Cancel my subscription to the resurrection.
— Jim Morrison
Doug sent me a golden gingko leaf in the mail—
in a dancing ninjas envelope & a LUCKY IN LIFE,
RECKLESS IN LOVE card—a large woman in a straw hat &
blue rhinestone cat glasses in an old-school bathing suit.
Sealed with a stamp of a Japanese maidservant by
Eishōsai Chōki, designer of ukiyo-e woodblock prints.
I wander the house thinking of burning—
what marks us & what stays?
Soon the light will blaze the side window.
It’s the thin, delicate gingko that survives, even
under siege in San Francisco fire & virus. What
is worth resurrecting?
A guy I know wears the face of his first love,
a 3×5 tattoo in blazing colors, covering his neck.
He walks the streets of the neighborhood &
tells his story of leaving her at the airport
in Saigon & how his body churned with being
torn from her. Sometimes I see him on the street
pointing at his neck, gesturing. The war, he
was young, & see her hair, liquid dark. Then
he shows his Skydog tattoo,
Duane Allman on his arm after his
bike wipeout in ‘71. His only two loves, he says.
Duane’s long wild hair in faded blue,
with Skydog repeating in a circle around him.
Wilson Pickett gave him that name, he says,
when they played together at Muscle Shoals.
Sometimes he slides a photo of his love
from the army jacket he still wears.
See her delicate flower dress.
Him 50 years younger in uniform,
his thick body beside hers, & now
she’s on & inside him.
He built an altar to her in his front room,
with angel stones & a fire wheel to cleanse
the karma & honor those passing & a propped-
up copy of Live at the Fillmore to let loose
the Skydog vibe, Duane Allman smiling
on the cover as the drug connection arrives.
When he tells me the story the first time,
he’s alive with her, sparks flying out from
his body as he speaks her name
after not seeing her for five decades.
His fire splatters me, sets me ablaze:
my clothes are gone, my eyes have changed,
it’s a love wildfire & I’m in it. My body moves
differently, slides in the knowing story of his love.
In the new poem he wrote for her:
I dream your dress
at the airport, last time
as the fire wheel spins
He slips the photo slowly into the combat
sleeve pocket, zips his jacket to cover her.
He walks her to the park for his daily resurrection.