Farewell

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Wishing On Falling Stars

so silent tonight
the static vessel void
momentary remembrances
of faces in the night

smiling, soiled faces
spare change
so she can get laid
and I can get drunk?

wind-burned Harley faces
the Hell’s Angels are in town, boys
smoking cigarettes in empty doorways
red glint inhale in burned-out basements

drunk faces, happy faces
high and wearing hemp drawstrings
hip bags hang half-full
and cool blue flip flops slap and smack

the pavement creaks
under a heavy load of fallen stars
and Indians play cheap guitars
cheap tunes of three-string chords

but you must climb up to see it
the city sprawled out below
in motion, constant motion
the static hum of humanity

sitting Buddha-like on a steep slope
brilliant yellow in the sunlight
now pale and frail
against the golden glow below

picture of a city in motion
an aerial snapshot in black and gold
and above, nothing but darkness
and stars a million years old

but the bulbs burn NOW
and illuminate this present
flutter off and on, wink and blink
unsteady, inconstant, momentarily there

you must climb up to see it
the demarcated streets, muted streetlights
tracing sirens through the afterglow
taillight meet headlight turn

and there in the quiet
smelling bitter vomit on a gentle breeze
rising salty and stale from the streets below
I am alone in a sea of black capped in gold

the lights cluster unlike the stars
in floating ribbons of gold and blue
and suddenly I want to jump into that seething city
death is close on a dark hillside

feeling the daily grind
rock against gravel
the stumbling ascent
the hasty decline

you must climb up to see it
humanity’s soul
intangible, patternless, sprawling
scratched into the Earth

sitting in the darkness
silent and alone
with a sudden chill on my back
I saw a falling star

Overexposed

tall grass and fallen timbers
a woman in trees
too daintily clad to go too far into the stream
she wades and waves

fishing in forgotten time
fishing in the wake of someone leaving
climb up and stumble on
the tall grass a landscape and mountains further on

she drives a red truck
have you seen her?
with long legs, a bikini top
sunburned and brown

a woman fishing
fly fishing
alone one afternoon
the Montana big blue sky arching on

she passed out through the gate
moving on another road
up there and ahead of me
nameless and without voice

she must have seen the bride and groom
standing on that hilltop in the sun
posing pictures against the alpine backdrop
the film overexposed

River Poem

I ran into some snotty fish the other day
‘round about evening
rising in the dimple calm
current nothing
bring nothing back down to me
rising to the scattered minutia
mayflies golden yellow
dropping through the shadows
falling in the sunlight
go down
basking in the damp sweet scent
weed
trolled off rocks in big clumps
the fish spat back at me

and what did he say
an excited there ya go
and something more
a gibberish yagosomama
maybe more
the water tongue go trickle on
in the evening

casting dries
into the glare
upward and back down
the sudden snap
tension
the fly sink down
away

and the river stretch on
in the limitless night
and the river speak on
the words a little more faint

I am almost there
within the undying flow
I can feel the waters grow

time the illusion

Tried to catch the sunset
camera poised on the back step
but the eye sees so much better
and the vibrant pinks, oranges and golds
fade into nothing
the digital replication
comes out empty
colorless
unreal

Visions of Evening

see the old man on the riverbank
grown up with grass gone to seed and aged amber
looking out and over
the river broken free of its banks
strained out in streaks of green and gold
rolling down and on

see the boats, some wood
brightly painted and wheeling
in the gold light failing evening
oars up sailing, spinning
momentarily motionless
in the water flow passage of time

see the old man caught full front
by the setting sun
shirt billowing out around this wiry frame
face deeply furrowed in hat brim shadow
seriously set in silent contemplation
heavy white moustache twitching occasionally

see the swallows skip across the water
like fragile stones
blue and white their bodies bob
cut toward the cut bank, the old man
their wing tips graze the grass
hurry on

see the old man’s bamboo quake
finely finished, an amber rod in the sun
he holds it up against his thigh
a line defined definite in the hazy heat
the air falling in a thousand different images of dusk
each breaking on the water with rippling calm

see the night creep gray and sullen
unbidden from the east
in a mist it moves
cautious, yet certain
of the inevitable darkness
the inevitable return of light

see the old man rise, light as paper
cease his vigil for another night of sleep
another night in a lifetime of nights
and time bends back on itself like a wave
and he is caught full front
by the amber light of recollection

Between Breaths

wind blows up the alley
dried, fallen, white petals sound like a rain-stick on the pavement
that soft liquid sound
liquidity in the sky

I dreamt of gardens
lie back
the plots of irises, lilac by the Woman’s College
real name on the sign

breathe
close, toughing
breathe

a hollowed out cactus
dried and pins inside
tip it over
listen for the beads

calling rain
grating against dry pavement and beat-up cars
looking in windows
looking in the moments between footsteps and on

the light is blue this afternoon
I kicked through sand littering the street
and listened to the fallen petal in the alley
blowing around and away from me

breathe
the wind smells of rain
breathe
the air changes softly, distinctly
empty alley off the street

and it rains.






Motivation is a funny thing. Here I haven't written a single word in weeks, since April I think, and tonight a couple of poems. And I'm tired and thinking about sleep and five hours of work tomorrow, not to mention two more weeks of school and then finals. I'm ready to be done. Montana will be a break, but I'm not fully looking forward to it. I'm simply tired and that's all.