by Mather Schneider
First came the men
who carved figures in rocks
on the hills in the
desert.
Eons later the art teachers came
like lizards slinking
from the sea.
The teachers soon dominated the land.
Their philosophy:
the soul is a spring
you have to pay them to drink from.
They couldn't understand
how anything had survived
so long without their
instruction
and they institutionalized art
so that it would never slip
from their sticky
paws.
They brought it all inside
the safety of the yellowed walls
and stuck stiff
to the single agenda:
preservation of the status quo.
Every once
in a great while
a student will summon the courage
to walk away to the
desert
and fend for
himself.
What he finds
out is how
strong those first
men were,
how small one feels
alone under
the stars, and how hard
that rock is.
Showing posts with label Mather Schneider. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mather Schneider. Show all posts
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
TUCSON SOLICITUDE
by Mather Schneider
is the luck
of the heat-beat.
Monsoon claustrophobia
stuffs wet rags down our throats
while the nights become
our spit-on respite.
Television weathermen
are strung up at noon, radios
shot-gunned.
Every drugged-up drama queen
throws a tantrum for dignity
and a glorious life
without struggle.
The sun shimmers
like orange marmalade
and even the music
melts.
is the luck
of the heat-beat.
Monsoon claustrophobia
stuffs wet rags down our throats
while the nights become
our spit-on respite.
Television weathermen
are strung up at noon, radios
shot-gunned.
Every drugged-up drama queen
throws a tantrum for dignity
and a glorious life
without struggle.
The sun shimmers
like orange marmalade
and even the music
melts.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
ZEN CABBY
by Mather Schneider
All the lights turn green at your approach
and there’s a warm breeze
and your haircut grew in good
and your jeans are clean and loose.
Cab driving is like gambling:
it needs abandon to be done well.
Cars swerve out of your way
in the nick of time
and each call from dispatch
is exactly where you are
and you see each fare
before they see you.
You can’t be afraid
to lose.
You barely miss the train
and the cop
and the funeral procession
and you always have exactly the change you need
and when one fare cancels
another calls.
Some call you lucky
and cuss you
when they see you sitting in your cab
in the hot slow afternoon
in the shade
not worrying.
The trick is to trust nothing
but the deepest laws,
and the only way to trust
is to let go.
All the lights turn green at your approach
and there’s a warm breeze
and your haircut grew in good
and your jeans are clean and loose.
Cab driving is like gambling:
it needs abandon to be done well.
Cars swerve out of your way
in the nick of time
and each call from dispatch
is exactly where you are
and you see each fare
before they see you.
You can’t be afraid
to lose.
You barely miss the train
and the cop
and the funeral procession
and you always have exactly the change you need
and when one fare cancels
another calls.
Some call you lucky
and cuss you
when they see you sitting in your cab
in the hot slow afternoon
in the shade
not worrying.
The trick is to trust nothing
but the deepest laws,
and the only way to trust
is to let go.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
A COATIMUNDI ON A CRAPPY MONDAY
by Mather Schneider
It’s 5 a.m.
and still dark
when I pull my cab up
to trailer 82.
It’s a medical voucher.
Information: Ted Ols, 46,
destination Kino Medical.
Ted slithers out
of the trailer
slitting his
eyes in my headlights.
Did you see that?
He hisses
as he scurries into the back
of my cab.
What? I say. Where?
Over there, he says,
something in the bushes.
I drive away slowly, crawling over the speed-bumps.
He smells like a Coleman lantern
and is high as a fruit bat
from his morphine scriptfor a pain in his head no one has been able to
disprove.
This neighborhood’s going
to shit, he says.
The Mexican mob’s takin’ over!
Do you know what
they’re doing now? he says.
What? I say.
They’re smuggling Coatimundis.
Coatawhats?
From Mexico, he says, ugly
hairy things, big
on the black market.
I found one under my trailer the
other night, he says.
I heard something, he says,
and I got a broom and a flashlight
and I went outside and looked
underneath,
and these little yellow eyes
looked back at me!
I swear to god I could hear
the mother breathing!
