I stole out from the club and it was snowing
a wet snow like rain,
sifting down it spat my cheeks and didn't stick,
went right through to the skin,
made wetter my shirt and
dampened the smell of smoke.
Walking I watched the halfbright
streetlamps lighting
the weak February blizzard--
the cineplex neon
hummed and the power station hummed
and a bum with his back leaned soaked
against old walls asked for change.
The white 1910 brickwork of Redman Records,
shiny and wet under stone-carved Indian busts
like it was painted yesterday,
streaks of nonsense graffiti blackened
by its rusted entrance gate.
A raingutter poured and splashed a river
ephemeral, a small misplaced waterfall
next to a taxi waiting muted,
blinker flashing soundless streaks.
Some barren dripping winter trees, small
and landscaped accordingly.
The empty lot only mud now (and above it
the storage building I explored once when it was empty:
all puddles and exposed steel beams,
black stairwells leading to beds of the homeless).
Over wet staggered blocks of sidewalk
I sloshed and felt it rough on my toes,
I thought of lying across a wet parkbench
here in this sleepy dark, looking up to the
rushing endless flakes and
counting myself among them,
just one thing in a volley of uncountable things,
drifting over Salt Lake City and
its mudded walkways, shouldered buildings,
shoestring tenements,
haphazard midnight dreams--
I walked alone on the vacant streets
and supposed the ringing in my ears
was the city's own silence.
--- ---
In February of this year I saw Cursive and Alkaline Trio at In the Venue in Salt Lake. I came out to this snow, and I fumbled around in it and wanted to remain in it a while, and instead got into my car as it warmed and jotted some things in my journal.
Showing posts with label towns. Show all posts
Showing posts with label towns. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Thursday, March 04, 2010
The west valley
Watched an airliner cut through fog
over the west valley.
Children play nextdoor
near the parking lot,
shrieking in their
loose-fitting uniforms, ties untightened and
rolledup unbuttoned sleeves.
They jump about their small asphalt schoolyard,
cold chainlink fences enclosing
squat brick buildings.
The bald youth at the front desk
buzzes me in, and I wait and then make
my way to geometrically set chairs
and halfwalls in a back corner.
I sit and stare, speaking acronyms
and cryptic jargon, proving my worth first
with words alone.
Midday, past the parking lot children roam
the broken sidewalks,
clutching their stacked books and hunched over,
edging to and from this industrial-block private school
through mixed-zoning--
the Latino market complex and 7-11,
rows of dilapidated apartments, their
rotted front lawns littered with faded plastic toys.
We park near an old factory and eat Thai.
The mixed blazes of
neon brakes and blinding headlights mingle
like stars twinkling through the atmosphere,
like twin lanes of peppermint red-on-white
or a barbershop pole churning
in endless monotony,
screaming racetrack traffic across the freeway--
is it such an enabling way of freedom,
wandering us home
under a foggedover full moon at night?
We clutch our notepads and thin computers,
ready to close another hazy day of
the same frantic, purposed nonsense.
--- ---
I recently started working up in West Valley City, a long drive, a true commute, next to the airport and its continuous takeoffs and landings, in areas and neighborhoods once completely foreign. There are many ordinary and strange things that transpire--it's just life; they're just kids and people going about their daily routines.
over the west valley.
Children play nextdoor
near the parking lot,
shrieking in their
loose-fitting uniforms, ties untightened and
rolledup unbuttoned sleeves.
They jump about their small asphalt schoolyard,
cold chainlink fences enclosing
squat brick buildings.
The bald youth at the front desk
buzzes me in, and I wait and then make
my way to geometrically set chairs
and halfwalls in a back corner.
I sit and stare, speaking acronyms
and cryptic jargon, proving my worth first
with words alone.
Midday, past the parking lot children roam
the broken sidewalks,
clutching their stacked books and hunched over,
edging to and from this industrial-block private school
through mixed-zoning--
the Latino market complex and 7-11,
rows of dilapidated apartments, their
rotted front lawns littered with faded plastic toys.
We park near an old factory and eat Thai.
The mixed blazes of
neon brakes and blinding headlights mingle
like stars twinkling through the atmosphere,
like twin lanes of peppermint red-on-white
or a barbershop pole churning
in endless monotony,
screaming racetrack traffic across the freeway--
is it such an enabling way of freedom,
wandering us home
under a foggedover full moon at night?
We clutch our notepads and thin computers,
ready to close another hazy day of
the same frantic, purposed nonsense.
--- ---
I recently started working up in West Valley City, a long drive, a true commute, next to the airport and its continuous takeoffs and landings, in areas and neighborhoods once completely foreign. There are many ordinary and strange things that transpire--it's just life; they're just kids and people going about their daily routines.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Wind
I can hardly make out the stars,
melted away by the vaporous streetlight haze.
Machinery pounds and pummels somewhere distant,
repetitive, like garbage trucks emptying overflowing
dumpsters again and again.
The train hoots and calls, parades down the old tracks
like some giant steel owl
gliding through the night,
under bridges paralleling the industrial blocks,
past the lake--stealth, honing in like a bat.
Black branches rustle, blown into small
battles with each other. The wind silently
winds through blades of grass, it
sails over the innumerable lookalike rooftops
and rattles roadsigns.
It pushes at my back, soars into my mouth
and eyes;
it rushes into my veins and carries me,
lifting me high over the speckled city--
all pretentious and illuminated like a great
connect-the-dots below.
I look above me
and I can see the stars.
--- ---
I wrote this a while ago, 2009-03-26.
amy, above the wind
melted away by the vaporous streetlight haze.
Machinery pounds and pummels somewhere distant,
repetitive, like garbage trucks emptying overflowing
dumpsters again and again.
The train hoots and calls, parades down the old tracks
like some giant steel owl
gliding through the night,
under bridges paralleling the industrial blocks,
past the lake--stealth, honing in like a bat.
