Carradine's Eyes
by Travis Blair

          same color as peanut butter
          spread thick on wheat toast,
          looks up a nanosecond before I snap
          the picture (He never misses cue.)

          He slides an old Cherokee
          hunting knife across his tongue,
          savors nutted paste coating its blade.
          Turquoise-on-silver Indian rings
          adorn three large fingers.

          His whispery baritone mesmerizes
          every man in my Laurel Canyon
          kitchen. He offers a practiced
          Shaolin smile, expounds
          the spiritual virtues of eating
          peyote buttons.

          Outside my A-frame house
          a rafter-perched spotted owl
          slings hoots at silent shadowy figures
          moving among the twenty-foot
          cannabis plants growing
          like trees beneath the balcony.

          Slit-eyed and deep-dimpled,
          casting a magic spell, Kwai Chang
          Caine charms us. “What I say is…”
          (His entourage tribe snaps buds,
          stuffs kilos in burlap bags, crawls
          out of the canyon to a waiting van)
          In character, Grasshopper executes
          a barefoot exit, stage left, solemnly
          proclaims “…If you can’t be the poet,
          be the poem.”

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