Today's poem is the tenth in the manic half of Sine Wave and the 36th poem in the ms. It's also one of my personal favorites, though to explain that would ruin the poem.
In Your Hands
The desert two-lane flashes
its white segments so fast
you forget the asphalt discontinuities
and think the dashes connected
toward some future rendezvous
where night and morning join
in a secret sunrise of stars
that explains all the causalities
that propelled you here—
but your eyes are sucked back
to this moment, furious and finite
as a fly seizuring against a screen.
The yellow smears on your windshield
are souls you’ve hurt without knowing.
The whistle through the window
is your suspicion of yourself.
The radio plays country
because you really are that simple.
When it’s time to pull over,
you are no closer to but no farther
from your goal. In a waking sleep
you imagine topiaries of exhaust
in the shapes of visionaries:
Jesus, Blake, Jules Verne.
Were they just as rooted to the moment?
Or did they veer off in the underbrush?
The wheel is in your hands.
(published in eclectica)
Yesterday our neighbor, "I'm Not Creepy," was noted at dusk on his outdoor patio in only a white towel, while a naked young woman ran out his door and back several times. She was, well--very good looking, her body athletic without losing the requisite curvature.
I poked my head out the door to say, "Is everything OK?" Mike (INC) said, "Fine. Come, meet my girlfriend" (was standing outside naked at the time). But instead of greeting me, she ran back inside. I heard no shouting or signs of distress.,
The woman could not have been over 25, while Mike "I'm not creepy" is on Medicare, pot-bellied, with sticks for arms and stringy white hair streaming from his scalp in two big patche--like Larry from The Three Stooges. Mike's socially impaired and Kathleen and our neighbor, Noel, swear he stinks almost all the time from body odor. (Being over a foot taller than he, I haven't noticed.) So how does he snag a hot chick?
We think Mike's scam is as follows: He seeks out young female hitchikers and asks them if they'd like to come home and pose for some "artistic" photographs. And he, no doubt, has to get close to the subject for the sake of art.
Usually in a photographic session the photographer keeps his clothes on, yes?
I hiked five miles yesterday with Kathleen, brutal climb near the end.
But I pigged aoout last night and lost any advantage from the exercise.
Still, careful observers may have noted that I lowered my weight from 270 to 260 in my profiel.
Mood holding--I can tell because I irritate Kathleen now.
Thine in Poetry and Adventure,