Mister Trickster

Coyote’s a fat old man,

now lying

in a bed, crushed

beer cans scattered over

the red shag carpet, second hand plasma screen

showing re‑run comedies,

about nothing, or something

which none of us get

the way Coyote does.

 

He chuckles and smokes

the last good tobacco

on Earth,

 

a bundle of sage leaves smoldering

in the silver ash tray.

 

The sheets are stale and off-

white, the place

dim and untidy,

awful orange

floral print curtains—

another industrial accident

that makes him snort every time he gazes at them—

remain closed

all hours of the day and night

so Coyote doesn’t have to look

at the barren lot outside,

and so he can be himself

without “humans”

looking in.

 

But sometimes he pins the bottom of the curtains

with a chair, pushes back

the topmost corner,

and resting his head on a pillow,

he stares at clouds for hours on end,

helping them shape-shift

into images and entities

from his vast living memory of the World.

 

He opens a deep drawer in the night

stand next to the bed, strips

of sticky veneer peeling

up, within the drawer a stack of the world

bibles and a bottle of

hundred-year-old fire

water, eau de vie,

and a smudge-covered snifter.

 

The Great Mother

shudders with the squeaking

of fake pine,

her pale pink

sateen robe hanging

open as she bends her head over

the hot plate, heating up

a Teflon skillet full of refried beans.

“Use a coaster,” she says.

 

Coyote prefers her arched

rather than bent,

but he can hear his belly

growling. He pulls the cork

from the bottle with his magnificent teeth,

still sharp, white,

even with all the coffee and tobacco

and sacred wine.

 

He fills the glass

holding it in front of him,

one eye on the precious fluid

the other eye on the electric projections

of a mind out of touch.

He reaches into the drawer,

grabs the Gita and slips it

under his snifter, placing both

on his belly.

 

The Great Mother

sighs.

 

Coyote keeps watching everything,

unworried, unobstructed.

He always has another trick

to play, but he doesn’t have to play anymore

tricks, because the final divine

joke is telling itself out

to a vast and ignorant group

of connivers.

nikos patedakis