Black branches rustle, blown into small
battles with each other. The wind silently
winds through blades of grass, it
sails over the innumerable lookalike rooftops
and rattles roadsigns.
It pushes at my back, soars into my mouth
and eyes;
it rushes into my veins and carries me,
lifting me high over the speckled city--
all pretentious and illuminated like a great
connect-the-dots below.
I look above me
and I can see the stars.
--- ---
I wrote this a while ago, 2009-03-26.
amy, above the wind
Monday, June 01, 2009
Like a flock of dying birds
The crane obscures the skyline, looming, like
the handle of some blade plunged into the land.
Capital letters blocked out:
C
A
M
C
O
C
O
N
S
T
Its tower rises, beam by straight steel beam, each day
edging out the Wells Fargo and Marriott buildings,
occupying space where oldfashioned street-level stores once stood.
This lattice of rust-colored, slotted metal
coagulates skyward--
a mounting illness, redeemed only
by the wooden walkway bypass below,
draped in ephemeral idealist artwork.
The hook at the crane's end like a
lost shipwreck anchor sways oblivious
in the dead night air,
oblivious to we who walk below, we who'd rather not
look above and stare
except to watch the clouds gathering
over the little city
like a flock of dying birds.
--- ---
the handle of some blade plunged into the land.
Capital letters blocked out:
C
A
M
C
O
C
O
N
S
T
Its tower rises, beam by straight steel beam, each day
edging out the Wells Fargo and Marriott buildings,
occupying space where oldfashioned street-level stores once stood.
This lattice of rust-colored, slotted metal
coagulates skyward--
a mounting illness, redeemed only
by the wooden walkway bypass below,
draped in ephemeral idealist artwork.
The hook at the crane's end like a
lost shipwreck anchor sways oblivious
in the dead night air,
oblivious to we who walk below, we who'd rather not
look above and stare
except to watch the clouds gathering
over the little city
like a flock of dying birds.
--- ---
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
It's ended
It's ended.
The place has mostly cleared out.
The gutters are slick with ice,
running still like glacier rivers.
A pall of fog enshrouds us
like God's great frozen breath,
bringing us in-doors where
thermostats control our hearts.
We're the warm-blooded.
Couples trickle off the streets,
clopping shoes across sidewalks,
echoes absorbed in the smoked air.
The wooden walkway
astride the new tower lot
is lit, staggered every six feet,
adorned with college student artwork
and empty.
The few cars drive off, and as their
motors die in the distance
the orange lights hum still,
singing their silent song to
everyone and no one at all.
--- ---
The other night I went late to an open mic poetry reading at the slick Pennyroyal Cafe. I arrived thirteen minutes before it ended, ready with poems printed and in my journal. But it was ending early, and I stayed seated. I wrote this in my journal afterwards. I also drew a picture of a chair.
--- ---
an example of some of that college student artwork--this is the first piece that graced the walkway
The place has mostly cleared out.
The gutters are slick with ice,
running still like glacier rivers.
A pall of fog enshrouds us
like God's great frozen breath,
bringing us in-doors where
thermostats control our hearts.
We're the warm-blooded.
Couples trickle off the streets,
clopping shoes across sidewalks,
echoes absorbed in the smoked air.
The wooden walkway
astride the new tower lot
is lit, staggered every six feet,
adorned with college student artwork
and empty.
The few cars drive off, and as their
motors die in the distance
the orange lights hum still,
singing their silent song to
everyone and no one at all.
--- ---
The other night I went late to an open mic poetry reading at the slick Pennyroyal Cafe. I arrived thirteen minutes before it ended, ready with poems printed and in my journal. But it was ending early, and I stayed seated. I wrote this in my journal afterwards. I also drew a picture of a chair.
--- ---
an example of some of that college student artwork--this is the first piece that graced the walkway
Friday, April 25, 2008
Dust
The shrouded mountain
is speckled with wet white.
To the south, the sun breaks
barely below a pall of stormclouds,
lighting the faroff peaks.
A single raven hovers, flies,
wings taut and light in the wind;
it descends on a power line.
Horses stand swishing tails,
hooves caked with snow and mud.
Shifting patches of blue emerge
above the tumorous black clouds
A lone shock of thunder crumples the air,
telling of lightning too distant to see.
A century ago--two, maybe--
I would have wanted
my ashes spread here.
Over the scrub oak and boxelders, the
shimmering quaking aspens.
Over the scree slopes and layered limestone
and the valley floors below--
dust sweeping up like a sandstorm
into the thunderclouds.
is speckled with wet white.
To the south, the sun breaks
barely below a pall of stormclouds,
lighting the faroff peaks.
A single raven hovers, flies,
wings taut and light in the wind;
it descends on a power line.
Horses stand swishing tails,
hooves caked with snow and mud.
Shifting patches of blue emerge
above the tumorous black clouds
A lone shock of thunder crumples the air,
telling of lightning too distant to see.
A century ago--two, maybe--
I would have wanted
my ashes spread here.
Over the scrub oak and boxelders, the
shimmering quaking aspens.
Over the scree slopes and layered limestone
and the valley floors below--
dust sweeping up like a sandstorm
into the thunderclouds.
Same
Then, a decade ago,
I was doing these same things.
The bike was different,
a battered Raleigh road bike,
once-white, salvaged from a
basement junk heap. Its tires
blew out frequently.
The streets were the same--no,
different: fewer people, fewer lights
and less construction. Sections of sidewalk
all askew like shrapnel.
I lived a few blocks away.
A condo they called it (they still do),
though its plain walls and
shag carpet told a different story.
These timeless smells--
they still arise from everywhere, everything--
woodsmoke like late Placerville fall,
laundry detergent like the streets of Mazatlan;
the ripening spring air tastes of mulched leaves
and prepubescent lawns.
Funny how we can end up in these same places,
with so little changed--
really,
even though
that life
has gone, and
a new one
is in its place.
I was doing these same things.
