Water Tower

. . . an old water tower on the edge
of town. It's not used anymore.
They still haven't torn it down.
Silver paint sheds in rusty
patches: a well-traveled knight
of old, or a rocket that never
made a journey.
It's there in February wheat fields
without the green of early spring,
or shine of the cold white snow.
The mud is still frozen.

Evening comes early this far
north.  A light from the West sweeps
in under gray sky, a honey light
smooths this dead place.
Warm air from the coast
over the mountains brings rain,
not the snow of the high passes.

Every year the plows get closer
to the supports; asphalt
spreads wider from town.
The tower will vanish.
I'll flip a coin
as to which finally kills
the hollow ring in the reservoir.

              published in High Plains Literary Review, vol. VII, no. 3, winter 1992.

Achilles

Mister Suit is pressed today
as he walks to work on the concrete
just recently uncovered from snow.
The dark blue cloth is well creased,
well cleaned; and the black, neatly
tied shoes click nicely.  Between
leather and the cuff, his socks betray
through frayed web of threads:
his white heel.  Without slaves,
how much it costs, to well maintain
the armor of a work a day world.

             published in Northern Journeys, vol. 2, no. 3, Oct.-Dec., 1998.

Assumption of the God-form

Sorcery paints a picture with thought,
stepping into that form passes all danger.
It rises up like compressed air
through the deep, Caribbean blue
until it becomes part of the breeze
blowing on the water.
Nuit, in Hathor's form, bends down
exposing her charms to the world below.
In a dream, people never hit
the rocks when they fall.
They awaken suddenly.
That's the spirit returning home
so psyche isn't creamed.
Some folks wake up with bruises;
they really want to hit those rocks.
When fucking with some goddess
in a dream, who gets stuck
sleeping in the wet spot?
What sorcery gives you is a wet-dream
with no stains on the mattress.
They're all with goddess.

            published in Wind Row, vol. 2, no. 2, Spring, 1984.

Albion, Wash.

There really is a place
with that name.  I know.
I live there, and it wasn't
settled by giants.  In the graveyard
there isn't one more than six feet.
Some are smaller.  Young things died
sooner back then.

                              From the center
of town, you can see it
as you pick up your mail,
one of the last stands of pine
in the Palouse.  The graves
in between make pines seem
darker.  Spring wheat makes trees
more of a shadow, old growth
against new.

                published in Wind Row, vol. 2, no., Spring 1984.

Locust, May 4, 1970

The pictures are black and white;
but even though the passions
are embers I still see them
as green, with black dead eyes.
Some of them have taken off
their masks and turned away;
but the fury of the black faceless
eyes of the others is real, and empty.
There's a kid off to the side
flipping them the bird; I think
he bought a bullet for his trouble.
The pictures are all black and white;
but even though the passions are
embers I still see them as red.
Red pools in the parking lot
flowing down to the rain-gutter
over a hundred fucking yards away
from the damn Guard and their rifles.
They are only pictures, only embers.
God help the breeze that fans them.

                 published in Wind Row, vol. 2, no. 2, Spring, 1984.

Self

Take a mirror,
full length is best,
remove your cloths,
kneel down before it,
look at yourself.
See a skeleton,
fat man, fat woman,
thin man, thin woman,
god, goddess,
cross your legs and see,
close your eyes and see more.

       published in The White Light, Pasadena, CA; Vol. 15, no. 3, Summer, 1989.


The poem was based on an old Buddhist meditation technique.  The White Light is a publication that comes out of the Temple of Truth (T.O.T.) a magical organization in Southern California.  I had never been involved with this group before, so I did not realize that they come out of the traditions of the Golden Dawn or some Western magical tradition that does not use Eastern traditions, so using their editorial license they changed one word in the piece.  I think it changes the tone of the poem.  What do you think?

Take a mirror,
full length is best,
remove your cloths,
kneel down before it,
look at yourself.
See a skeleton,
fat man, fat woman,
thin man, thin woman,
god, goddess,
cross your legs and see,
close your eyes and see nothing.

The Corridor

Hog Heaven to Three Forks,
you go through the corridor,
between the hills, along
Paradise
Creek.  It's a name,
something pop press and
real estate likes:
an ink, pulp handle, muddy
as spring water during
runoff.
Titles hold little of what is
there.
Between Hallows Eve and
the snows
of Solstice, the prairie grass
is color of straw.
It covers black earth by the
stream
wandering across the
boarder.
Rusted rails of an iron road
use the flood plain also.
Cottonwoods have lost all
but a few yellow leaves,
ruddy whips on dark
skinned trunks.
Rouge of the last storm
touches far counties in the East;
West rim can be seen clear.
Hawks hunt the corridor,
hover on the wind.
They eat their mice
on telephone poles, fence
posts.
When snow falls, it covers
the machine in the gravel
quarries.
When it falls deep enough;
they shut down.
The machines have lights
so they can see at night,
grind away, grind away.
Except for a small diversion,
the highway follows the
water.
There's a road cut through
one mound.  They finally
planted
some seedlings to fight
the angle of repose.
This hallway doesn't run
straight to an ending,
and name makes it easy
to ignore, the corridor.

               published in ADmart, Moscow, ID, June 18, 1998.
               This poem took a 2nd place in the paper's poetry contest for that year.