Hike

The rain ramps up, begins to

crash and crack around us like

windows breaking. Shaking branches,

it shatters on bark, bends grass.

.

This trail’s maker was insane. The

last three hundred feet, an incline

plane straight to the top. I stop and

through the rush barely see you.

.

The sky leans over and laughs. The

path becomes a stream. We walk on

the sides of our shoes, losing a step

each few feet.

.

The pack, our clothes, our skin, the

water is in everything. We’re loaded

with the weight of it. A heel slides

on glossy mud. You yell “Shit!”

.

At the mercy of what the weather

brings, we step and slip, slip and

step and curse the natural order of

things.

.

A mist fills the ravine. Unseen

above, the end, our blank destination.

Behind, a steep decline to nothing.

City

Dawn. A hand of sunlight spreads

between the hundred-foot pines

pushing pale fingers to the blue-green

ground. The gold ghost eases into

aquamarine as sun-flecked ferns

bounce and curl around a mossy

stump. They make a glowing mist

in the deep viridian shadow. Fists

of mushrooms the color of hot coals

crowd the rotten wood.

.

There’s no hard ground here. Each

step sinks a little on centuries of

soft needles and decomposing leaves.

.

The state calls this forest a “cathedral.”

We know it’s a city. In the trail mud, signs

of a busy intersection–bobcat, raccoon and deer–

a bear and her child walked here looking

for a place to eat.

.

We’re tourists among the skyscrapers,

clumsy gawkers and picture-takers. We

teeter on the unfamilier terrain, jostle

past with cameras and bags while

the patiently annoyed residents take

sidestreets to avoid us.

.

Bird traffic rings and whistles in the

branched canopy as we wander among

the laurel, through its alleys and

walkways.

.

Those who live here marvel and

complain about what it takes to

sustain us: ice cream, fire, electric

guitars.

.

And we strangers on these streets

watch amazed at the inhabitants,

their exotic cuisine and odd habits.

We say it’s beautiful here but “I

could never live in this place–I’d

always be lost.”

Thanks

Just taking a minute to say thanks to everybody who has read this blog and everyone who has left a comment. I’m going into the deep woods for about a week. Hope to return with a batch of poems and a relaxed mind.

Thanks again

Nathan

Pan

 

In the center of his brain’s courtyard there’s

a rain-soaked statue of Pan black with age.

The goat-boy’s pose is impossible to decipher.

That grimace, the jutting tongue, is it ecstasy

or alarm? Both arms held up, hoof slightly raised,

does he offer invitations? Does he warn of

attacks? One stony hand holds a taser, the other,

a bottle of Xanax.

.

If we could just go there, find some maker’s

marks, trace intricacies of hair. If only we could

go there, approaching the figure, footprints

breaking the sheen of sludge on the bricks.

.

We could stand facing its navel, the

body’s horizon, boundary of boy and beast.

We’d see marks with faint sparkles, scratches

shimmering in the cold, as if decades ago

it was beaten by a fist of gold.

.

If we climbed, slipping on slime

and rose to its carved eyes’ height,

we might study the stone, look through

its pits and cracks, seeing nothing

but charity and flight.

Machine

They argue the controversy:

that once there was an “outside”

of the machine. That once you

could tell flesh from metal, that

there were fingers among spindles

and spur gears, soft fists and faces

beside the wheels and splines.

.

There are discussions about

makers and mechanisms. It

is said the machine was small.

It had a beginning, was small

and grew. It needed fuel and

attention so we moved in. We

made our homes in the forest

of needles and electrodes.

.

They look for evidence of

non-mercurial blood, language

that’s not pulsing light but

circles of sound in surrounding

air.

.

Some write about fondled

bodies, a sense of water,

drunkenness. Fables of regret.

They say we forget, that we

ended our forgetting. But I

know. We were always objects.

Hints for Good Manners

 

• When someone asks “Where are you from?” it’s impolite to answer “I’m not sure.”
• When someone asks “What’s your name?” it’s rude to lay your hand on their cheek and gently kiss their lips.
• When at dinner, a guest’s request for salt is not an invitation to sit on their lap.
• When the valet hands you your keys it is boorish and awkward to say “I love you.”
• It is crass to fondle the buttocks of your dentist during your root canal.
• Whispering in the officer’s ear as she locks the cuffs is considered uncouth.
• While being robbed, it is indelicate to allow one’s fingertips to gently play on the nape of your assailant’s neck.

