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Poetry
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American Summer
Poems written while traveling.
Touring Territories
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1: The Alluvial Notion Fey cottonwoods in abundance, old and majestic. Ranches in the edges of the flaring canyons. The vast and grand mountains north northwest of Bishop. 2. Owens Valley A vast stretch of sagebrush equi-spaced in the sand. Pylons shrinking in perspective. Black cows. Sagging powerlines. Desert mountains rising. 3: Amargosa For certain, all that we knew about Henry Porter was that his name was not Henry Porter— and that he was killed by indians. 4: Hips Boys & girls bouncing in the hotel pool. Horseplay and rough-housing. Dads with their daughters. Moms make their entrance last—the way the hips sway when they walk. 5: Sevier River Juniper and piñon cling to the hillsides. A little river meandering through sagebrush. White cows. Cottonwoods. High-desert mountains (spotted with pygmy forest). 6: Wonder Sitting on a hotel bed in an old Mormon town just outside of nowhere... a laptop on my lap. Gravel roads, flies—peace of mind; running commands on a distant server. 7: Ecotourism Instructions with regard to used towel etiquette; chidings on the untoward spilling of water. Brown soap. Mint shampoo. Young room maids with names like Summit, Jasmine, Echo, Little Wing. 8: Desert Interlude For certain, all that we knew about Henry Porter was that his name was not Henry Porter and he was bit by a snake and later died. 9: Calf Creek A black and red banded snake on a red-dirt trail beside a yellow ochre rock vanishes in the languid greenery near the creek's edge. 10: Turds on the Trail The sun sheds its warmth without charge or favor— some look for shade, some laze by the river, some follow trails, some do not. 11: Capitol Reef Waterpocket fold. Drip drip. Drip drip. Waterpocket fold. Drip drip. Drip drip. Waterpocket fold. Drip drip. Drip drip. Waterpocket fold... 12: Hiking to It The sun sheds its warmth without favor or grace— ruler supreme over water and ice, fire and fecundity. There are those who travel and those who don't. 13: Island in the Sky Her parents said we were too young. Our love was just teenage infatuation they said. They said. They said it but they were wrong. Her old man was dead wrong he was. No way would he listen. So rather than live apart we died together, on a warm day in July in Utah, from the Grand Overlook—a sweet mile from our parked car. 14: Good Prospect One uncertain thing that we knew about Henry Porter, he was a schooled geologist— his excuse for the mining life. The man could not walk without looking down. 15: Fourth of July Elsewhere In a darkened hotel room sipping a dark micro-brew as fireworks explode above— watching moths circle beneath a star-spangled street light. 16: Soluble Fish On the bank of the Virgin River an annoying French boy exclaims to his mere: " Le poussin! Le poussin! Le poussin!" which reminds me of a book I read long, long ago. 17: On the Trail Clearly we knew quite early on that his name was not Henry Porter— yet he was seldom hard to locate. He was a man one could surely detect both coming and going. 18: Las Vegas Boulevard As soon as the arm recoiled on the slot machine, the cocktail waitress asked if the gentleman would like another drink, while quarters spattered into the coin trough and prayers rose all about them—oh the precious metals that began to fall, to come out of hiding. 19: Rest In Peace Racing across the desert while listening to Bjork wail and pondering life's imponderables— recent roadside memorials on seemingly innocuous straightaways. 20: Thin Air For certain, if your path chose to cross paths with Henry Porter he would introduce himself as alias—always as alias. The man could vanish into thin air as only he could. back | ToC | next » 2011
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