The Magpies Fly
About The Doctor's Office

I Go To The Doctor's Office Without An Appointment.
These Birds Are Flying All Over The Place.
The Radio Plays Old Vietnam War Music.
I Explain To The Receptionist I Need Help.
I Tell Her How I'm So Lonely.

She Turns Off The Radio And Opens The Door For Me To Come On In.
Damn The Birds Swoop So Low.
I Protect My Face With My Arms.
I Whistle A Happy Tune And Try To Remember What It Says In The Bible.
The Flapping Wings Create A Music Unto The Morning of Themselves.

The Nurse Turns To Me And Says..."The Magpies Have Returned."
They Have Returned To The Nevada Desert Where They Like To Test Nuclear Weapons.
I Stand Up And Watch A Cloud of These Birds Swarm Amongst The Laughing Pains In A Long History Where Stands The Lonely Man Just Recently Discharged From A Locked Hospital Ward.

The Magpies Have Returned To The Nevada Desert.
A Woman Sits Alone One Evening Beside The Burned Out Coals From Something That Remains From An Old Ceremonial Fire.
Where They Taught Us To Dance.
She Sits There Alone And Tells Me About The Magpies And How They Gradually Returned Since Their Village Has Grown In This Sorry Vacant Desert.
She Sat There On Some Old Upholstered Couch Outside About The Fire Circle Where They Dance.
Doesn't Rain Enough To Worry About The 2nd Hand Furniture Sitting Outside In The Atmosphere of A Quiet Terrain Where The White Man Used To Test Nuclear Weapons.
She Told Me About How Life Is Beginning To Return To The Desert.
One Young Brave Spoke Once To Me Telling Me How There Used To Be Antelope And Deer Grazing Amongst Where There Had Been Great Forests.
"The Magpies Have Returned" She Reassures Me.
And That Evening I Loaded My Pack And An Indian Brave Drove Me To The Distant Deserted Bus Depot Where I Stood Amongst The Ancient Bones of An Empty Gas Station.
And I Got Out And He Drove Away.
Leaving Me Alone With All I Could Carry On My Back.
"The Magpies Have Returned." She Said To Me In Her Home That One Day I Thought Was Just A Desert.
You Know...I Thought It Was In The Solitaire Evening...Just A Desert.

- Peter Leon

A Peaceful Midnight
Forgets The Hospital Morning

Sitting Up In My Hospital Bed With Planets Rotating Around My Blindfold.
In The Cosmos of Hospital Laundry.
A Jar of Intelligence Is In A Dark Basement With A Pile of Unread Love Letters.
Surrounded By Exploding Galaxies As The Nurse Comes In To Give Me Medicine From The Carefully Ground Roots By The Aging Hands of The Medicine Man At The Base of The Mighty Mt. Shasta.
The Planets In Orbit Around My Hospital Bed.
A Radio Sits Upon The Window Sill.
The Wings of A Blackbird Waver In The Trust of The Old Librarian.
I Remember An Old Song From The Subway Operator.
And A Photo of My Grandmother.
In My Hand Is A Pack of Lucky Strikes.
I Sleep In The Aging Neighborhood Beside The Mountain Stream Waters Fresh Hospital Afternoon.
I Keep The Burnt Photographs of The Sabbath Laws.

Railroads Following The Path Through A Saturday Evening Geography.
My 3 Year Old Sister Rolls In The Summer Grasses.
And I Stand Outside The Neighborhood Drugstore.
A Toothpick Between My Teeth.
I Stay Awake All Night Long.
The Orderly Peers Through A Crack In The Open Door With A Flashlight.
Planets Rush Through My Eyes With The Dry Summer Unopened Love Letters of The Last Entry Into A Young Man's Journal.
As Sure As Abraham Obeyed The Lord To Slay His Only Son.
Jupiter Rushes Ever Closer With Exploding Storms As I Stand Inside The Old Fashioned Elevator.

I Light Another Cigarette And Unfold The Afternoon Newspaper.
And When Dawns Descend Upon The Old Planets They Gradually Hide In The Sacred Atmosphere of My Father's Universal Living Room.
I Am Wrapped In Laundered Linens.
My Lack of Comfort Reflects The Evening of Those Passed Over So Many Times.
Thundering Saturn Hovers Above The Corner Drugstore With Old Telephone Booth Light.

But I Am Left Alone Like A Faithful Constellation Hovering On A Saturday Afternoon Little League Baseball Game.
I tighten The Blindfold As I Am A Prisoner of My Own Likings When The Solar Flares Remind Me of Old Fashioned Peasant Music.

And Hovering Above My Hospital Bed Is The Second Nearest Star To This Wretched Planet... Alpha Omega!
In My Hands Is My Great-Grandfather's Notebook...An Immigrant's Memory of The New World.
He Becomes A Peddler On The Streets of New York City.
Upon Foot Toting A Back Pack Loaded With Pots & Bottles Filled With The Active Bird Wing Meadow Jam Made True In The Rising Mist & Morning Bread Sufficiently Wrapped In The Early Light of Dirty Sweatshop Cloth For The Mute Tailors of The Night.
He Sleeps Beneath The Bridge Wrapped In His Hand Sewn Coat.
Crumpled Linen Jacket For A Pillow As He Is Approached By A Black Horse While Still Asleep.
Nuzzled Against His Face He's Awakened By The Predecessor of The Electric Subways...A Four Legged Animal.
A Prize As Great As The Universal Memory Enriched Orbiting Planets.
And I Think Back To Those Days.
I Light A Sweet Cigarette And Pull The Hospital Linen Over My Poorly Nourished Body.
And I Am Kept Under Observation On A Suicide Watch.
An Old Planet Is My Silent Comfort.
And I Sleep With Dreams of The Young Man...My Great-Grandfather The Immigrant In A Wool Suit Riding A Black Horse Through The Busy Streets In A Turn of The Century New York City.

Peter Leon


All poems copyright 2004 by the authors. Zine designed by Kathy Walker.