WHITE BUFFALO: The Story of a Mayan Prince

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I consulted with the Tarahumara
I visited with the Cubano
Tribal or ideological, we
Surfed the tube, in a shared text
in the guts of America,
not friends exactly, but Wayfarers,

A rug dealer, a white man
smoking brown cigarettes,
weeps over my paintings on a Thursday
with a whiskey back, another snapshot

Alberto: I’d rather be single,
than married to a professional whore
[“I make the women beautiful.”]
One night he wakes me with a rap
on my window, I roll out of the single
bed, blade in hand, in a crouch,
Alberto hushes his date,
who giggles, as I scan the room,
creep to the window, peer out
into the night, while they hide,
on the stairs, and I return
to my dreams, never having
awakened.

NOTES: “I’ll take one, if you take one!”
WB to a comrade, Mutt and Jeff,
Tit and Tat, Mona Lisa [NO RECOLLECTION]
& Khadaffy, high from labor or grog,
“Here’s to Life
Here’s to Me & Here’s to You
& If we disagree, to Hell
with You!” Gino calls it spic jive
for holy rocknrollers, Ride to
[Destination illegible]
“I’m getting burned out, fried,
bent and twisted out of shape,
by society’s pliers.” Better than
[Kubler’s shape of time] a couple
of Kids, to Mexico or Uganda, the
Door’s wide open, and White Buffalo:
Mexicans aren’t allowed in this country,
Unless they work.” “We’re all refugees,
now.” The alien is a cyclops.

Hilda was the friend of DH Lawrence
& was beautiful long before Alberto
migrated here, she drove to Taos
in her convertible Cadillac, powder
blue, wearing a scarf, knew not a soul,
before the great WAR, a confidante,
flashing stones, silver, guns
in the glove compartment, proud
weathered, recalling Patsy Cline
late night poker games with hard drinkers,
They don’t make’m like that no more.
Nothing artificial about her. Alberto
was wrong. I’m looking at Dance on
the monitor & well aware of its
artificial screen, and still, the man
does not own her, or make her beautiful,
the dance does, and the artificial
person kills dance. So, we dance.
& Shiva kills the corporation,
while the Cuban strums his guitar,
& Fidel strokes his ghostly beard,
& the professional goes weird,
& Hunter smokes his cherry on a stick,
& all the dreamers of that stupid era
enrich themselves eternally &
long into the starless night, no
games to play or win, we had our party,
like the fragrance of pinon after spring
rain, in the desert, below the bloody
peaks, draped with water, frozen
dreams, to thaw next spring, partly,
some going up to the clouds, some
seeping underground, some trapped
in pipelines, flowing down and down
and all around, this way or that,
leaking here and there, seeking a seed,
to sprout, to live a while, to reach
for the sun, to strain to the light,
to rise as Speed would say, RISE,
to die, to whither and dry in the sun,
the sun they wanted with all their
might, knew only through skin, flower,
and new seed, by French a dance,
a Destroyer of Worlds, that one,
from Bhagavad Gita until now, one
ladder, one voice, one arc of the shoot,
one pink cloud, the cloud fucking
with the mountain as Gino said,
all the same and not one different,
when my hands were quivering, not
from DTs, and which art from addiction,
and YES, says the Stewart, and accept
your proposition Rudy, your spiritual
riches, the girl the house the money
too, so I can visit Auntie Aina
or Uncle Sam in Hanalei, diving
with Honu, in the reefs or body
womping at Kailea, turned upside
down at Polihale, or tossing aside
my wheelchair at Waimea Canyon,
for the engine that don’t stop
Ever, choosing Life, a life,
a girl, a humble home, and enough.

The wind is a sea
I approach delirium
trembling, waiting
for Medicine Tea

No meal in 3 days
the dogs circling my altar
not a dollar to my name
not a thing on me I own
only in me, thirst and
hunger, mine to let go.

