked

that lovely head in life, in vigil, offered comfort

as she died. A fire keeper finally laid more logs

to fill that glowing door, a wooden veil,

one of a hundred falling veils. I believe Ava

would not have minded being that naked before us,

as naked as her stories, the one a self-professed

best friend of countless best friends told

in which she walked in childlike innocence

the last months of her life, bare breasted

in her diaper at a campground when a family

pulled up in the next lot, shy and shocked.

“Honey, maybe you should cover up.”

“Huh?” Ava responded, bent over, tidying

the table, uncomprehending. “You know,” the friend

reminded her, tenderly, “others are not as open

as we are.” “Oh, ok,” Ava said, nonchalantly slipping

the fabric over her thin arms, her shining head.

In commemoration of the open air cremation of Grace Ava Swordy, 21 Oct. 2021

Elegy for Bill Reed

Day one was easy. We drank coffee and talked for hours
on a hip Fort Mundane patio. Phantom of the café, eccentric, broke—
in lonesome kenosis, you pondered Fibonacci in the hearts of flowers.

Lazy dharma sealed our communion. I worried if you ate or showered.
Dear brother, you always reeked of ashtrays and ancient smoke 
when we drank coffee, watched ends glow, and talked for hours.

Proud mathematician, you bragged that you fled CU’s ivory tower.
I applauded. We were sort of Fort Morgue buddhas when we spoke
of nada, paused and wrote of Fibonacci in the hearts of flowers.

My kids called you Uncle Bill on Thanksgiving. Your exponential power
grew petaled mandalas, maxims, poems, countless philosophical jokes.
I bloomed, too, when we drank coffee and talked for hours.

Yellow walls, yellow teeth knocked out by stroke. Your guffaw never dour.
Soft-hearted old hermit, saved by love—your fractal mind, unyoked,
simply preferred, over kinfolk, Fibonacci in the hearts of flowers.

Especially Rose. You texted once: I fear dying alone. How were
we to know you would—of course you would, gentle misanthrope—
as we laughed, lit matches, drank coffee and talked for hours?
Now you dream electric seeds, Fibonacci in the hearts of flowers.

2021

for my dear friend, with no obituary, who would likely prefer the title, "Billanelle"

You Can Fill a Jar to the Top Twice

1.

Here, among the living, I speak to the mothers

of the dead. Seek out bouquets of hairy nettle,

contemplate the healing sting. Pinch off leaves

with thumb and pointer finger, gently, gently,

unstung. Or, in your rush, learn the joy of green

burn, that dull lingering. Spread this medicine

on a tray. Dry your gatherings in the dark.

By crackling fistful, drop them in a quart jar,

top them off with boiling water. Lid the brew.

Steep four hours. Drink deep to reach the ache

in your sobbing, perimenopausal womb

where the child once swam and breathed you.

2.

Here among the living, I speak to the mothers

of the dead. Valerian rises under the plum tree.

You didn’t expect a scent so sweet, white blooms!

You had to look it up, learn what to do: uproot

the long primeval stalks, smell the roots, wash

them in your kitchen sink and chop until the whole

house smells of teenage boy socks: colossal,

sacred, reeking feet. Grab a wide mouth Mason.

Pack it to the brim with roots. Fill it full, again,

with your favorite spirit: vodka, brandy, rum. Steep

six weeks. Sleepless, spoon it stinging, stinking,

under your tongue. Hold it there, burn. Lie down.

Circle the umbel of sleep. Press your cheek

against the soft in-between, lost queen. Nestle in.

Dream him.

2021

for Rosemerry

with thanks to Susun Weed for the title and Kierstin Bridger for the writing workshop

I Didn't Have to Wander Far

Clover is right here beneath me,
woven into grass, good friends.
Old Walt, I suppose, if I were
a grocery boy, a favorite sister, 
a mother of men, as I am, 
would want me to lie down 
here with him, perpendicular,
my head on his chest, both 
of us broken, both of us face up
into this willow where the sun
has travelled all night to throw
a thin, holey blanket over us.
A river breathes through tides
of faceted green, a sway, cooling 
my blood quaking with preemptive 
relief, a soothing reminder, respite
from what's to come. I store 
the chill against oppressive heat 
in my body's deep water, a battery.
Tree roots crawl along the surface, 
snake through grassy clover,
gather what they can, gather me.

2021

with thanks to Rick Kempa for his walking writer's workshop, Riverbend Park, Palisade, CO

Keen

One day our flesh and bone were nearly,

then dearly, cut away by hands we made.

One day strange hands filleted our breasts,

beloved friends, from our narrow rib cage.