The bike was different,
a battered Raleigh road bike,
once-white, salvaged from a
basement junk heap. Its tires
blew out frequently.
The streets were the same--no,
different: fewer people, fewer lights
and less construction. Sections of sidewalk
all askew like shrapnel.
I lived a few blocks away.
A condo they called it (they still do),
though its plain walls and
shag carpet told a different story.
These timeless smells--
they still arise from everywhere, everything--
woodsmoke like late Placerville fall,
laundry detergent like the streets of Mazatlan;
the ripening spring air tastes of mulched leaves
and prepubescent lawns.
Funny how we can end up in these same places,
with so little changed--
really,
even though
that life
has gone, and
a new one
is in its place.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
New/old (There's a Polaroid in everything)
There's something outside, tingling and singing in
the arctic night air.
I am a foreigner in my own town. Something indicates
to me that I am elsewhere, alone, someone else perhaps.
I crunch across frozen mud to the steps of the
video store, then return, toss the rented film on the
passenger seat
like an old pro.
The ground is littered with icy cakes of snow,
like abandoned mattresses laid end to end.
This place is new, though old,
foreign, though familiar.
It could be anywhere.
I wear brown mittens and the polar skies bite
at me.
There's a Polaroid in everything:
the diffuse glow of red traffic lights--
small red giants
reflected off my frosted windshield and through my glasses
until a dull glow batters my eyes;
the exhaust spouting from the car beside me,
idling at that same dying traffic light;
the plumes of laundry heat and furnace steam,
erupting upwards from ancient ramshackle buildings,
spiraling staircases of smoke;
the two boys in jumpsuits,
beating palms together to keep their fingers alive,
standing outside the state liquor store,
exhaling clouds of vapor--
Everything is translucent;
this strange world a fog,
a winter landscape seeded with sparse
signs of life.
Lights dim and heavy eyelids close all around me,
and I traverse rocky black asphalt that
smiles up at just me,
only me--
it is worth seeing, observing, watching and
waiting for.
the arctic night air.
I am a foreigner in my own town. Something indicates
to me that I am elsewhere, alone, someone else perhaps.
I crunch across frozen mud to the steps of the
video store, then return, toss the rented film on the
passenger seat
like an old pro.
The ground is littered with icy cakes of snow,
like abandoned mattresses laid end to end.
This place is new, though old,
foreign, though familiar.
It could be anywhere.
I wear brown mittens and the polar skies bite
at me.
There's a Polaroid in everything:
the diffuse glow of red traffic lights--
small red giants
reflected off my frosted windshield and through my glasses
until a dull glow batters my eyes;
the exhaust spouting from the car beside me,
idling at that same dying traffic light;
the plumes of laundry heat and furnace steam,
erupting upwards from ancient ramshackle buildings,
spiraling staircases of smoke;
the two boys in jumpsuits,
beating palms together to keep their fingers alive,
standing outside the state liquor store,
exhaling clouds of vapor--
Everything is translucent;
this strange world a fog,
a winter landscape seeded with sparse
signs of life.
Lights dim and heavy eyelids close all around me,
and I traverse rocky black asphalt that
smiles up at just me,
only me--
it is worth seeing, observing, watching and
waiting for.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Daytrip to the meadows
Anxious and hungry, we are thirsty for fluid nighttime lights
and a view from the dead flatness of earth.
And so we soar southward over cool blacktop
in the close, sunless morning--
a small restless flock we are, buffeted about by westpacific winds--
until over Delano and the Tushars daylight crowns, quick and golden,
same as seven a.m. summers when my eyes crack to the light
and breathe in heavy awake the heaving morning air.
The blue sky, pale blue sky colored like
milky soap bubbles on a freshscrubbed sidewalk
blazes through the red sandstoned buttes, the ruddy bluffs behind us.
Edge of the mojave and we patrol the wideopen road;
joshua trees line up the freeway (those hands to the sky),
first guarding the guardrails
then spreading out and off and further,
scattered in forest patches the distant claycolored sand.
On a long desert boulevard we arrive in the midst of chaos,
next to a stadium brimming with colors and bodies
and surrounded by hard white trailers and numbered flags and barbeques.
We are ushered in by these celebrity helicopters, circling closer and
hovering just above our heads like sleek painted falcons, shining
and swimming through sunlight, one-by-one. Policecar lights splay on
chainlink fences and hot double-yellow lines, and through a queue of cars
we stumble past the spectacle, all the race-waiters.
To the architected center,
throbbing heart of a barren land, haunted by
spectres of generations of drowned hopes and sloughed dreams.
Where the earth lights the heavens instead of vice versa,
and society gathers in united strands of joy and craved emptiness--
Where desire is desired.
This city so full of people, so churning and thriving,
so consumed by artifice and laughter and swagger
and erected replicas of places they'd rather be, scenes they'd rather see.
They want the whole world condensed into one small vision;
they imagine adventure and purpose in these diversions.
(But still we come to be diverted by these diversion-seekers,
as if one with them.)
We walk miles till our legs throb and the
children must be carried--pregnant or no.
The heavy sun sinks in the Nevada soil but light never leaves;
dark only in the dimming sky.
Modeled censored girls on hard coloredpaper cutouts
litter the walkways and we trample them,
hear the clickclack of fingers flicking decks of them and beckoning
with hands extended and eyes elsewhere,
tossing mass-produced faceless bodies into the crowds,
bright glaring shirts:
"I can get you any girl in 20 minutes."
Oh Las Vegas must you be so bright
with your sidewalk stench and shine?
and all your choreographed light shows and circus parades,
dancing fountains and megaphone whores with wideopen legs
and soulless stares and the tinkling of glass,
the smell of rum and whiskey sours and thick raisiny cigarsmoke.
But even as we decry it all we can't help but watch, awed, captivated;
we can't help but smirk behind our smiles.
We leave as we came: that stadium we passed,
exploding with colors and flags and movement, all dying away.