In the dark he drills
holes in the
back of my head
and I just try
to make myself
as small as
possible.
It’s 5 a.m.
and still dark
when I pull my cab up
to trailer 82.
It’s a medical voucher.
Information: Ted Ols, 46,
destination Kino Medical.
Ted slithers out
of the trailer
slitting his
eyes in my headlights.
Did you see that?
He hisses
as he scurries into the back
of my cab.
What? I say. Where?
Over there, he says,
something in the bushes.
I drive away slowly, crawling over the speed-bumps.
He smells like a Coleman lantern
and is high as a fruit bat
from his morphine scriptfor a pain in his head no one has been able to
disprove.
This neighborhood’s going
to shit, he says.
The Mexican mob’s takin’ over!
Do you know what
they’re doing now? he says.
What? I say.
They’re smuggling Coatimundis.
Coatawhats?
From Mexico, he says, ugly
hairy things, big
on the black market.
I found one under my trailer the
other night, he says.
I heard something, he says,
and I got a broom and a flashlight
and I went outside and looked
underneath,
and these little yellow eyes
looked back at me!
I swear to god I could hear
the mother breathing!
In the dark he drills
holes in the
back of my head
and I just try
to make myself
as small as
possible.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
TOP OF THE MORNING AT THE CACTUS MOON
by Mather Schneider
Nick falls asleep at the Cactus Moon. He puts his head down on his chest and passes out sitting up. I call a cabby friend of mine, John, to come pick him up and take him home.
A few minutes later Nick wakes up and stumbles into the bathroom. John walks in while he’s still in the shitter.
“Thanks for coming,” I say to John.
“Which guy is it?” John says. “How fucked up is he?”
“He’s all right,” I say.
“Is he too drunk to remember where he lives?”
Whisperin Ron stands up. Whisperin Ron had an operation, throat cancer, and now talks in a hoarse whisper. He’s a homeless drunk, and looks it. Whisperin Ron and Nick are friends.
“Well, I’ll tell ya,” Whisperin Ron says to John, leaning in real close. “You’re gonna wanna go up Ninth Street here, to Euclid,” he points at the west wall of the bar. “Then, you’re gonna wanna turn right.” He looks at John. “You following me?”
“If you lose me I’ll let you know.”
“Ok,” Whisperin’ Ron says, “then, you’re gonna wanna go down Euclid, one block, and that’s Tenth Street.”
He pauses.
“Right,” John says.
“After that you’re gonna wanna go LEFT on Tenth Street and go two blocks. Two blocks, and that’s it, ok?”
He holds up two fingers in front of John’s face.
“It’s right there on the left,” Whisperin Ron says.
He turns his whole body left and points to the floor.
“The Alamo Apartments.”
“Got it,” John says.
“Number twelve.”
“Right,” John says. “So, you ready to go?”
“Who, me?” Whisperin’ Ron says.
“Not him,” I say, “it’s another guy. He’s in the shitter.”
“That’s a good one,” Ron whisper-laughs, sitting back down at the bar.
Nick stumbles out of the bathroom. After some convincing and a six pack of beer, to-go, Nick agrees to let John give him a ride home. John and I pour him into the cab.
“You owe me,” John points at me before getting in behind the wheel. Then they disappear into the sunlight. Looks like John is burning some oil. I turn back to the bar door, and stand there for a second. It’s already hot at 9 a.m., Jesus Christ.
Nick falls asleep at the Cactus Moon. He puts his head down on his chest and passes out sitting up. I call a cabby friend of mine, John, to come pick him up and take him home.
A few minutes later Nick wakes up and stumbles into the bathroom. John walks in while he’s still in the shitter.
“Thanks for coming,” I say to John.
“Which guy is it?” John says. “How fucked up is he?”
“He’s all right,” I say.
“Is he too drunk to remember where he lives?”
Whisperin Ron stands up. Whisperin Ron had an operation, throat cancer, and now talks in a hoarse whisper. He’s a homeless drunk, and looks it. Whisperin Ron and Nick are friends.
