Disperse In Reverse

Nostalgic for the present-time.
Strangely, this very moment,
washed-out color,
light and dark, blare and eclipse
beyond recognition,
symptomatic of neglect.
It is a remnant self
in remnant surroundings,
the rest having taken flight
or succumbed to the tug
and allure of place-names
that seem greater than my own,
or to the tectonic grind
between agoraphobic spaces
and claustrophobic confines.

Retrieve the scatter, call it home.

Keene

Hurry, you may miss

the train.

You hate to wait

among passengers

and be reminded you

are one, must yet be.

You toss your smoke to the street.

You forgot to gather up the things

that fill suitcases on this platform

on every platform—

I dig from your jeans

a lighter, a slim wallet, not even a receipt

Of the shadows you reconcile against the real things—

bourbon, bottles, the secrets of your genes

tossed to the laundry with the boxers you wore,

called clean.

Your life is an unseen to you

as mine is to me—

I held you just the same.

I know that

from moving

windows for miles

you steel yourself to

solace, steal

a fleeting peace

to pour on your

parched, restless lips,

to summon the night

and your distant dreams.

Untitled, November 2011

Touch Sleeping (Austin, Texas 2011)

The world will die from a tired men,
walking through time, proving this to them.

Love is man's creation, and worth it
at moments--left breathless,
by laughter turned tears,
by this bed I've shared with you, ten plus years,
by your smell at all times of day,
but especially when at night, sleeping,
and I keep my hands on you.

Redemption is born in these moments of love.

fish in the water

-->

Night on the river, they sing,

burro in the shadow, waiting,

Mesa de Anguilla,

a cold wind,

a firelight,

woodsmoke on the air above,

candleflame on the plain below.

Night on the sea, they sing,

lap the hull, water, homeward bobbing,

Bahia Concepcion crystalline and hot,

jaunty octopus butcher,

drunk on mescal,

lanterns glowing at the bow—

a torchlight procession.

Black widows in the palapa.

Scorpion in the tent.

In both cases the water.

In both cases the water.

Nature, or the house

The hearts of men are witches' hearts,
lost,
grasping for a metaphysics
that long ago abandoned them.

List Of Things To Do, Saturday 10/29/11

1. Hear the early morning alarm, pre-dawn.
2. Wander the house, groggy-eyed, gathering travel items.
3. Drive to the airport, drop off wife and child.
4. Drive across town and back to Dripping Springs.
5. Go to the grocery store, acquire provisions.
6. Fill up the gas tank and withdraw cash from the ATM.
7. See the auburn sunlight pouring in from the East, coming to rest on the gritty rear-windshield and rear-view mirrors.
8. Drive past Johnson City. Monitor the slight rise and fall of morning low temperatures, from 40F to 38F to 34F and back.
9. See the frost in low-laying pastures.
10. Drive through Fredericksburg and enjoy the absence of traffic.
11. See the morning light on young undulating live oaks.
12. Note the calmness of Harper on a Saturday morning and wonder what it's like to reside in Harper on a Saturday morning.
13. Pull onto a country road and relieve myself on a thicket of aguarita growing along a barbed-wire fence.
14. Glide along 290 as it hands itself off to I-10, a single cell travelling from vein to artery.
15. Hear the hum of wheels and engine at 80 mph.
16. See the live oaks taper, see the prominent ashe juniper, rusty with drought.
17. See the flashing light of the state trooper and engage in a brief argument about my use of cruise control and the impossibility of my exceeding the speed limit.
18. Receive a warning ticket.
19. Stop at a rest area and watch a weary Mexican woman work a mop over grimy tiles.
20. Enjoy the small victory of clearing the towns of Sonora and Ozona.
21. See the hills give way to small mesas, then to buttes and larger mesas dotted with wind turbines.
22. Gas and coffee up in Fort Stockton. Return Chris May's phone call while standing at the pump.
23. Jump from artery to vein again and see the Trans-Pecos ahead.
24. Listen to Symbols in the Architecture by History At Our Disposal while ascending into Alpine.
25. See the jagged caldera between Alpine and Marfa.
26. Quickly glance from the highway to the angular Oligocene leftover, asphalt to rhyolite, asphalt to rhyolite.
27. Pull into Marfa with urgency and spend too much time in a gas station restroom, doing my business while men come and go in groups, laughing and cajoling one another in spanish or spanglish.
28. Drive down the descending highway, from grassland to mountain foothills.
29. See the highway give way to dirt and gravel. Vein to capillary.
30. See the Chisos loom high to my left while the car shudders over the washboard road.
31. Cross several dry creek beds while wishing the car had higher clearance as it grinds its underside against stone.
32. Take pause to admire the view from several different points. Take it in like medicine.
33. Arrive at the turn-off and make a couple more nervous crossings across dry creek beds.
34. Arrive at the hot springs and walk into the office.
35. Receive a tour of the place. Find the woman giving the tour to be astonishingly attractive for someone two decades my senior.
35. Unload belongings into a lovely adobe cabin.
36. Change into swimsuit.
37. Soak in warm spring water and take delight in the afternoon sunlight against cottonwood leaves.
38. Converse with fascinating strangers from Alaska and Oregon.
39. Witness the setting sun and the onset of stars.
40. Wonder when I will take extended residence in the desert again.