The Dance (revised)

This is the first part of a revision project for Read Write Poem prompt #32. The second part is called “Suburb.” Both incorporate some American Sentences.

.

I’m promiscuous with moods, an open skull, possessed.

Pummeled by elation, caressed by devastation,

they take me as they will.

.

Half the time curses dangle in every room. Pull the

eyelids of peace. Give it a last kiss. Intubate

patience. Move to private practice.

.

Then nerves tremble and glow until they resemble

gridlock at night. So much joy it

deranges. Ankles ringed with ears, a mouthful

of eyes; I hear dirt, I eat light.

.

The E.R. again. It’s all my head’s fault - that egg yolk in

its crust. The outside world spins back

and forth in dust. Speed solidifies the dance. Over and

over the brain dies by murder and by chance.

.

Awake in the hospital, that familiar trance. Squint in the

commons light. Quick friends offer tips and hints. The

window is smudged with a thousand fingerprints.

.

Drug-enhanced stability will mean release. Peace

will reanimate its corpse. Of course the

storms that start out tender mound on the

horizon. Receiver and sender will continue

their antic dance.

Birthday Party

They stroll the yard like someone stole directions, slow

steps from potted plant to planted flower.

They stroll the yard in tucked-in shirts and pressed slacks. Heel

point sinks in sod. Gently sways the tower.

.

Questions are offered (”What kind of bird has orange?”) Each acquaintance, each relation asks and answers, conversation built on cue.

Engorged, the morning sun bakes the scene, all the chemicals on skin and cloth.

Black and khaki, salmon and blue, their clothes, a stew of

molecular reactions.

Everyone chuckles, everyone sweats. Among the pleats and stitches, everyone sweats, everyone itches.

.

The geranium hangs, held up by thick hot air. There’s chat around

the iron table (”How many miles does it get?”). No one leaves. They sit and itch and sweat.

A crotch is shifted, a sock re-pulled, a damp hand rubs a neck. A man bends and rising, stands as if to go but props against a post instead. A tiny insect tortures his head.

.

Every word wrecks on silence. Every second, a door’s locked latch. Behind

the speech passed like a plate, the fantasy of a shirt removed,

a dream of where to scratch

Vigilance

Skip sleep – wait for something to happen.

Open all the kitchen cupboards and

pace the ceiling.

That roar in your ears is the pressured flow of arterial blood.

That roar in the room behind the quiet

is the white noise of expectation.

Soon real sound will rush in.

This night, this dark hour of

the morning, these paralyzed seconds:

something will happen.

.

A light sweeps the side wall of the opposite house.

A sound like cellophane from behind

those trees,

tremble of a shadow between the gaslight

and the car,

quavering vibration of an uncertain star.

.

Not so far – stay in the dark on the porch and

listen – so still but not asleep,

waiting.

Why’s the light on three houses down? Around

the corner, next door, that roar,

something must happen – shake it off,

go back in, pace the floor and wish

for a car, lights out, to pull into

the drive, for the phone’s sudden ring.

Pace the walls, still not asleep, waiting.

Be a ghost in the house buzzed by troubling memories,

focused on forecasting the future.

Suburb

This is the second part of a revision project for Read Write Poem Prompt #32. It incorporates some American Sentences posted on this site.

.

We live here among the trees. Fleas in a

green shag rug. Flea senior project, flea

church camp, flea infidelities. Melodies

of paperwork, neighbor drama, two high

schools to teach who’s who. In June pool

covers are removed. Parents and teens get

drunk in different houses. On each end of

the street, dogs unseen but surely fenced

bark without stopping. Coughing, a neighbor

cleans his pool. He looks nervous like there’s

stolen money in the glassy water. Hotter and

hotter, the day begins to stop. The scent of

lilies slaughters my head, pushes through

my nose and mouth. North and south the

traffic passes. Every fifth car bass beats

vibrate. We hibernate in the rounded

corners, the courtyard’s curves, a soft

maze of streets. Sheets of late day rain.

A storm cloud scrapes the trees, shoves

past, growls and swears. The air carries

pool motors, weed trimmers, lawn mowers.

The yards are factories. Black-suited believers

ring doorbells in the haze of care and hate.

Sun summer-late, engines groan. To each

a moment through chance or fate. To each a

chance to be set apart. To each a chance each

night to eat the conquistador’s heart.