And then the slicked waxy trucks, gleaming like greased billboards
with images of razors and two-by-fours and tall beer cans,
trail each other through the intersection taking their racers away.
And back over blacktop we flee, north toward the Wasatch,
away from the little harbor-pool of endless light in the desert.
But even as we despise it we validate it;
even as we walked its streets we gave it breath.
and a view from the dead flatness of earth.
And so we soar southward over cool blacktop
in the close, sunless morning--
a small restless flock we are, buffeted about by westpacific winds--
until over Delano and the Tushars daylight crowns, quick and golden,
same as seven a.m. summers when my eyes crack to the light
and breathe in heavy awake the heaving morning air.
The blue sky, pale blue sky colored like
milky soap bubbles on a freshscrubbed sidewalk
blazes through the red sandstoned buttes, the ruddy bluffs behind us.
Edge of the mojave and we patrol the wideopen road;
joshua trees line up the freeway (those hands to the sky),
first guarding the guardrails
then spreading out and off and further,
scattered in forest patches the distant claycolored sand.
On a long desert boulevard we arrive in the midst of chaos,
next to a stadium brimming with colors and bodies
and surrounded by hard white trailers and numbered flags and barbeques.
We are ushered in by these celebrity helicopters, circling closer and
hovering just above our heads like sleek painted falcons, shining
and swimming through sunlight, one-by-one. Policecar lights splay on
chainlink fences and hot double-yellow lines, and through a queue of cars
we stumble past the spectacle, all the race-waiters.
To the architected center,
throbbing heart of a barren land, haunted by
spectres of generations of drowned hopes and sloughed dreams.
Where the earth lights the heavens instead of vice versa,
and society gathers in united strands of joy and craved emptiness--
Where desire is desired.
This city so full of people, so churning and thriving,
so consumed by artifice and laughter and swagger
and erected replicas of places they'd rather be, scenes they'd rather see.
They want the whole world condensed into one small vision;
they imagine adventure and purpose in these diversions.
(But still we come to be diverted by these diversion-seekers,
as if one with them.)
We walk miles till our legs throb and the
children must be carried--pregnant or no.
The heavy sun sinks in the Nevada soil but light never leaves;
dark only in the dimming sky.
Modeled censored girls on hard coloredpaper cutouts
litter the walkways and we trample them,
hear the clickclack of fingers flicking decks of them and beckoning
with hands extended and eyes elsewhere,
tossing mass-produced faceless bodies into the crowds,
bright glaring shirts:
"I can get you any girl in 20 minutes."
Oh Las Vegas must you be so bright
with your sidewalk stench and shine?
and all your choreographed light shows and circus parades,
dancing fountains and megaphone whores with wideopen legs
and soulless stares and the tinkling of glass,
the smell of rum and whiskey sours and thick raisiny cigarsmoke.
But even as we decry it all we can't help but watch, awed, captivated;
we can't help but smirk behind our smiles.
We leave as we came: that stadium we passed,
exploding with colors and flags and movement, all dying away.
And then the slicked waxy trucks, gleaming like greased billboards
with images of razors and two-by-fours and tall beer cans,
trail each other through the intersection taking their racers away.
And back over blacktop we flee, north toward the Wasatch,
away from the little harbor-pool of endless light in the desert.
But even as we despise it we validate it;
even as we walked its streets we gave it breath.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Cherry Lane or varicose veins
Newly constructed sidewalks,
overgrown with weeds
like varicose veins--
meant to outlast me.
Imagine them in a century--
my body already absorbed by dirt
or fired to cinders
forty years past--
with its sunned concrete white
faded to a pale mortar grey,
its edges rounded and torn
into crumbled blocks,
the children's initials and handprints
hardly visible anymore.
All of this is meant to outlast me,
us--
transient visitors,
blips on a lifeline,
nuisances.
But the man half-asleep on the steps
of the Community Congregational,
with his head propped
on a pillow of bricks--
he sees little more than Cherry Lane,
he sleeps in little more than fatigues.
And so I ask him,
are you the product of some god
are you the product of my imagination
are you the product of chaos?
To which he replies,
I myself was wondering the same.
overgrown with weeds
like varicose veins--
meant to outlast me.
Imagine them in a century--
my body already absorbed by dirt
or fired to cinders
forty years past--
with its sunned concrete white
faded to a pale mortar grey,
its edges rounded and torn
into crumbled blocks,
the children's initials and handprints
hardly visible anymore.
All of this is meant to outlast me,
us--
transient visitors,
blips on a lifeline,
nuisances.
But the man half-asleep on the steps
of the Community Congregational,
with his head propped
on a pillow of bricks--
he sees little more than Cherry Lane,
he sleeps in little more than fatigues.
And so I ask him,
are you the product of some god
are you the product of my imagination
are you the product of chaos?
To which he replies,
I myself was wondering the same.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Laugh, the devil
The town had been abandoned, for years.
And so I walked its empty streets
and scoured its vacant rooms,
wading through crumbling drywall
and cast-off scrap metal.
If it were Thanksgiving two decades ago,
I would watch at six AM as the cafe awoke
and they wrote the holiday greeting
and turkey specials in chalk calligraphy.
Hotel neon would burst and brighten,
and maids would push restocking carts
through filled parking lots
and streaks of asphalt snow.
But one day they would move the highway.
So doors would latch
and weeds would rise,
windows crack into spiderwebs
and shatter over cinderblock doorstops.
While three miles north
in the shadows made of red canyon handpaint,
earlier villages would be recalled
and the devil would laugh
through blackened hollow eyes,
riding atop his bull.
And so I walked its empty streets
and scoured its vacant rooms,
wading through crumbling drywall
and cast-off scrap metal.
If it were Thanksgiving two decades ago,
I would watch at six AM as the cafe awoke
and they wrote the holiday greeting
and turkey specials in chalk calligraphy.
Hotel neon would burst and brighten,
and maids would push restocking carts
through filled parking lots
and streaks of asphalt snow.