JP & me laugh over
telephone wires
talking, friends
of summer, of fishing
& new songs, new days,
Janet, in this dream
buys me lunch,
a blue road, curving
obstacles of no matter.
No matter at all.

Another prayerful drawing
- Stick with your art
They all say, my dear friends,
my ghosts, my lovers, my kin.

ON PAGE 19 You arrogant hipsters
cannibalizing tourists
buying Christian babies in Haiti
ARTSTARS buying babies
Vegetarians on pretense
Pushing principles of non-
engagement & anger management
praying to your plastic god,
asset-free only, quivering
hands in the offering basket
if you can get away with it,
YOU ARE a marvelous artificiality,
a new brand of unreality,
ambitious as death’s escape,
fueled only by your fear of it,
lurking in shadows at the fireside,
O but I get it, you aged like Queens,
barren, bitter, in love only
with your regrets & despised enemies
your parents, the breeders, the ones
who gave you life, the greatest gift
of two people, so proud you divorced
them, and like a snake with Eve,
titled yourself ARTIST, with no leader,
no hero, no damsel to rescue, no
kingdom to serve, to die to honor,
only critics, court buffoons,
entertainment for bored courtesans,
whose myth fades with each second
that recedes, to be replaced,
by a wrinkle, sloth of wit,
appeal for lust reciprocated
with rejection, an annoyance,
a hanger-on, a barfly, a boor,
a bore, an ornament of spite,
a swindler, a nabob, a mite.
Skittering across the floor
of the desert, a scorpion,
whose poison has no bite,
no fang, no prick, whose
gesture yields no delight,
a jester, now contrite,
whose rear window seizes
no light, the vultures circle
a square, a pot to piss in,
a relic, a frieze, a victim
of wind, a victim of acid,
deformed of visage, deformed
of phlegm, no alchemy to preserve,
no arts to disturb, to abjection,
no lure, no bait - inevitable,

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ON PAGE 18 it is water the weary
desire, for the desert is real,
and at Babe’s we trafficked in the un-
real, real, who was a one-armed
veteran, who chortled corridos

- I couldn’t believe it, when
he died, until I saw the paper,
read the notice

RED TED’S BLESSING [Terrible Ted]:
The only thing can calm you me or any
body else is the love of most holy
Yahweh, through the salvation of his only son
Emanuel> I still see him on the haunches
of that a-historic beast, loping across
the chemical sands of White Sands
the proving grounds, where I survived
the onslaught of tarantulas, while
devouring the content of a shoebox
of drugs, seeing half a continent
in a month, including Yosemite, under
a full moon, by El Capitan, when
a deer walked right up to me
in my stupor. Paul was there,
the son of a birdman, an artist.
No one gave us permission. No one
could stop us. We ripped the seats
out of the brand new Elkhart custom
van and rode the freeways in one
giant loop, from Chinatown to Santa
Fe, reading Louis L’Amour and making
prayerful drawings, posing next to
Redwoods, on acid at the Grand Canyon,
then Vegas, and neon, in the Rockies,
at the top, further - I didn’t know
what was happening to me. I have
been so lucky. God bless the Middle
Class. God bless the Highway. God
bless RocknRoll, so much I named my
black wolf dog after it, and I would
blow smoke in his ears, before we
crept into the night, into the Pecos
Wilderness.

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THE CHEMICAL GIANT and other love stories
by Pablo Bruto ***

- A sermon first delivered in June of 88
in the Church of What’s Happening Now
- the very reverent Red Ted, graduate of
UT Austin, presiding.

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Rudy loved Hawkings. I can’t write much
about this conversation, without giving
away too much, of what you’re require not to,
but suffice to say, the key’s in the lock
and the turning’s done. The bad guys don’t
win this time, and they never have, and they
never will, but that don’t matter much
to the young soul in the battered coil.
Usually. It was a pretty Santa Fe sunset
or sunrise. I looked into the clouds
and met each Thunder by name.