“Well, I’ll tell ya,” Whisperin Ron says to John, leaning in real close. “You’re gonna wanna go up Ninth Street here, to Euclid,” he points at the west wall of the bar. “Then, you’re gonna wanna turn right.” He looks at John. “You following me?”
“If you lose me I’ll let you know.”
“Ok,” Whisperin’ Ron says, “then, you’re gonna wanna go down Euclid, one block, and that’s Tenth Street.”
He pauses.
“Right,” John says.
“After that you’re gonna wanna go LEFT on Tenth Street and go two blocks. Two blocks, and that’s it, ok?”
He holds up two fingers in front of John’s face.
“It’s right there on the left,” Whisperin Ron says.
He turns his whole body left and points to the floor.
“The Alamo Apartments.”
“Got it,” John says.
“Number twelve.”
“Right,” John says. “So, you ready to go?”
“Who, me?” Whisperin’ Ron says.
“Not him,” I say, “it’s another guy. He’s in the shitter.”
“That’s a good one,” Ron whisper-laughs, sitting back down at the bar.
Nick stumbles out of the bathroom. After some convincing and a six pack of beer, to-go, Nick agrees to let John give him a ride home. John and I pour him into the cab.
“You owe me,” John points at me before getting in behind the wheel. Then they disappear into the sunlight. Looks like John is burning some oil. I turn back to the bar door, and stand there for a second. It’s already hot at 9 a.m., Jesus Christ.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
SHANNON'S OASIS
by Mather Schneider
Shannon was born 4 months premature
to a crack head mom.
She was so small
you could see her heart
like a goldfish
under paper-thin ice.
The hospital lights ripped and ruined
her tiny retinas
and the doctors didn’t give her
a month
but somehow here she is
30 years later
blindly limping toward my taxi on
taffy legs
with Lloyd,
her loyal yellow lab
guiding the way.
Lloyd climbs into the cab,
sinks to the floor
with a happy huff
and then Shannon feels her way
like a spelunker.
When she's comfortable
I drive her to the public pool
where she will sit so peaceful
under her dark umbrella
with an icy coke, moving her hand in
and out of the shade.
Shannon was born 4 months premature
to a crack head mom.
She was so small
you could see her heart
like a goldfish
under paper-thin ice.
The hospital lights ripped and ruined
her tiny retinas
and the doctors didn’t give her
a month
but somehow here she is
30 years later
blindly limping toward my taxi on
taffy legs
with Lloyd,
her loyal yellow lab
guiding the way.
Lloyd climbs into the cab,
sinks to the floor
with a happy huff
and then Shannon feels her way
like a spelunker.
When she's comfortable
I drive her to the public pool
where she will sit so peaceful
under her dark umbrella
with an icy coke, moving her hand in
and out of the shade.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
THE MIRACLE
by Mather Schneider
She was 74 and the plastic surgery
made her look like grandma when
she went skydiving.
I was her 36 year old cab driver.
She insisted on the front seat.
She had just returned to Tucson
from summering in Maine
during which she planted
hubby #4.
At a long red light she wondered
if I knew how hard it was
to find a man at her age.
“Most men think you want to get married,”
she said. “I just want to have
a good affair ”
She looked at me with eyes
that never blinked
metallic cheeks
fish-lips pulled toward
her ears
and jowls
like cheese tied with string.
And then
with the deftness of a 50 year old
she reached over
and squeezed my leg.
The miracle was how I avoided
killing the snowbird in the
blue Lexus.
She was 74 and the plastic surgery
made her look like grandma when
she went skydiving.
I was her 36 year old cab driver.
She insisted on the front seat.
She had just returned to Tucson
from summering in Maine
during which she planted
hubby #4.
At a long red light she wondered
if I knew how hard it was
to find a man at her age.
“Most men think you want to get married,”
she said. “I just want to have
a good affair ”
She looked at me with eyes
that never blinked
metallic cheeks
fish-lips pulled toward
her ears
and jowls
like cheese tied with string.
And then
with the deftness of a 50 year old
she reached over
and squeezed my leg.