But one day they would move the highway.
So doors would latch
and weeds would rise,
windows crack into spiderwebs
and shatter over cinderblock doorstops.
While three miles north
in the shadows made of red canyon handpaint,
earlier villages would be recalled
and the devil would laugh
through blackened hollow eyes,
riding atop his bull.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Ah
it smells of formaldehyde.
the floors are stuck with sugar and urine,
tracked in bootprints out back by the pallets,
and the plasma-woven high-definition screens
scream Las Vegas at the ruralites.
and it smells like a wet parking lot
with rusted shopping carts.
clouds soak us in their seaboard cover
against the backdrop of a single mountain,
newly devoid of snow.
the bums wander and talk to themselves
on glistening streets
while the Hummers brush past
with their glossy neo-modern colors,
and the whole scene is backlit by
a bright red neon bullseye.
ah.
must we always live in heaven.
the floors are stuck with sugar and urine,
tracked in bootprints out back by the pallets,
and the plasma-woven high-definition screens
scream Las Vegas at the ruralites.
and it smells like a wet parking lot
with rusted shopping carts.
clouds soak us in their seaboard cover
against the backdrop of a single mountain,
newly devoid of snow.
the bums wander and talk to themselves
on glistening streets
while the Hummers brush past
with their glossy neo-modern colors,
and the whole scene is backlit by
a bright red neon bullseye.
ah.
must we always live in heaven.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
The weatherman
I played in the hail last night, while the
sky made yellow fractures between the noises
of earthquakes, and it tried to wound me
with small white pebbles sprung from nothing
and shot like ammunition toward the asphalt.
The grocery store clerks stood sheltered and
stared out at the spectacle: others racing
past me through the storm and I alone walking
slowly in a different spatial dimension.
I danced in the twilight tonight, as it burnt
out the sun in a great golden gleam in the
west, and cast its purple cloak across the
canyon to make shadowed remains of mountains.
The neighbors rushed inside from front yards
and the cars all returned to line the curbs.
The hush of nighttime fell all around, and
indoor lights flickered like false flames,
showing only the streets the color of curtains.
Tomorrow, electric fans and air conditioning
units will cool my boiling blood and pull my
eyelids downward like shutters, until I sleep
in the daylight holding crossed arms near my
damp heart.
sky made yellow fractures between the noises
of earthquakes, and it tried to wound me
with small white pebbles sprung from nothing
and shot like ammunition toward the asphalt.
The grocery store clerks stood sheltered and
stared out at the spectacle: others racing
past me through the storm and I alone walking
slowly in a different spatial dimension.
I danced in the twilight tonight, as it burnt
out the sun in a great golden gleam in the
west, and cast its purple cloak across the
canyon to make shadowed remains of mountains.
The neighbors rushed inside from front yards
and the cars all returned to line the curbs.
The hush of nighttime fell all around, and
indoor lights flickered like false flames,
showing only the streets the color of curtains.
Tomorrow, electric fans and air conditioning
units will cool my boiling blood and pull my
eyelids downward like shutters, until I sleep
in the daylight holding crossed arms near my
damp heart.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Comiendo la cena conmigo solo
It's like that time last year when I ate at Chipotle by myself; eating alone is never enjoyable--you just sit there, eating, looking around and catching the occasional stare. Because you just know everyone is staring at you: What's that guy doing by himself? He must be waiting for someone. But no, he has only one plate, one drink. It's so pathetic. I vowed I would never do it again, but here I am at Cafe RÃo, different state, different Mexican restaurant, same old situation.
It's after nine. I'm not even that hungry. I'm surprised they're still even open. (This cilantro-lime salad dressing sounds delicious, but it's so oily I can't keep a grip on anything, a plastic fork or a pencil for example.)
I wish I spoke better Spanish. Maybe then I would call out to these guys in español, "Close already! It's nine-forty-five! Who eats dinner this late?--it's ridiculous. I don't want to be here. Give me an excuse to leave. Just close up shop and usher me out." But they wouldn't listen anyway. Plus my Spanish accent would be so terrible they probably wouldn't even understand me.
So I finally leave with half my meal untouched. It's almost ten. And the strange thing is, that with so much freedom available to me, I head home. So many places to go, so many opportunities, and I make the easy choice: go right on home. Go where it's comfortable and inviting. So free yet still so trapped. And that's the easy choice.
Three guys and two girls in the car in front of me are having a jolly old time. Waving at passersby, leaning out of windows and shouting. I'm smiling. Listening to Moneen, my third cd obsession in Provo: "Sing for love. Sing for choices. Sing for everyone without voices. Sing for love. Sing for laughter. Sing for everyone here and after." So I keep driving and change lanes, and then they come up to pass me on my right and all three in the back seat (girl/boy/girl) lean forward in perfect succession, seriously perfect like it was choreographed from some comedy or something, and they just kind of stare and blankly wave at me, and so I smirk and wave back like, Hey it's just me, thanks for noticing. Then I pull left to get into my turn lane and they pass by again and look backward out their rear window. So what's the big deal? Did you think that you knew me? Well, you don't. I'll just be going home now.
I'm so tormented. Such an artist. But I wasn't the only one eating alone. Guess that just happens.
It's after nine. I'm not even that hungry. I'm surprised they're still even open. (This cilantro-lime salad dressing sounds delicious, but it's so oily I can't keep a grip on anything, a plastic fork or a pencil for example.)
I wish I spoke better Spanish. Maybe then I would call out to these guys in español, "Close already! It's nine-forty-five! Who eats dinner this late?--it's ridiculous. I don't want to be here. Give me an excuse to leave. Just close up shop and usher me out." But they wouldn't listen anyway. Plus my Spanish accent would be so terrible they probably wouldn't even understand me.
So I finally leave with half my meal untouched. It's almost ten. And the strange thing is, that with so much freedom available to me, I head home. So many places to go, so many opportunities, and I make the easy choice: go right on home. Go where it's comfortable and inviting. So free yet still so trapped. And that's the easy choice.