Our men hold ground, grasp our feet

lifting off, pull us down from pain to arms,

from frayed rope, from blood, from knife,

from gun smoke, from sky, from fruitless hope.

Sisters! we cry, mountains away, our hands

too far to reach each other’s face and crown.

Distance requires wailing into phones

No no, no no, breath-broke, broken stones

rolling through our animal throats—pitched

grief washed voices only women know.

Do not mistake this duet for a song. If flesh

were not going or already gone, if someone

stood outside our panes of glass, peered in,

watched the scene unfold in silent mime:

our hands pressing slim machines

against our ears, our pacing out a pattern

on the rug, our gaping mouths, spasm spines,

eyes clamped shut, heads thrown back

could be mistaken for our ancient belly laugh.

Tapestry

What can you weave

into that beat up rusty door

you found in the barbed wire

arroyo? There’s a hinge,

a corner bent by force,

a strange gill up its length

wind has strummed

for decades. You could

shave your head

and thread the metal loom

with hair. You could mount

the door over a bulb,

let light create a shawl

for a room. You could

poke chicken feathers

through, fragile

reminders of impossible

flight, or gather up

the line of your blues,

that leather cord

strung with shells,

hagstones, sea glass.

You could ignore it,

leave it leaning there,

echo of the wobbly

garden gate, a forgotten

impulse weeds

grow through.

2020

Slow Touch

A woman lies open eyed in the dim morning. 
He is finally asleep after another 4 AM waking. 
She mostly lets him drift, sometimes 
interrupts his snore to wrap an arm around, 
across him, until decades of ache drive her 
back into solitary postures. Soon, she reaches 
again, hand seeking the buried beat inside 
his silken chest, places a kiss, another, 
on his warm shoulder. He sighs the sigh 
that comes from slow touch, manages a turn 
to lay his heavy arm across her waist, his hand 
somewhere in the void beyond her. She waits 
for that hand. Only when bored restlessness
and the clock finally win, when she sits up, pauses, 
feet on the chill floor, does he reach to caress 
the small of her back or hip poised to stand. 
A small investment. They both know she must go.
Perhaps it is similar to the way she calls her mother 
when she is driving toward mountains, knowing 
she will lose signal soon and the conversation 
has a sure expiration, will not wander on for hours, 
her mother’s retelling tales of loss and longing, 
ever etching grooves—waiting to be played, waiting 
for the needle to drop—on her daughter’s body.

Mountain Monsoon

Loud seconds turned ten minutes white.

Ice marbles shredded pines, and hundreds,

no, many thousands of tiny piñon cones

dropped like fists across flagstone paths

and bounced in drunken dance with hail

through carefully tended beds. Blood roses,

poppies, lilies, coneflowers, daisies,

hollyhocks, pots of mint, tomato, petunias,

basil, sage—all torn, bruised, deflowered

by odd stones, assault tangled up in rain

and new needles, everything now a sodden,

sad mulch. The quadrennial promise of pine

nuts lost—days later, ragged hands of hostas

raised a stand of pale poles. Purple buds

hung limp above green tatters, never bloomed

in surrender. Fire ants collected their nectar.

Ode to My Old Shovel

After admiring Fred’s—a thin, 
stubby-bladed thing
that cut just deep enough, 
freeing up a perfect scoop 
of manageable dirt 
my softening arms could heft
without undo sweat or back 
damage—the old farmer 
told me I could likely find one 
in the junk store
across the tracks, owned 
by a local hoarder 
who turned her piles of pots, 
clothes, games, lamps, 
tarnished antique spoons, 
vintage knick knacks,
candy dishes and early 20th 
century shovels into cash. 
I did. There it was in the back 
corner of the dim building, 
cobwebbed, silently sifting 
dust with other forgotten, 
slim implements, rusted brown, 
all of them leaning 
against walls and each other 
like a morning lit table 
of retired farmers sipping coffee, 
gossiping, reminiscing 
the sweet promise of rain 
in the nose. How to describe 
this beauty? Wood handle 
weather-grooved but still tight, 
easy to replace, gripless. 
Like Fred’s, the stepless, 
long-collared blade 
is extra thin and strangely shallow, 
its mysterious, misshapen tip: 
purposely forged? or—
workworn down to a gentle 
inverse curve, exactly opposite 
the pointed end you’d expect, 
not unlike a slice 
of homemade bread,
yin to a new shovel’s yang, 
as if a young man, 
this woman, could slowly smith 
the perfect tool 
against the fire inside 
a sweaty cotton shirt, 
file it in the giving grit 
of simple earth.

with gratitude to my old neighbor and friend,

Fred Wahlert of Brush, Colorado