The miracle was how I avoided
killing the snowbird in the
blue Lexus.
Friday, October 8, 2010
CACTUS FRUIT
by Mather Schneider
Sunburned from sleeping all day on the berme
I wake with a thirst
like a chili plant after a hundred
days without rain.
I pull my feet out of the scorpion sand and
pluck an open pitaya from the sagging
bloody end
of a cactus spike-
the fruit red like the guts
of a summer bat
on my face and lips
black seeds crackling between my teeth
like the fried eyes
of grasshoppers.
I walk up the hill to see where I
am
and look out at the desert always
bigger than you think
and smaller too.
Miles and miles of crimson
hills and yellow rock
a thousand green saguaros like guards
whose feet have grown into
the ground
whose minds have gone mad
with duty
and whose arms reach up
to the lone hawk against
the sunset.
I hitch my pants and
slide down the hill
and begin the slow march
towards the strange
twinkling
in the distance.
Sunburned from sleeping all day on the berme
I wake with a thirst
like a chili plant after a hundred
days without rain.
I pull my feet out of the scorpion sand and
pluck an open pitaya from the sagging
bloody end
of a cactus spike-
the fruit red like the guts
of a summer bat
on my face and lips
black seeds crackling between my teeth
like the fried eyes
of grasshoppers.
I walk up the hill to see where I
am
and look out at the desert always
bigger than you think
and smaller too.
Miles and miles of crimson
hills and yellow rock
a thousand green saguaros like guards
whose feet have grown into
the ground
whose minds have gone mad
with duty
and whose arms reach up
to the lone hawk against
the sunset.
I hitch my pants and
slide down the hill
and begin the slow march
towards the strange
twinkling
in the distance.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
BURNING ONE
by Mather Schneider
With hands mottled and fingers trembling I
take the joint from
Viking Mike who
says:
“There’s just nothing
to fucking do around here
anymore.”
Sammy the Apache
and I agree
as the three of us pass the joint
dumb with our old clothes
and puffed cheeks
in the sunset parking lot outside
the Buffet Tavern.
The joint is finally microscopic
and Sammy pops it in his mouth
and we stand there looking at each other’s
feet.
There is nothing left
but a one room apartment
with paths worn in the carpet
or a flattened out place
in the grass on the edge
of the city
or walking
all night
in the cold desert
air.
With hands mottled and fingers trembling I
take the joint from
Viking Mike who
says:
“There’s just nothing
to fucking do around here
anymore.”
Sammy the Apache
and I agree
as the three of us pass the joint
dumb with our old clothes
and puffed cheeks
in the sunset parking lot outside
the Buffet Tavern.
The joint is finally microscopic
and Sammy pops it in his mouth
and we stand there looking at each other’s
feet.
There is nothing left
but a one room apartment
with paths worn in the carpet
or a flattened out place
in the grass on the edge
of the city
or walking
all night
in the cold desert
air.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
PURO NOGALITOS
by Mather Schneider
Some guy threatens to kill me
on the internet, so I shut
it down for a while.
When you criticize one person
you’ve soon got a mob
on your ass
zombies pawing you
like cowards to the pile on.
I say to my girlfriend:
Let’s go to the mountains, let’s get
away from this shit.
We drive up and park the car
and hike up a trail.
These big blue birds follow us
for a while and there are a lot
of squirrels and it is chilly
but not too chilly.
Way up on the mountain we find a place
out of the wind
and we sit down and look
out at all the layers of
mountains covered with pine and cedar and
blue spruce and just a bit of yellow
from the sumac leaves
along the creek beds
and I feel better than
I have for a long time.
I wish I could stay there forever
but even if I could
I would not.
As we stand to leave
I see where has someone carved
the name of a local street gang
“PURO NOGALITOS”
on the trunk of a
yellow pine
and put a jagged heart
around it.
Some guy threatens to kill me
on the internet, so I shut
it down for a while.
When you criticize one person
you’ve soon got a mob
on your ass
zombies pawing you
like cowards to the pile on.