Three guys and two girls in the car in front of me are having a jolly old time. Waving at passersby, leaning out of windows and shouting. I'm smiling. Listening to Moneen, my third cd obsession in Provo: "Sing for love. Sing for choices. Sing for everyone without voices. Sing for love. Sing for laughter. Sing for everyone here and after." So I keep driving and change lanes, and then they come up to pass me on my right and all three in the back seat (girl/boy/girl) lean forward in perfect succession, seriously perfect like it was choreographed from some comedy or something, and they just kind of stare and blankly wave at me, and so I smirk and wave back like, Hey it's just me, thanks for noticing. Then I pull left to get into my turn lane and they pass by again and look backward out their rear window. So what's the big deal? Did you think that you knew me? Well, you don't. I'll just be going home now.
I'm so tormented. Such an artist. But I wasn't the only one eating alone. Guess that just happens.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
In the city of celebrity [v.2]
[This is a poetically-reworked version of a post I made in February regarding our little stint into Park City. See, I wanted to submit some poems to this contest, but all mine were so normal. So I took this one , a journal-y entry thing, and upgraded it into a more poetic form. I also changed the content slightly, and then I called it a poem. Maybe it's not much better. Probably not. But here it is anyoldway.]
Snow is the culprit, dirtier of windows, icer of atmosphere.
Field and clearing surrounds us,
en route to the city in the mountain mist.
Canyon roads lay as fractures spilling across white foreign land,
and these vehicles, these ubiquitous vehicles--
spouting fumes into the freeze--are just insects,
burdensome, mosquitoes in the summer.
Scaling the plateau, up one level from below,
against the backdrop of frosted tips and glazed peaks.
Somehow we are led unscathed by the unrelenting winter,
by the beacon of the valleys, the roads that connect one with another,
stairstepping up and up until the temperature's drops are unnoticeable--
the cold imperative--it chaps lips and eyelids,
renders road signs almost completely illegible.
We are welcomed by the fashionistas,
they who tout the utmost in class,
opportunity and demeanor, expense and desirability.
The lives of the stars. The upward spiraling of the significant.
We do not belong, our vehicles glare filthily; it doesn't matter.
Our presence is one of mistake, but we've as much claim here
as say, he: There, in the blue sweatshirt,
shaking hands, signing autographs, smiling self-assuredly,
ostensibly reluctant or embarrassed by recognition.
"I love your work." "I'm such a fan."
"Job well done. Job well done. Congratulations. Excellence."
The forever-eyes search, calculate, with each passing group they stare
into your deepest, densest self. Some continue on, glancing backward,
curiosities unsatisfied, still seeking, searching.
And we all do this; there is no end in sight.
A human zoo or attraction of sorts.
We all may be celebrity, or none of us may be.
But sight deceives, for we are one and the same,
yet we inexplicably walk in awe of one another.
But the cold!, the shameful, conspiring cold!
It would find nothing more joyous
than the sight of thousands of preserved, frozen bodies
lying prostrate in the street gutters,
torn from their sickly-sweet enjoyments
with smiles of indifference or gaping gasps of shock
still engraved across their cheeks.
"They never saw it coming. They had no idea!"
Snow is the culprit, dirtier of windows, icer of atmosphere.
Field and clearing surrounds us,
en route to the city in the mountain mist.
Canyon roads lay as fractures spilling across white foreign land,
and these vehicles, these ubiquitous vehicles--
spouting fumes into the freeze--are just insects,
burdensome, mosquitoes in the summer.
Scaling the plateau, up one level from below,
against the backdrop of frosted tips and glazed peaks.
Somehow we are led unscathed by the unrelenting winter,
by the beacon of the valleys, the roads that connect one with another,
stairstepping up and up until the temperature's drops are unnoticeable--
the cold imperative--it chaps lips and eyelids,
renders road signs almost completely illegible.
We are welcomed by the fashionistas,
they who tout the utmost in class,
opportunity and demeanor, expense and desirability.
The lives of the stars. The upward spiraling of the significant.
We do not belong, our vehicles glare filthily; it doesn't matter.
Our presence is one of mistake, but we've as much claim here
as say, he: There, in the blue sweatshirt,
shaking hands, signing autographs, smiling self-assuredly,
ostensibly reluctant or embarrassed by recognition.
"I love your work." "I'm such a fan."
"Job well done. Job well done. Congratulations. Excellence."
The forever-eyes search, calculate, with each passing group they stare
into your deepest, densest self. Some continue on, glancing backward,
curiosities unsatisfied, still seeking, searching.
And we all do this; there is no end in sight.
A human zoo or attraction of sorts.
We all may be celebrity, or none of us may be.
But sight deceives, for we are one and the same,
yet we inexplicably walk in awe of one another.
But the cold!, the shameful, conspiring cold!
It would find nothing more joyous
than the sight of thousands of preserved, frozen bodies
lying prostrate in the street gutters,
torn from their sickly-sweet enjoyments
with smiles of indifference or gaping gasps of shock
still engraved across their cheeks.
"They never saw it coming. They had no idea!"
Monday, February 06, 2006
In the city of celebrity
Snow is the culprit, dirtier of windows, icer of atmosphere. Those spots and the clearings caused by the wipers surround us; we're traveling to Park City for the first time. Canyon roads are just fractures spilling across the white landscape, and these vehicles, these ubiquitous vehicles - spouting fumes into the freeze - are just insects, mosquitoes in the summer, annoyances, burdens. We're scaling the plateau, up one level from the valley below, until Heber appears against the backdrop of the frosted tips and glazed peaks. Somehow these roads lead us, unscathed by the relentless schizophrenia that winter provides in all its fickleness. They are the beacons of the valleys, connecting one to another, stairstepping up and up until the temperature's drops are less noticeable - because it just can't get any colder - it already chaps your lips and eyelids regardless, and the road signs are almost completely illegible.
