RAGWEED RUTHRagweed Ruth was unmowed mazeShe was nightshade in the morningHer ragged flag was often raisedBut she raised it like a warning.No mate had she but emptinessNo family filled her timeShe sipped instead on bitternessJust like it was sweet winelike it was sweet wineShe soothed her throat with emptinessJust like it was sweet wine.The best spread once found anywhereWas left by her old man's leavingBut she farmed those fields like a fool at prayerAnd watered them with dreaming.Her hay was wind and wanderingsShocked up by forked rakesHer grain was threshed by thunderingsHer trees were tangled snakestrees were tangled snakesHer grain was threshed by thunderingsHer trees were tangled snakes.Each spring the farmers from aroundBrought axes and advicesBut Ruth would firmly glare them downTo forge her own devices.For she was plenty to herselfShe survived the seasons throughShe was dark bread dipped in healthShe was her own strong brewwas her own strong brewShe was dark bread dipped in salty healthShe was her own strong brew.Then came the dry when the farming menFailed and cracked and fledRuth invited all the families inAnd somehow all were fed.Plow never cleft her bottomlandNor harrow stroked her sodStill, golden ears and marzipanUp sprung from where she trodsprung from where she trodGolden ears and marzipanSprung up from where she trod.The passing of her wandering walkCould fill a tree with fruitAt her glare the shriveled stalkWould straighten, stand and root.The dry time passed as all times will.Back to the crippled countyReturned the rain, the sprouts to till,And seeming endless bounty.The guests all gathered up and leftWith their advice and axes…Old Ruth ragdanced on to deathHer land was sold for taxesland was sold for taxesRagweed Ruth danced on to deathHer land was sold for taxes.PACK OF WALNETTOSSister Lou had a shop on the cornerFour kids and a veteran in bedAll day to the old she sold dresses made overAnd dressed soldiers all night in her head…God grant me a pack of WalnettosAnd the Good Book to sermon uponLet me shine like a flash through the trash in the ghettosAnd I'll light those darkies' way home.At the keyboard they found the professorDone in by downers and wineThe bottle still cold on the old walnut dresserThe metronome still keeping time…God give me a pack of WalnettosAnd the Good Book to sermon uponLet me burn like a beacon for the weak in the ghettosAnd I'll light those darkies' way home.Annie Greengums ate nuthin but veggiesRubbed organic oils on her skinWore leg hair and a pair of corrective wedgiesShe had found in the recycling bin…God send me a pack of Walnettos And the Good Book to sermon uponLet me loom like a lamp in the damp and dark ghettosAnd I'll draw those darkies back home.Little Lupe learned feminist lingoWith a lesbian accent to bootBut she married a ring and a grape-growing gringoWith weekdays to match every suit.Please God just a pack of WalnettosAnd the Good Book to sermon uponLike a torch send me forth to scorch out the ghettosAnd I'll hotfoot those darkies on home.Brother Memphis hit a St. Louis deliFor a pig's foot and a handful of changeGot away on a train with a pain in his bellyDied next day in Des Moines of ptomaine.Dear God a pack of WalnettosAnd the Bible to sermon uponShine like a flash through the trash of the ghettosLight all us poor darkies back home.

FINDING DOCTOR FUNG

"Oh, by the way," is how the question was usually broached, whenever I encountered anybody able to understand enough English, "have you any information regarding the fate or whereabouts of your nation's renowned philosopher, Dr. Fung Yu-lan?" This usually received pretty much the same response – "Fung Yu Who?" – and usually prompted some wordplay from one of my three American companions, such as "Yoo-hoo, Yu-lan?" when they saw me drop back to quiz some citizen.

This trio – our magazine editor, the sports photographer, and Bling, the Beijing-born Pittsburgh-raised student of Chinese law – had all concurred days ago that the object of my inquiry was, at his earthly most, a mist from China's bygone glories. At his least, just another hoked-up curiosity in Dr. Time's seamy sideshow – like the Cardiff Giant or D. B. Cooper. The quest did lend a kind of Stanley-looking-for-Livingstone class to our tour, however, so they weren't impatient with my inquiring sidetrips.

Nor was I discouraged by all the blank stares the name produced. I had learned of the missing doctor only a couple weeks earlier myself, on the trip down from Oregon. Instead of flying down to San Francisco to catch our China Clipper, I decided to drive. I had some back issues of our little literary magazine, Spit in the Ocean, that I hoped I could maybe unload in the Bay Area. A whole packed trunk and backseat full of back issues, to be honest. My swaybacked Mustang whined and hunkered beneath the weight so I left Mt. Nebo a good two days before our plane's departure in case the big load or the long haul should delay her. But the old rag-topped nag covered the 600 miles of dark freeway nearly nonstop, like a filly in her prime. When the dim swoop of the Bay Bridge came into view I still had more than a day and a half before our flight, so I swung off at Berkeley to visit an old minister pal of mine that I hadn't seen since Altamont.