I wonder how this place must have been
Before the Spanish
Before the American gunships

I wonder how this place must have been
For the ancient ones in big canoes
Scavenging and hunting this coast
When the great Redwoods
Were 20 feet across
Rising silent as these headlands
Their uppermost branches piercing the sky

I wonder how this place must have been
In the days of the Conquistadors
When hundreds of miles of empty trail
Seaparated the towns
When the evening wind was full of whale songs
And flamenco guitars

I wonder how this place must have been
In the days of the Chinese rail men and barbary saloons
When ships sailed north for gold
And fortunes were won and lost and won again

I wonder how this place must have been
In the days of Woody Guthrie
Who called it a garden of Eden
When dust bowl refugees came west
To harvest fat grapes, apples and oranges

I wonder how this place must have been
In the turbulent '60s
When the streets filled with flower children, electric guitars
And people from all over the world flocked here
To dance to the beat of a new generation

I wonder how this place must have been
Before the trees were extrapolated
And the sweet rich ground paved over
Before ugly tenements were crumpled by earthquakes
And the water was turned into poison

I wonder how this place must have been
When these white beaches were not overrun by tourists
And the air was not thick from industrial exhaust

I wonder how this place must have been
Before paradise was denied
Behind chain-link fences and 10-foot stone walls
I wonder how this place must have been

I wonder how this place must have been
But in my mind's eye,
I know, it was beautiful

i was on the outskirts of Hiroshima
when the future of humanity was splayed
like some slaughtered animal
i was on the knoll in Dallas
where i saw bullets from every direction
i was on the balcony in Memphis
and in the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel
i was walking the streets of New York City
the night John Lennon died

i am a silent witness
i am the nameless man
mine is the tongue that never speaks
the face that's never seen

i was there at Baden Baden
i was there at Wounded Knee
i stood by in Jerusalem
and at the pyre of Joan of Arc
i was in Mai Lai
watching from a river bank
i was in the crowd at Kent State
and down in Mississippi
where those boys were killed by Klan
i was standing in Tiannemen
when the tanks came rolling in

i am a silent witness
i am the faceless man
mine is the tongue that never speaks
the voice that's never heard

i was there at Batoche
and at the court house in Regina
i was in the deserts of Bangladesh
and in the towns of Chechnya
i was down in Kosovo
and in the war rooms of the Pentagon
i have watched over president's shoulders
and sat with the corporate heavyweights

i am a silent witness
i am the nameless man
mine is the tongue that never speaks
the face that's never seen

i am a silent witness
i am the nameless man
mine is the tongue that never speaks
the face that's never seen
and because of me
the crimes go on

i am the silent witness
but i must not be silent long

the street is a river roused with the flood
neon shivers in cascading light
the cafes and bars are open tonight
open to strangers and old friends alike

wasted at curb-side the drunkard in tremors
sleeps with an empty bottle beside him
taxis and busses flash from the corners
young couples joke as they walk
to loud cabarets or cool jazzy lounges
where they dance drink toast one another

this street poet sits in hideaway places
looking up from his pages to check out the faces
of old folks and young folks and all folks alike
the hard-looking searchers and the go-lucky who find

through daylight and night time
from sweet dreams to tough working hours
sunrise and dusk noon and midnight
the street is a river roused with the flood

she always had a soft spot for words
i guess that is what made us close
-her precise spelling
and fundamentally perfect handwriting

but she was never given a map of escape
she was pinned to her sorrows
a shadow to a lamppost

bitter hurt unhappy
she had all the symptoms
of a heart too big
for this world

sleep well mom
i miss you

i write about life, my life
if i have been in the woods with the wildflowers and wind
my poem will be about wildflowers and wind

if i have visited my mother's grave
my poem will be about my mother

thirty years ago last month
i left home on my thumb
with a sleeping bag and a $20 bill
for several years my poems were about hitchhiking
from town to town

when i nearly killed myself with alcohol
my poems were about disillusion
self pity
anger

when i slept with both penelope and olivia
on the same night
in the same bed
my poem was about menage a trois

my muse
my muse is breathing
it is not some imagined ancient being
with wisdom on its breath
it is not some conjured god
seated in judgment

my muse is the laughter on my young son's lips
when i make silly faces at him
it is the joy in old Audrey's eyes
when i read her my poetry

my poetry is the paralytic ice
that raged through my consciousness
when a good friend chose suicide

my poetry is the pleasure that coursed through my veins
the last time you opened you legs to me

my poetry is the sun beating on my back
as i bend over my vegetable garden

it is the rain streaming up my nostrils
as i peddle furiously through a sudden rain storm

i write about life, my life
my words have scared some people away
while drawing others close

my poetry has been a fleet ship on an ocean of confusion
and an old gumboot gurgling in the mud

my poetry has brought exaltation
and a share of ridicule

it has fed my soul
and starved my body

it has made young people laugh
and old men weep with understanding

my poetry has been my redemption
and my damnation
in every sense of those words

it has protected me from my enemies
while posting my contradictions for public display

my poetry is breathing
and if it stirs something in you
perhaps it is because
you are breathing too