Park City welcomes all those fashionistas, touting the utmost in class, and outdoor experience!, of opportunity and demeanor, culture, expense, and desirability. The lives of the stars. The upward spiraling of the significant. We don't fit in, but it doesn't matter. Our cars are filthy, our clothing less expensive - unwashed or recycled even - our presence is one of mistake, but we don't mind. We've as much a right here as, say, Shia LaBeouf - right over there! In the blue sweatshirt, did you see him? Shaking hands, signing autographs, smiling pleasantly, self-assuredly, ostensibly reluctant or embarrassed by the recognition. "I love your work." "I'm such a fan." "Job well done. Job well done. Congratulations. Excellence."
These forever-eyes are searching, calculating. With each passing group you are stared down, into your deepest, densest self - is that someone to recognize, from television, the theatres, People? Some continue on, glancing backward, their curiosities unsatisfied, still seeking, searching. We all do this; there's no end in sight. A human zoo or attraction of sorts. We all may be celebrity, and none of us may be. Sight is deceiving - beanies, scarves, ludicrously oversized sunglasses, all hide the most blatant of facial features. We are one and the same, yet we all walk in awe of each other.
But the cold!, the shameful, conspiring cold! It'd find nothing more joyous than thousands of preserved, frozen bodies lying prostrate in the street gutters, torn from their sickly-sweet enjoyments with smiles of indifference or gaping gasps of shock still engraved across their cheeks. "They never saw it coming. They had no idea!"
[From the day of 22 January 2006]
Park City welcomes all those fashionistas, touting the utmost in class, and outdoor experience!, of opportunity and demeanor, culture, expense, and desirability. The lives of the stars. The upward spiraling of the significant. We don't fit in, but it doesn't matter. Our cars are filthy, our clothing less expensive - unwashed or recycled even - our presence is one of mistake, but we don't mind. We've as much a right here as, say, Shia LaBeouf - right over there! In the blue sweatshirt, did you see him? Shaking hands, signing autographs, smiling pleasantly, self-assuredly, ostensibly reluctant or embarrassed by the recognition. "I love your work." "I'm such a fan." "Job well done. Job well done. Congratulations. Excellence."
These forever-eyes are searching, calculating. With each passing group you are stared down, into your deepest, densest self - is that someone to recognize, from television, the theatres, People? Some continue on, glancing backward, their curiosities unsatisfied, still seeking, searching. We all do this; there's no end in sight. A human zoo or attraction of sorts. We all may be celebrity, and none of us may be. Sight is deceiving - beanies, scarves, ludicrously oversized sunglasses, all hide the most blatant of facial features. We are one and the same, yet we all walk in awe of each other.
But the cold!, the shameful, conspiring cold! It'd find nothing more joyous than thousands of preserved, frozen bodies lying prostrate in the street gutters, torn from their sickly-sweet enjoyments with smiles of indifference or gaping gasps of shock still engraved across their cheeks. "They never saw it coming. They had no idea!"
[From the day of 22 January 2006]
Friday, September 02, 2005
Fleeting moments stolen from Puerto Vallarta
And so my chin rested in that spot where the oily heads of hundreds of travelers and locals had rested before me, lying back and letting the sun bathe their limbs. Streetwashers routinely splashed small cups of water across the sidewalks, over and over and over, each cup cleaning a new patch of the weathered concrete. I fell into chants of "no gracias" and "nada" as the merchants approached, wheeling and dealing their services and silver. And the sun beat down. The crumbling blocks on the walkways and the yellowed stairs told the tales of generations. But I am just a foreigner, a visitor with visions of endless undiscovered beaches, shoreline-nestled fishing towns, chimney smoke and sizzling fire pits. Photographs capture just a piece, and the rest of the hustling, bustling world lives on.
The blue and white fabric of my rented sun chair left patchwork markings across my skin. I sat up and studied the bluest of the blues, where skyline married ocean in a crash of tide and foam, white as ivory. I longed to wear the same earthen clothing I saw covering their sun-kissed flesh, light and loose, beautiful and apparently freshly weaved from the finest of the cotton harvest or the most tender wool taken from the happiest, fattest sheep. Some life carried on here that defied all that I had previously imagined - a fine little island, accessible only by ship.
A young boy approached me, selling chicle. He was shirtless and as brown as deep cocoa, but his shy smile gave him away. We bartered like civilizations of old, pesos for gum, and he turned and scurried away, clutching the tray of precious goods that hung around his neck by an old leather band. Not so much existed between us, no true barrier of alienation. I saw this boy reflected in me, his childhood flowed as a tributary next to my own as the great stream of life rushed and coursed like the blood in my veins. There was no need for words, my language was his, and his smile was mine. I stretched and turned onto my stomach, wishing to remain in that scorching sunlight as long as it took, until my skin darkened to the color of chocolate.
'We've only been here a fleeting moment, but I've taken that moment and run. And it is mine now; I will not set it free.'
The blue and white fabric of my rented sun chair left patchwork markings across my skin. I sat up and studied the bluest of the blues, where skyline married ocean in a crash of tide and foam, white as ivory. I longed to wear the same earthen clothing I saw covering their sun-kissed flesh, light and loose, beautiful and apparently freshly weaved from the finest of the cotton harvest or the most tender wool taken from the happiest, fattest sheep. Some life carried on here that defied all that I had previously imagined - a fine little island, accessible only by ship.
A young boy approached me, selling chicle. He was shirtless and as brown as deep cocoa, but his shy smile gave him away. We bartered like civilizations of old, pesos for gum, and he turned and scurried away, clutching the tray of precious goods that hung around his neck by an old leather band. Not so much existed between us, no true barrier of alienation. I saw this boy reflected in me, his childhood flowed as a tributary next to my own as the great stream of life rushed and coursed like the blood in my veins. There was no need for words, my language was his, and his smile was mine. I stretched and turned onto my stomach, wishing to remain in that scorching sunlight as long as it took, until my skin darkened to the color of chocolate.
