Spring is the Season of Looking
1
Armies of the uninsured
Are standing on street corners
In heretofore unobserved clustering patterns.
They are dreaming the unfolding
Of the electrocuted sky.
A feather from some
Utterly forgotten bird
Quivers in the breeze
Beside the crumbling curb.
There is always a green
Light on in the school
For the autistic
And a red snake that crawls
On the window sometimes.
There is always a blind dog
Lying in the street
That keeps you from leaving town.
There are coffee drinkers
At the airport
Who always seem to be alive
For a particular reason.
People in the squalid houses
By the power station
Beneath the nocturnal certainty
Of the cold purple sky
Can always hear the trains
More clearly in February.
There is a café where the waitresses
Always look like they’re from Kansas
And have finally achieved
The subcutaneous zenith
Of the Texans—
The primal pneumatology of voice—
The spectral blur at the fulcrum
Between two worlds.
2
I was driving a bus
Full of retarded girl scouts
To dance naked around the tomb
Of the Unknown Cowboy.
I was hoping to escape,
Perhaps one more time,
The hedonistic protocols of the
Neighborhood luminaries
And the politics of remembered birthdays.
When I am among strangers
I am the road out of town.
I fall asleep among fresh graves
With a pomegranate in my hand
And walk down the crumbling stairs
Into the cold green water
Where I become the iconoclastic address
Of God.
3
There is a man with blues eyes
Standing in the darkness
That surrounds me. He can
Feel the subterranean winds
Of the interior. He fills
My waterclock with rain from Jerusalem
Until my voice becomes as rainy
As the cold brown foothills of China.
4
There are no coins for the juggler
In the city of the disappointed
Until he finds a new set
Of elevators in the long stations
Of his poverty.
This is the place where nothing
Has ever happened before.
This is the place which everyone
Knows exactly nothing about,
And a dying girl stares languidly
At a single arm that rises
Like a cobra in the window
Across the street.
5
We always thought in Egyptian
When we were crawling through
The pipes below the street.
I become an orange bird
In a house with no roof.
I was a beast in the garden of spiritis
Born twice into the season of looking
Where everything is more full
Of its own appearance—
In the spring
Which rattles my door
Like an animal that lives everywhere
And all the theologians are carried
Away by a flock of net-bearing sparrows—
Where I lived for forty years
In a meadow in the magpies brain
And smoked the last of my European
Cigarettes as I watched my lost daughters
Walk off into the fog.
I was nearly submerged in the ocean
I was nearly submerged in the ocean
And I saw green stones gleaming on the bottom.
There was a woman on the shore
With a bucket full of red watches.
It was a Spanish scene in the extreme.
A hat was full of the Spanish energy.
I had been to a bullfight of which
Picasso was President.
I couldn’t stop thinking
Of all that love and violence.
Spanish colors kept turning up in my mind.
I was a long way from home so I decided to stay.
There were communist heroes in the acid rain,
And somehow it all made sense
For a woman like that, an actress,
To have beautiful cats around her house.
The houses had a look of unreality like
Photos of architecture in a Turkish encyclopedia.
There was a slight shifting of flame in space.
I heard bells ringing and the windows began to tilt.
The sky became a jeweled saxophone.
The sun disappeared and left another light in its place.
Infinite extension from a fixed point in a single direction.
And Sagittarius was just a skeleton praying for sunlight.
Mrs. Thorn was seeking advice
1
Mrs. Thorn was seeking advice
Among the wicked
On the day my poems were burned
And I was lost somewhere
With twenty boy scouts
Who couldn’t find the ocean.
We had thrown our shoes
In a dumpster
And walked backwards
Through Las Vegas
For fear of transcending time.
Our best friends had already gone down
Below the eartern horizon
And the one visible cop
Lit another cigarette
To the detriment of us all.
The tragic malingerers
And the equatorial drunks
Still had their windows open
To their floribund autumn.
My girlfriend was High Priestess
Of the Ozarks that year
And she nailed me to the wall
With lit candles as her blue
Turban flickered in the sun.
The inbreathing of the flutist
At every pause becomes
The purest language of her need
Which is lightning and waves
With flowers in between.
2
What am I waiting for?
What endocept—what passion?
What happens when the dam
Finally breaks and we fall
Through the octagonal ingress?
What happens to the evil spirits
When we dream like this
On Thursday night?
3
It was an undulant twilight
In the flux of the open road
Where we had gone naked
Into the wilderness of the boars
And have returned
With our Levi jackets
In an old truck.
I devote myself to the water
And the rings of stars
In the warm Arizona midnight.
I have traded my face
For a fresh beard of tears.
I have made a small boat
Out of her mothers’ cedar chest
And navigate rivers
That run through factories.
Arizona is my big sister—
Queen of remembered twilights
Merciful Mother of drunks
Sweet Mary of the toxic
And motionless lizards.
We were phasing through mercurial pools
Of an unknown language
As the moons kept sailing
Behind the amber roofs
Of the mesa.
Thousands of birds were plotting
Their next flight
In the nearest cluster of poplar trees.
We could feel the embryonic warmth
Of the angels who were driving our truck.
The birds were learning to negotiate
With pure vacancy
And the Indians have befriended us
Once again with colored beads
And a new understanding
Of the motion of bodies.
We have abandoned our politics
For the sexual incognito
Of the reclining voluptuaries
On the journey to kindness
Where nothing and everything
Ends in a question mark.
Glenn Parker was born and lived in Salt Lake City, Utah. Before ending his own life at the age 37, in 1994, he inspired a generation of young writers and artists through the power of his voice and presence. For Parker there was no separation between his poems and himself. As Rimbaud said, Parker gave his “whole being every day.” He was utterly present and vulnerable in every encounter. For Parker this was simply what the fact of being demanded.
Parker embodied the possibility of literary work as vocation, rather than career; as alchemy, and as prophecy that does not aspire to dominate or coerce but to restore, elevate and free dormant potentials in people and situations. His continuing influence in the lives and work of those he affected testifies to his success in accomplishing this.
These poems are taken from his 1998 collection from Paper Salad Press, Bird full of Rain.