| a |
Ancient Jive
See them close and far,
rinds of fringe slightly plaqued
cluttering the floppy horizon brown.
We've had them forever;
they were everything before
and had us from nothing: hands,
chasing, talking, stirring hands
instructing the smallest, manageable,
authentic mouthful, advancing around
displeasing forms and transient colors,
we,
small particles of what matters
in the one held moment.
Only is their directing precise
or unmistakable, lost and contained.
They, our first art, first discharge
the undeclarable: moving windows
darkly flashing for light
and remembrance of sea dimmed air
in the Chinese part of the upper hill --
hands friendly, including anger,
for their extended softness
and improvement over guns they might bear.
The crocus waives from steep wind.
A kingly butterfly less politics
latches the sliding universe
and near translucent petal,
impenetrable with sun dyes.
Boundless. Without sagacity.
Beside limited congealed foundations
or below everlasting nights
and glowing old dreams,
they are for us,
invading the universe
to our behalf,
stealing visions
to manipulate purpose from wind
until, one day at last
whispering,
a pointed mountain
indisputably penetrates and frees
our current gesture, our free outstretched
reaches for sun, simple tools
untwisting clogged uneven tongues.
Give me your talking hand to suggest
an horizon of mountains
to attract the organs
not needing flowing hands.
There, minds function grandly
far from stakes and captives.
There minds dance with singing hands
who summon wildly the beating hawks
for mellowing even the generations
of cruel who keep us nowhere,
the greedy who tie our speaking
to their belts, if only they would trust
these propelling finger tips.
Amtrak Time}
We (you) began by asking the wrong railroad question:
"Is the train on time?"
instead of, "When did the train leave (last destination)?"
Like gold, we (you) discovered the right question
at the Truckee embarkation after an hour of waiting.
(We [I] speeded to arrive on time.)
A young husband who often rode this segment
with his family informed you.
We laughed, the two husbands and wives, at our folly--
anger and greed not far behind
in cars parked indeterminedly free overnight.
Off to Truckee's spectacularly streaming downtown thoroughfare,
the two of us confidently riding cushions of time,
the Chicago run having just left Lovelock behind!
Coffee and wind chimes, breakfast rolls/lotto ticket, talk:
after an hour, we returned
to the solitary gravel lot behind the station
still full of second generation vagabonds
dirty and gamey without wired money --
the Western Union office next to the Amtrack office
and Chamber of Commerce having shut down
from incompetence first, then abuse.
Others, wiser than we, arrived on time.
As laboriously as the train materialized,
it was as quick to unload and board.
Ultimately, our timing was good.
The double decked sliding post card
rode the slow aired sound
for three hours to Sacramento.
Promiscuously we ate trees, snow sheds, lakes;
drank red dirt, small towns; breathed history, streams, valleys,
everything the slow air served,
everyone whether hungry or not.
Float, float, float. Downwards, down, down @ 35 mph.
That night our friends (yours first) bumped us along
to the outdoor Circus Theater for Sophisticated Ladies.
We dined and chatted and enjoyed well our jolly time.
The next morning we (you and me) called on my widowed aunt.
For the mail carrier's van,
I trimmed her bitter trees and low spiny shrubs at the curb.
I reviewed sales letters from broker and banker
on acrimonious income-producing investments
remote from factory or farm.
A shipshape three then, we tried for breakfast out,
something you and I, our friends
and the train from Oakland
lacked time and patience.
So the Sunday morning brunch going crowds obliged those
they didn't know (we two)
and kept us from eating at one place and finding
another farther away.
Our smiles and amiable sarcasms (yours and mine)
sped us back to Fair Oaks and a downtown departure
from commodious hosts.
The airy postcard's panorama touring car!
Its plastic benches and molded chairs
faced great curved windows
allowing straight gooey views out
and reflections of our (mine more than yours) fellow tourists.
(The oldest man watched stonily and indulged
the women traveling with him.)
We meandered next through railway lunches
and conceded the obliging Donner tunnels and snow sheds,
perfect in weathered oriental light and ancient conversations.
Neither frightened nor greedy, car laid waiting.
Poetry |