'We've only been here a fleeting moment, but I've taken that moment and run. And it is mine now; I will not set it free.'
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
So 'fraid
Hello, city.
I see that you've been tucked in for the night,
as your fog blanket covers all but the loftiest
of your head and shoulders.
I'm sorry that you're unable to sleep.
The brightness of your wide-open eyes is unmistakable
from my asphalt hillside.
I wouldn't worry though, it is quite beautiful.
You little city.
Your people are so strange.
They parade by in whirlwinds of night,
perceivable only by that errant footstep,
a timely echo, the mechanical clang of a bicycle.
If I turn my head for but a moment, they are gone--
the breeze left by their passing is all that betrays them.
Your breath is always so soft and cold,
and it smells of damp sidewalks and rainforest.
You act so sure, yet you're so afraid, so timid and meek.
You are grand in size and measure, but remote in nature.
And still, you are not a coward, your courage far outstands mine.
I am mute, and I cling to my small patch of pavement,
governing the sloping streets, the corner clubs
and fluid fluorescences that fill your byways.
Be still, city.
You are so 'fraid, so frayed and fearful.
Let your disciples see only your confidence.
Send your voice streaming down those alleyways in a guided rush.
Rustle the scarves and shirttails of the white-collared.
Spook the step-sitters and the would-be criminals.
Extend your hands of mist and collect all that belongs to you.
The city-dwellers do not control you, city.
Oh no, just as you sleep and wake and listen--
and as you smile, cringe, and sometimes exact vengeance,
these folks are your friends and enemies.
Ah yes, we are your symbionts.
Tread softly, city, and be not afraid.
I see that you've been tucked in for the night,
as your fog blanket covers all but the loftiest
of your head and shoulders.
I'm sorry that you're unable to sleep.
The brightness of your wide-open eyes is unmistakable
from my asphalt hillside.
I wouldn't worry though, it is quite beautiful.
You little city.
Your people are so strange.
They parade by in whirlwinds of night,
perceivable only by that errant footstep,
a timely echo, the mechanical clang of a bicycle.
If I turn my head for but a moment, they are gone--
the breeze left by their passing is all that betrays them.
Your breath is always so soft and cold,
and it smells of damp sidewalks and rainforest.
You act so sure, yet you're so afraid, so timid and meek.
You are grand in size and measure, but remote in nature.
And still, you are not a coward, your courage far outstands mine.
I am mute, and I cling to my small patch of pavement,
governing the sloping streets, the corner clubs
and fluid fluorescences that fill your byways.
Be still, city.
You are so 'fraid, so frayed and fearful.
Let your disciples see only your confidence.
Send your voice streaming down those alleyways in a guided rush.
Rustle the scarves and shirttails of the white-collared.
Spook the step-sitters and the would-be criminals.
Extend your hands of mist and collect all that belongs to you.
The city-dwellers do not control you, city.
Oh no, just as you sleep and wake and listen--
and as you smile, cringe, and sometimes exact vengeance,
these folks are your friends and enemies.
Ah yes, we are your symbionts.
Tread softly, city, and be not afraid.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
The return from Pateros
So the routine returns. It was a short but seemingly endless outing that resulted in not much more than empty pockets and a drift of a hike. I felt some sad sense of longing as I drove out of Pateros, that tiny town supposedly holding 643 souls, give or take, and the smells of the bakery that welcomed me as long as the sun shone. I can't explain why I feel like I am leaving something behind. Maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe my expectations were too low. I had hoped for an improbable burst of life excitement, all the while planning for the sad reality that would most likely realize itself once again. I am not angry; I am not upset. I might be disappointed or discouraged. But the smell of the Washington air that was so new to me, the somewhat-heat of the pollen-tainted breeze that filled my rental car's humming engine vents - and would have blown my hair awry if it were long enough - those things keep my senses alive. Those people that seem alien, those Washingtonian foreigners, they are so eerily similar to me and mine. The backroad highways paved decades ago and well-traveled by thousands if not millions - they speak some testament of my smile for life and the spontaneity and lack of reason that could fuel and refuel me for an eternity. Sometimes it doesn't really matter if practicality speaks loud enough. I guess my ears were muffled at least for a day or two. And I am excited for that. 25 is still not a man. I'll never be a man; I'll always be a boy.
Sweet River Bakery
[In late May/early June, I took a random trip to Washington - my first time there - to pursue some interesting treasure-hunting dreams of mine. It sounds a bit ricidulous, I know. I came home empty-handed, and more in debt, but it was a great experience and I have no regrets. My trip consisted of flying from Sacramento to Spokane, then driving a rental 2+ hours out to mid-northern Washington, past the towns of Moses Lake, Brewster, Pateros, and more - all on my way to Alta Lake State Park. I stayed overnight in Pateros, and I was welcomed by the Sweet River Bakery, the Rest Awhile Fruit Stand, a comfortable Chevron station, and the Lake Pateros Inn, to name a few of my stops. Then I turned around, drove a bit, and flew a bit - all to return to the life and normalcy I had temporarily left behind.]
Sweet River Bakery
[In late May/early June, I took a random trip to Washington - my first time there - to pursue some interesting treasure-hunting dreams of mine. It sounds a bit ricidulous, I know. I came home empty-handed, and more in debt, but it was a great experience and I have no regrets. My trip consisted of flying from Sacramento to Spokane, then driving a rental 2+ hours out to mid-northern Washington, past the towns of Moses Lake, Brewster, Pateros, and more - all on my way to Alta Lake State Park. I stayed overnight in Pateros, and I was welcomed by the Sweet River Bakery, the Rest Awhile Fruit Stand, a comfortable Chevron station, and the Lake Pateros Inn, to name a few of my stops. Then I turned around, drove a bit, and flew a bit - all to return to the life and normalcy I had temporarily left behind.]
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