I say to my girlfriend:
Let’s go to the mountains, let’s get
away from this shit.
We drive up and park the car
and hike up a trail.
These big blue birds follow us
for a while and there are a lot
of squirrels and it is chilly
but not too chilly.
Way up on the mountain we find a place
out of the wind
and we sit down and look
out at all the layers of
mountains covered with pine and cedar and
blue spruce and just a bit of yellow
from the sumac leaves
along the creek beds
and I feel better than
I have for a long time.
I wish I could stay there forever
but even if I could
I would not.
As we stand to leave
I see where has someone carved
the name of a local street gang
“PURO NOGALITOS”
on the trunk of a
yellow pine
and put a jagged heart
around it.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
REWARD
by Mather Schneider
A black beetle
staggers in circles
in the dirt
while a mother cat and her four kittens
crouch around it
not knowing or caring
how long the beetle slept
dreaming grub dreams
before emerging from the earth
a little miracle in armor.
One part we all share
is this brutal
and scared
and beyond morality.
The cats know
movement
small movement,
they know
soft guts and hunger.
The beetle’s reward:
to be alive for less
than an hour
and to never
give in.
A black beetle
staggers in circles
in the dirt
while a mother cat and her four kittens
crouch around it
not knowing or caring
how long the beetle slept
dreaming grub dreams
before emerging from the earth
a little miracle in armor.
One part we all share
is this brutal
and scared
and beyond morality.
The cats know
movement
small movement,
they know
soft guts and hunger.
The beetle’s reward:
to be alive for less
than an hour
and to never
give in.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
FIRST HIKE OF THE YEAR
by Mather Schneider
She bends her knees like a paper deer
into the tiger-stripe shadows
on the forest floor,
slides down pink
petal-thin panties
and drops tiny champagne piano keys
onto the earth.
I pull her to me
before the froth can settle, shake wild
salt onto her tongue
and shove my stiffened taste into
the coveted nerve between
the two perfect halves
of spring.
She reaches out to the old rough skin
of an oak tree and tries
to shove it over and ride it
down the sheer face
while from my
cramped toes I shoot
ropes of snow
into the hot syrup of
our blood.
Sometimes it feels
so good to
get away from
the city
and into
the mountains.
She bends her knees like a paper deer
into the tiger-stripe shadows
on the forest floor,
slides down pink
petal-thin panties
and drops tiny champagne piano keys
onto the earth.
I pull her to me
before the froth can settle, shake wild
salt onto her tongue
and shove my stiffened taste into
the coveted nerve between
the two perfect halves
of spring.
She reaches out to the old rough skin
of an oak tree and tries
to shove it over and ride it
down the sheer face
while from my
cramped toes I shoot
ropes of snow
into the hot syrup of
our blood.
Sometimes it feels
so good to
get away from
the city
and into
the mountains.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
ON THE BANKS OF THE RILLITO
by Mather Schneider
This river is dying
it is just a dry
twisted
gash in the desert.
There is not even any mud under
the low rocks
for the javelinas to wallow in.
But when the monsoon rains
come in the hot belly-dancing dream
of summer
like laughter from the
hills
dangerous laughter
loud and wet and spraying your face
everything
is transformed.
It swells and calls
itself a river again,
not a wash or a gash or
a memory, it jumps
from symbol to something
infectious and messy, sand flows
wolf the banks
like cake, the savage
joy of it
with that pulse of
rapid change that passes
for meaning to a
grateful
dried up human
being.
This river is dying
it is just a dry
twisted
gash in the desert.
There is not even any mud under
the low rocks
for the javelinas to wallow in.
But when the monsoon rains
come in the hot belly-dancing dream
of summer
like laughter from the
hills
dangerous laughter
loud and wet and spraying your face
everything
is transformed.
It swells and calls
itself a river again,
not a wash or a gash or
a memory, it jumps
from symbol to something
infectious and messy, sand flows
wolf the banks
like cake, the savage
joy of it
with that pulse of
rapid change that passes
for meaning to a
grateful
dried up human
being.
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