1. They said
Jupiter's moons
Would be visible
Through binoculars
In June but I
Never saw them
Because I never
Even looked.
2. Last weekend,
final day of June.
I was walking Hugo
when I noticed a misfit
Star piggybacking Scorpius. I
thought: that doesn't
Look right. Could that be—
We're between mountains, like in Colorado, or Utah. Wall! Border wall. To our left, to the north. Contiguous. Iron? A rusty red. Eight feet high? It cuts into the hillside.
Suddenly it's a little greener. Wind in the palms. Some flattening out. By the looks of it, the playa at camp will be windy. Stones, boulders on the hillsides. I've lost sight of the wall as we've tended south.
This is a smooth road. Turning to the south. Large round boulders. Accesso planta dart. Windmill. This is the back way into camp. It has a rural feel but there's actually quite a few plants or factories back in here. The road has gotten very rocky. A metal structure manufacturer. Galvanization. A burned area. Car carcasse. Lots of old tires. A guy in a chair under the shade of a tree just looking out at the road. Railroad.
We take a right onto a much smoother, paved road. There are lots of cars stopped on the side of this road. There are canopies set up. Lots of them. Is it a market? We're close to camp. Turning right, I know this road. There's the old, snub-nosed flatbed lorry. The silo-like red cylinder lying on its side. Dust! At 14:42 we are at the Amor Hacienda Camp...
The beginning of the end of
The last history. This side
Of a black hole, a big bang, the
Epicenter, the mother lode, the lode star.
A star that leads, especially the
Polestar, the North Star of the Universe,
What is always in the center, 'lode' meaning
'The way,' the journey, the journey star.
From here to there, back from
Where we used to exist, via intergalactic canal,
Rowing upstream, rowing home,
Going back in time, into the place we
Go when we dream, time there
Suspended, fact there garbled and twisted.
It is all very real but also
Very far away, as if
It never even happened.
I. Preface (11/8/2013). I have cut an 11' x 10' piece of the new 6 mil plastic sheeting—doubled over (11' x 5') it looks a good fit for under the tent. For Pere Marquette, I will still bring the tarp and sandwich the plastic sheeting in the tarp for under the tent. For the Farm … Continue reading Pere Marquette State Park, November 9-10, 2013
First Full Day — morning
I am attending to a sunrise in Jamaica. Rightly I am not awake yet. Waves, waves, dolorous waves. Peltering shores at dayfall.
Why is it getting light in the west before it gets light in the east? The east is dark, blue. A tiny boat out ripping the water is black.
Last night a jumbo airliner flew in from Costa Rica, I’m sure of it.
Brett got a taste, Pat a tree. I put a tiny leaf in my pocket & smiled at the smell.
21
Shy but rugged stars
Have hiked the hills
But never walk the streets
22
I could spend all night
Viewing the moon and writing.
Or I could sleep-dream
23
The cop who stops to weep
On the shoulder of the road
Slows a thousand speeders
24
Caught on the tracks
After tagging a train car.
Second coat still wet
25
When a cry for help
Is hard on your health.
Saxophone doth wail, wail
16
Stars make faces
When they tread the spaces
Between themselves and Earth
17
Full summer-moon
And arch of garden hose—
You too can make a moonbow
18
Mississippi
And Ohio confluence—
Almost an ocean
19
Spending a summer’s night reading—
June bug fights the window screen
20
Can I love everyone at once?
Moon shrouded
By only a bit of haze
Southeastern summer
Star chart took us miles away.
Unlit road brought us back
To sleep the sleep of myths.
In our dreams we spoke
to the after-image.
O, brightest star,
O, distant bug of lightning,
You’re a dying pinprick,
Poised to explode
First Then
And then Now.
You were in all of our dreams
That night.
You swallowed us
Like a drop of fuel
On your colorless voyage
To nowhere.
You became your own constellation.
The end of the light,
The beginning.
Everyone debauched but everyone a virgin in some way. You can’t have tried everything, you can’t have tired of everything. Something to come back for, something to save for next time, when you’ve got more money, some savings to play with, and hopefully better luck.
There’s a premium on everything, and nothing is free. Not even luck. Luck costs money. Luck for a buck? Maybe the stars are free, but good luck seeing them through the neon broil. Maybe it’s time for a drink. Maybe it’s time to skim some winnings, to cash out, to double down, to parlay, to bet the house, to count some cards.
Good place to come for a birthday. One you don’t want to remember. Just cab doors opening and closing. Croupiers changing shifts, cleansing their hands of the table and all the bad luck that came with it. Cashiers sitting behind bars. Chips in their neat little stacks of hundreds or thousands. The peaks in the distance. The hotels standing and stretching in the hot, dry desert air, the sun not far away.
Gathering chips for their bets, trying to get free drinks, trying to get comped. A generous mix of Filipino, white, some blacks, you name it, a few Koreans, the new wealth Chinese—cabbies called them whales because they were big fish, big betters. Old and older. A bunch of kids crawling around doing god knows what, more likely to get kicked out of the casinos than anyone else because they don’t bet.
Mafia types—Skyball Chibelli and Baba, hoping the croupiers don’t look too close at their money. Cabbies who went to high school here. Eighties music, light shows, five-dollar minimums, champagne bottles, sixes and eights, Manhattans, Coronas, the hot sun, no clouds, bellmen looking for tips, towel boys looking for tips, everyone looking for tips and some people giving them. The whole place like an octopus but with more arms, looking for anyway to get its hands on your money, and when it does—bang! it pops its barb into you like an unexpected sting ray, whether you are an expert or not. Here, no one is an expert. Experts get beat up and know better...
As my shepherd,
you’re afraid I’ll fall asleep,
become the late-nite snack of woolen wolves,
invite the midnight chef’s trichinosis
into my star-swirled dreamworld.
But that won’t happen.
I can stay awake anytime.
Because of Van Gogh’s paintings and—
what other reason do I need?
JBR.com 