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Foray:
A Fungophile's Epithalamium
--for Jason and Anne
It's sunrise
& we are rising with you
in the mists of a new morning.
Where a new life
will burst out of the dew
& duff.
Head like a mushroom
bearing your spore.
And joining hands
under the banner of our clan
we'll all march
& dance & make merry.
Celebrating the wild
& visible fruiting
of unseen ties
that surprise us
with colorful family.
Rich lives.
Addicted
Chocolate to morphine. Acid to ecstasy.
I could jones with you forever.
Your taste on my tongue.
Sure sometimes it's tit-for-tat. Give & take
but in the end it's both of us
who get taken away.
You tell me
it's Tibetan Tantric be-here-now time.
But all I can hear
are the crazed bees of electricity
humming in the wires
& the sweet honey of your voice.
Love is a dented circle
pierced with arrows. I give you
rough-cut alabaster.
You take my anger & polish it
to a mirror sheen where finally
I can see my own scuffed self.
It's time to dance, I tell you.
To hoof it while we can.
So, take my hand, darling,
& let's do the tarantella
under the Anasazi black sky
looking south to Lone Cone
& I'll look once more
into the polished juniper berry
blue of your eyes
where, believe me,
I'm so much here
I'm gone.
All I Want.
All I want. Expect. Dream about.
Oui.
Appears at my door.
Blond Venus. Perfect fantasy.
It's Christmas come true.
Can I believe it?
Kierkagaard spoke of
a leap of faith.
Erickson of the balance
between trust & distrust.
And Utah Phillips says
every so often
you have to wake up
& jump off a cliff.
Trying all the rides
kids go wild at the county fair.
Plunge no hands on the roller coaster.
At home get sick.
Throw up cotton candy.
Magical thinking
catches us up short.
Doesn't pay off
exacto.
We know better & still
we over-extend.
Putty up all the holes
until nothing shows.
Not even thumbtacks in the back.
Nobody's exempt.
If all I need
is the spark within.
Om-
niscient design.
Why do I risk paradise
to pass my time
chasing after pinups
with knockers like red delicious?
Why eat apples at all?
We do what we do
burning our own bush
to light a path in the darkness.
And vile as it seems
we learn from the waxen spray.
The hot flash of spill on bare skin.
Making those integral mistakes
that guide the wanderer home.
Art Goodtimes: Conceived in New Mexico but born in San Francisco, Art Goodtimes -- poet, journalist and organic potato farmer-- is serving his third term as a Green County Commissioner in southwestern Colorado. Former poetry editor for Earth First! Journal and founder of the Talking Gourd poetry tradition, Goodtimes has served as poet-in-residence for the annual Telluride Mushroom Festival for the past 25 years and makes his home near Norwood on Wright's Mesa at the western edge of the San Juans.
relevant websites:
http://colopoets.unco.edu/poets/goodtimes_art/index.html
http://coyotekiva.org/t-bear.html
http://www.sanmiguelcounty.org/goodtime.htm
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