Beautiful Noise

Nuke the Canyon


The canyon is our mother,

mouth of Earth's womb.

We climbed to the surface,

our hands newborn soft,

our spines growing hard;

We rose from the moist depths,

sprouts of her sweet soil.


Let's call Christo to the canyon,

make a veil of chartreuse canvas,

have him wall the rim in fabric:

miles of yellow, miles of green–

Prettiest sight I've ever seen!

Nuke the canyon; fill 'er in;

Let's let Nature try again!


Have that cyclist fly across it,

aim his rocket at the north rim,

ride his metal, red-tipped pencil

–How far?–into lasting fame.

Write his name in history!

Red rims lined with lovely ladies,

haltertops and hot pink hotpants,

real men chanting hymns to maleness,

beer foam shining beards and bellies.


before the great ascension,

offer up to Aztec gods–

gods who wandered in their whirlwind,

in their wheeling Nazi whirlwind,

turning, gyring, coming

round to this dark forbidding shore;

offer up a puling newsman:

smash his camera,

wield the ritual jewelled cane;

acolytes will force submission.

Break an arm.

Break a leg.

Nuke the canyon; fill 'er in;

Let's let Nature try again!


Let's send Halston hunting burros–

jackass floorlength coats–trés chic!

Show him how to use a flenser,

give him thread and leather punches,

dress him sharply in fresh burro

(trés suave!)

Xipe Totec will admire him: trés,

trés élègant!

(Don't tell him:

Five coyotes leaning on a wall,

just inside a dark box canyon,

flippin' butterflies and jivin'

(click, snick, thup.

click, snick, thup.)

tellin' jokes and laughin' soft,

legs crossed at the ankles,

hats pulled over one eye:

click, snick, thup.



"Hey man: like your threads man.

Hey come 'ere man; really like dhat

tray cheek burroskin suit man."

"But ma-a-an does it stink!!!"

(click, click. thup).

Nuke the canyon; fill 'er in;

Let's let Nature try again!


Here come Wotan,

climbin' up the south face,

dressed in tatters,

got both eyes.

Hung head down make his face all red.

Skull's on fire.

Got no hair; got flame toupee.

Eyes stuck in with gum;

eyes don' move till turn his head.

Wake the twins!

Don't want them to miss the fun.

Serpent in the canyon crawls, crawls, crawls.

Get your gods out while you can!

Watch the gates of Shiva's Temple.

Rock falls in torrents,

boulders bounce pinball crisp

off obelisks that blink and buzz.

Gates swing wide; Shiva


from the darkness,


with millennial dignity–

flesh, meat of red stone,

blood, muddy water,

eyes, hard as carbon crystal,

eyes, blank as still water at noon,

eyes, old as stars with too many birthdays–

dark, hungry, still.



Stones are the music,

Quarternotes a thousand years.

Hands weave six snakes–

magic hands pull mushrooms from burnt air.

Pop: bright angels angle from palms.

Pop: rare angels, earth pure, elemental.

Pop: Death's angels, Christmas tall,

rising all grey.

Feet step south in dance.

Gates ease shut.

Shiva dances:

six hands tossing slow confetti–

mushroom spore.

Shiva dances.

Red rocket strikes stone flesh.

Shiva dances.

Chartreuse veil bits catch

on limbs, burst in



Shiva dances.

Five yellow muzzles offer up

chic meat.

Shiva is hungrier than that.

Shiva dances, stepping south,

making his solid music,

making his curtain of grey ash,

making his audience of stars–

one winks off, another, then


Down in the darkness, way way down,

Down in the cold wet dark,

Down where the sun don't ever shine–

River curls like tromped snake;

River writhes like cut worm;

River sidewinds to the sea.


Dam 'er with concrete;

Cork up 'er lifeblood;

Save our water!

Make a surface for the sky to suck.

Make clouds; make rain;

Clouds for sunshade,

Rain for Texas swamps.


Mama, mama, make

me soft, make me

sweet again, make



I wanna come home, come home.

He who made the lamb made me.

made me mama

we mama

made the tiger

made the girl lives down

to Tucson too.


Summon dredges from Black Mesa,

Loose their tiger-footed rage–

not to stripmine in the canyon,

but to help us pull

the heavy blankets

up around our chins.

Laying tiger scratches:

long from north to south,

long from west to east,

long from south to north,

long from east to west,

long from north to south again–


mound it up;

mound it up.


Designer hand sprouts like bristlecone,

grasping past reach

(Night of the Living Chic).

Daredevil boot sticks upside down

from rubble:

gold lamé utility boot

studded with rubies,

glittering with diamonds,

patriotic sapphires blue

as flagfields.

The sole is ripped loose.

The upper, upside down,

flexes once away

from unused sole–

Spastic wave goodbye.




Artist's chartreuse rags and tatters wave


wave goodbye.


The last stereo speaker still wired

breathes staccato


The Ramones riff off

The National Anthem.


Soul of vulture gyres above the bones,

head skull-naked, white as sun,

wattles all fire, wings a lazy V,

turning in the dusty column,

turning sunwise spirals,

slow as mountains.


Mound it up.

Mound it up.

Dust devil spins debris,




Poetry Writing Dancing Badger