5 poems from G.Murray Thomas, a poet from Long Beach, CA..
Editor and publisher of NEXT MAGAZINE, and vocalist for the band MURRAY, plus an amazing BBQ chef, there isnt much that Murray doesnt do! Murray has been involved in the Southern California poetry communtiy since before they were ever calling it that. He has been involved with Thee Instagon Foundation, since it's very early days ... and then much more recently.. and we like it!
Most, if not all of these poems are from his book "Cows On The Freeway".

THE SONG OF INAPPROPRIATE DESIRE

Like the moth to the moon.
Like the moth to the disco ball.
Like the dancer to the train yard.
Like the train to the point of infinity.
Like the mathematician to chalk dust
to the eraser
to the number of the names of God.
I am drawn to you.

Like the cattle to the cattle prod.
Like lightning to the same old spot.
Like the river to the power plant.
Like e-mail to a manual typewriter
to eight track decks
to cuneiform etched in mud.
I am drawn to you.

I awaken to vultures
singing outside my window.
The vultures sing about the mirage,
desiccated corpses shimmering on the horizon.
The corpses dream about the Sea
of Tranquility.
The moon wishes
for a moth.

Like the hummingbird to stained glass.
Like the saint to the confessional.
Like the sin to the itchy palm.
Like the Bible to the demented mind
to the one-eyed king
to the prose of the infidels.
I am drawn to you.

I was out walking.
I was a dark night, but clear.
So clear you could see all the stars.
It was one of those nights when,
if you stare up at the stars,
you can not only see them all,
but you can see depth in them.
You can see just how far away they really are.

It was a dark night, but clear,
so clear that the stars gave me enough light to see
and I kept walking.

I wasn’t walking anywhere in particular,
I was just walking.
But I was walking like I might get somewhere.
I was walking like,
if I walked long enough,
I just might get closer to those stars.

I was walking.

A black cat
committed suicide
under my wheels.
Yeah, suicide.
I’m certain of it.
It waited in the bushes for me.
Dashed out
faked a moment of panicked indecision
and went down.
There was nothing I could do.
Especially going 40
on the off ramp.
I pulled into the gas station
(closed at 3am)
and walked back to check
what I had done.
I’m not sure what I expected to do.
Make sure it was dead?
Kill it if it wasn’t?
Risk scratches, bites, rabies and
an enormous vet bill
to save the life
of a cat
whose owners I’d probably never find?
I don’t know.
All I do know is
it was a sense of moral duty,
not curiosity,
which sent me back.
And moral duty is where you end up
answering questions you don’t like
with answers you like less,
especially at three in the morning.
Now, I’m not superstitious,
but it was a black cat
and when I got to the scene of the crime
there was nothing there -
no dead cat,
no screaming, wounded, twitching, decision-demanding cat,
not even any blood.
Nothing.
I walked back to my car.
And drove away
as fast as I could.

Cows spilled all over the freeway
by another amusing anecdote
on the traffic report.
Cows standing, dazed,
the carcasses of their traveling companions
scattered around them
hinting at something,
something they can’t understand
yet overwhelmingly frightening,
while more things they can’t understand
zip by
too fast to catch
or even focus on
yet, again, obviously important.
These cows know
there is something they must do
NOW
but they sure don’t know
what the hell it could be.

I can’t tell you how often
I feel like a cow
on the freeway.

Take the freeway until you see the ocean.
Get off at the next exit.
Turn right, turn left.
Go down one hill and up the next.
The ocean will now be behind you,
its glassy eye staring at your blank back.
You will feel that stare.
It will burn
it will call,
it will insist you turn and look.
You came here to stare back at it.
You will not.
If it is sunset
the dying red rays
will bisect your skull.
Look in the rear view mirror
and take them full in your face.
The fissure through your brain
will fill with a salty residue
which you will blame on the ocean.
It will force your thoughts
into new patterns
which you will enjoy
but never trust.
If it is not sunset,
pull over and wait.

Get back on the freeway.
Drive 200 miles in the opposite direction.
Once you hit the desert
and the traffic thins out
you will get bored.
Your boredom has the same glassy stare as the ocean.
It too will split your skull.
You will claim
the grit and sand
it leaves there
are much different
from the ocean’s salt.
They are not.
Pull into the first truck stop.
Smell the gasoline spilled on the asphalt.
Smell the piss spilled on the rest room floor.
Smell the potato chips
the beef jerky
the small county newspaper
the postcards
the sugar
and the caffeine
spilled in the gift shop
where you pay.
Smell the salt and sand of the desert.
Smell the silent horizon which stretches your eyes.
Wait for the sunset.
Wait for the sunset to hit the ocean
200 miles behind you.

Get back on the freeway.
Drive back.
Drive until you see the ocean.
Get off at the next exit.
Turn right, turn left,
downhill, uphill.
Keep your own glassy eyes on the ocean.
You came here to look at the ocean.
To stare in its face
to stare in its heart
to stare it down.
It will stare back.
Happily.
Easily.
Lazily.
Its stare will say,
“This is it.”
“This is peace.”
“This is home.”
“This is everything you have ever searched for.”
Do not trust it.
Do not turn your back on it.
It will plant its ideas
into that fissure
down the middle
of your thoughts
anyway.
Do not let it.
Keep your mind clear.
Keep your mind focused.
Keep your mind on your job.
You have work to do.

Get back on the freeway.

When you notice the traffic
has the same placidity
as the ocean...
When you notice the traffic
is as still as the desert
under a sunset...
When you notice there is no difference
between rush hour
and doing 80...
When you notice the fissure
in your mind
is leaking oil...
When you realize the freeway
also
has its own glassy stare...
STOP!

Take the freeway
until you see the ocean.
Get off at the next exit.