It is not 1973
it is 2020 and all roads are
blocked but back in the summer
of my right thumb when the roads ran free
I was $120 and a clean knapsack westbound
on US 33 smack-dab in the middle of Ohio
thumb out on my 19th birthday oh I made time
up to northern Michigan the first night
a campfire an art student Moira
who had clouds of curls she said
All art is Eros I thought Oh till I drank
like a teenager so sulked north
into Canada and the scorched dust
of the prairies stuck stuck stuck
3 days just west of Winnipeg
then into the clear cool of the Canadian Rockies
It is not 1973
In deep troughs between
the dark hills of water passing,
at ‘Ehukai or Kahana,
and later along the smoothed beaches
of Waikiki, its accrued history covered still.
You hack at your ancient red hills
like those creatures who eat parts of their own bodies
digging for the gold of overpopulation, pollution, and upward mobility
for 60 escudos a day
to deliver the Northerner’s rich dream
and at sunset sit in the old plaza deafened by swallows
and return to the crumbling tile-roofed box of earth beyond the hill
and at dawn once again set the long white caterpillar of villas
creeping toward you to devour you.
black patches curving slick
extraordinary in its bloom
lights last flecks of
two by two geese
flee into darkness
tracks melting under toe
I’ll meet you here, tomorrow
as Seven Sister skate the sky
moon raining crystals.
She used to touch the beard on my face,
Whether nascent or full,
And stroke it with two fingers.
She would indulge in the bristles
As they bit tenderly into her chin
When we kissed and kissed
The way we used to
Kiss and kiss.
She loved when it was mostly brown and a little blonde and ginger
And loved it more when the white began to overtake the brown and blonde
And touch of ginger.
If I shaved because it’s not our world but theirs
And I must get along sometimes
She would be sad but understanding of that.
Above the east bank green rays beam from beyond The aquarelle of this dawn patiently emerges, brightening The fleeing the stars & indigo twilight Sand castles still guard this shore, surviving the higher wash of the nightRead more "Sunrise River (Río Uruguay)"
You see power lines and I see twilight But you follow me everywhere, even when I sail across seas, live in other countries, speak foreign languages. Especially when I speak foreign languages. They remind me of your many tongues, fingers in my mouth, body like a map revealing unknowns that make me all at once prepared and still afraid.Read more "This Wasn’t Supposed to Be About You"
How can you describe a place called Dottie a land of statistics, a land of probability a country rooted in elegant traditions traffic running wild, traffic running widdershins green terrain shutting down completely perchance of rain confounding new arrivals with postings and signs, signs shedding slogans, making promises directing the journeyRead more "Invisible Countries: Countries and Signs"
Not doing much but composing a poem in my head—which might be somethingif the poem is consummated,turning out to be good. Sunlight steps easy on the waterall the way to Quay Bercyand a new first line—that’s better.Lush, green leaves on the trees, a cat chases plump birds,a couple on the roof of a houseboatkiss and […]Read more "Along the Seine"
Untitled some branded some empty roadside stops stupid beasts and giant devices painted with pleasure baked by sun and camera flash visit my fresh dream we’ll sit together picking at cracks in our used cars’ leather seats Aaron Warnock comes from a very diverse family. His father was a Methodist Pastor, his sister is a […]Read more "Untitled"