VIRGINIA RODRIGUEZ ~

NEW RONALD BAATZ AT LONGHOUSE ~

For all of you free-loaders waiting for a free reading of the 

Longhouse foldout booklet of Ronald Baatz's long poem

— well, here it is! You knew I couldn't resist sharing

and it's such a beauty by Ronald

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Those wishing to purchase a copy

can write here directly,

we're always home

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Next up — a long poem foldout booklet

 by George Evans

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And after that — a booklet of poems

by Salvatore Quasimodo

translated by Julia Older

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Forget what the news says

this is the news

and it's grand

I          W O U L D          D I E          F O R
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I would die for a music man of unwavering desire playing 

the marimba on a steamy night in Chili after a woman of 

beguiling shiny red smile had turned me into a frog the

smell of wild snow the dog under the bed the birth of

a star keeping a monkey awake.

I would die for endless drizzle for two flies sharing the 

same headache for all of the world's unfinished memoirs 

the waiter bringing a neon frog a drink in a cafe open all night 

the natives frying snakes in the kitchen the piranha 

stopping in to ask directions to the nearest racetrack 

because it's hungry for horses.

I would die for the seductiveness of costume jewelry on 

huge sailing ships and champagne showgirls telling me 

my life is the blissful consequence of illusions brought on

by the sun's extravagant fire storms being too close and 

the moon acting like a dreamy-eyed punk fool over rows

and rows of vacationing palm trees.

I would die for the wash still hanging on the line which 

a woman of laziness and raging desires gives no thought

as rain clouds take comfort in settling over the vast greenness 

of field her feet are running through high spidery-swaying

grasses as she flees from an overabundance of playful boys 

that summer brings to life with one easy snap of the fingers.

I would die for the lover's most special harvest in darkness 

the eyes' most beautiful bright skies the willowy hand moving 

fingers through my beard as my senses partake of the verities of 

small pink thornless roses climbing the fences of a hot mid-summer 

afternoon as it pauses in the garden of our o so eager and o so 

very alterable moods.

I would die for candles of endearing conversations and thoughts that 

go plop causing deep booming echoes through universes imparting 

a meaningful holiness to the fly in the window looking at the wind 

at birds that are remembering faraway trees the lovely shock of 

pears colliding with the earth or the smile of death that is just like 

the smile of a goat.

I would die for the ghosts of sparrows singing songs in fog that  

are just as quiet as fog the prowling solitude of a cat's collapsed stomach

the dew whispering on mud pies the cricket wishing farewell to summer 

the pumpkin rotting in frosty-dark sweetness the snowman choking 

on carrot fun the crazy indecipherable drunken talk of the prophet.

I would die for the lizard turning the sun into a pool of turquoise 

the ping pong game enchanting the mourning dove the long-distance

runner writing a novel in his head the tender blossomings of moons 

more than willing to be intimate with strangers the plums washed 

in clear images of peace bringing the world to a soothing standstill.

I would die for the sunrise lodged in a flea the worms singing in the 

open mouth of sunset the cute optimism of hummingbirds the 

new monks walking the streets with uncracked begging bowls the 

doe acknowledging the falling leaf the philosopher washing his face

while swatting the tiny buzzing mysteries of time.  

I would die for the floating doughnut the robustness of coffee black 

the softness of yellow silk covering a breakfast table the imperfect 

but playful weather of a baby god the delicate chattering of birds in 

a neighborhood blessed with the chimerical calm of foggy annihilation

the boundless everyday life clinging to a moth.

I would die for the kisses of grandmother's big wet sloppy lips

the scratches found in grandfather's footprints as though he were 

being followed by a chicken the remarkable openness of rain

falling in the birdbath and nowhere else the bear hug of 

the sailor who smells from China the scented beliefs of lilacs.

I would die for underground culture the unknown mushroom the 

meatball on fire the sensuously gluey fish the size of grains of rice 

swimming in memory the working dogs the sporting dogs the toy dogs 

the herding dogs the confident hounds the ridiculous terriers that 

refuse even to admit they have a dog's life or that they'd gladly eat a 

birthday cake and all its bones at the drop of a hat.

I would die for the maple the birch the black oak the mountain gum 

the white ash the sycamore the silver linden the weeping willow the 

silverbell the hackberry the peach tree that the children play under 

the dog barking at the tree it is tied to the tree's licking the dark 

with its leaves the sun in red ants the moon in black ants the stars 

in the lake the stars damp as the tea leaves we need to believe.

I would die for the waterfall smelling good from fresh cloudbursts the 

barn swallow darting from sheer and grandiose and commanding 

nothingness to more of such nothingness the great horned owl washing

its eyeballs in lemon juice the lightning that without fail purifies

every Wednesday evening and causes ashes of indifference to fall on

sweet fields of corn.

I would die for the compassion of saints the mountains of struggling souls

the defiant child making a wrinkled face as summer ends its life on a note 

firm as baby fat the singing of lovers on the sprouting plateaus of crispy 

hearts the old raving fool inhaling the breath of ants that are like 

the tiniest of enthusiastic tourists gazing at stars.

I would die for dandelion wine dizzily fermenting in the basement

the fig seed on a napkin the voices in the trees the drop of ink in mist

the smashed watermelon the happiness of tomorrows crossing the

river on a dead leaf the old saying that says mud chokes no eels 

the drunken laughter of poets free from the constraints of  

the mind's lonely prison. 

SOAK IT IN ~