I can imagine river living, living by the river,
the Willamette where it winds through Creswell,
life between the buttes when there was so much
more to uncertainty than there is now.
Calling calling Colorado Gail, calling on my
dead ones, death, calling on the red ones,
milk red spots or stains, the blueberry of
buildings, the gray of grass, it dominates.
Will never
Will never
Will never
read a bestseller
will never
swill never
will never
write a bestseller
too much written
too much written
Dogen sailed to China
how did Gary reach Japan?
Yellowstone.
Retreat. Let’s go on retreat.
Let’s visit the jungle.
Let’s get information on the situation.
Sigh. Pushing into unknown territories.
this is a worthwhile occupation
even though I don’t have shoes
and looking trail
urge to travel I will travel and see wondrous things like towels and bats, howling cats,
prattling monkeys, whale skeletons and towers of ant with garbage backdrop and
insect afterscape
Play with the baby. The gratitude, the relaxation of no baby. The brutality of babies here at home. And how will they travel? And how do they know when to come home? And when to fold their little wings and settle down and when to roam? And what day must it be for questions to make arbitrary sense? And what day must it be to clear the question buildup, do some dusting, and serve sandwiches?
Longing for the quiet of the bustling morning shops. In the small town, does anyone arise before 6? In the village, do you encounter people on the street? In the English village, naked people with monstrous faces? In the white north, chanting lunatics? In the humid south, alligators are successful, polar bears are not. Difficulties among the animal populations.
Let us go to the peasant capitals of Europe. Let us capture your imaginations. Let us harness all these capabilities.
People going on vacation—she’s close enough to practicing sympathetic joy. And—generosity.
How much of me wants to quit.
Wants to quit. Wants to quit.
Wants to quit socializing, the word is far too long and Latinate. I want someone in my home though, my treasure, treasured friend, I want a gleaming golden friend who’s fascinating.
I want to live in Oregon.
(Associations)
So then last week was our last session—postponed until after Thanksgiving because so many in class were going out of own or otherwise couldn’t make it and it was my first day back at work in Jersey after the long weekend and the previous week’s hiatus because of surgery on my aching wrist I had to work from home. Huh—I was cutting everything pretty close, had some goods to drop off with Blair, not urgent, just his vest, his coat, his soap—well, what if he gets COLD, he’ll need this stuff, my drive to deliver it to him got the best of me and almost hyperventilating after leaving work at 4 pm under gloomy skies I drove with one hand down into Manhattan, 87 South from Westchester over the Third Ave Bridge, onto the FDR, 23rd Street exit just like usual and then I think I’ll turn on 7th Avenue and work my way back to Union Square along 16th Street—well I turned at 5:30 pm onto a street I shouldn’t have turned onto until 7—goddammit, do I really need such pointed reminders that somehow my timing in this life is really OFF?—red lights in my rearview mirror and I get two fucking summons, one for unsafe turn and one for not seeing a sign or something like that and my heart is pounding and I’m trying to hide my broken left arm because God knows the fines for driving with a broken wrist are probably more than Astronomical, but the policeman doesn’t really seem that interested in me anyway and this too hurts my feelings, thinking a different sort of poet would have engaged him, spurred an action, wriggled out of it, into some grace at the last minute, a reprieve, but no I limped away, now afraid to drive, delivered Blair his package, followed on to class and found a place to park in Queens and participated in the small group, just Josh and Lisa (and the cats) and shared some feeble poetry from the past and made it home and paid my fines plus surcharge within 15 days—$180.
We eat—places like Red Bamboo, Mamoun’s. We drink—the tea shop, the Angelica juice bar. Potent ginger flavor seems recurring. I never learn my way in Greenwich Village. I do learn how to zero in on Union Square from any direction.
The Queensboro is a very attractive bridge with her own set of turrets and a suitably tortured manner of approaching her. I think I had to wend an underground exit like escaping from a conch shell off the FDR and rise up then at least two blocks, maybe 3, to 2nd Ave, where a hard left led me to her skirts. Lower Roadway. Don’t know if I ever accessed the upper, not sure if it exists. As the frame of fall progressed sunsets off the bridge grew more inflamed to less, then stopped.
39th Street in Queens. Parking was a challenge every night, except the first, when I stopped in a spot right outside the building.
I don’t know whether to pull or push the doors. I don’t know how to get in. I don’t know I can enter the little lobby and push “7D” to pay the magic entrance fee. I don’t know any of this stuff the first night. It’s exhausting figuring this out. I get better at it.
I don’t live in New York.
So the history of poetry class—
here I go—mapping, a serious challenge which bridge how to navigate Manhattan how much time to leave I’m determined to visit Blair each time so head out early 2pm on Tuesdays—
discover rules—
Albuquerque, I have
never been to you.
What about New York December 2—if I am in good condition?
3 countries in 3 days. Brussels, Holland, Germany.
Greed delusion and hatred.
Listening to dharma talks on the car radio, through my IPod. Driving into Queens, my last fling. It all feels final.
If I could find my way to a simpler conception. If I could find my way to the egg on the pedestal, if I could find my way to the walking rock. No table salt. No laughing pepper. No funny farm. No moldy vegetables. Rot in a garden. Where do we see that rot, the heavy mosses, the packed earth of the path? The beaten borders, crumbling boundaries? The edge trees fallen into the river, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, in a death flirtation with the current. Where do we see that? Where do we see the planes? How far away are they? The red light blinks far away at night and there you are, another person. We forget that all of these poets are also persons, one after the other, exhibiting bodily functions. Yes you are a wizard of language. Yes you may set a bonfire. Yes you can turn and turn and turn. No you are not a clergy person. No none of this should be bandied about. No you are not for sale. No you have no memory of the mountain of marzipan you saw in Italy.
“I went into the mountains to interest myself”
“in the fabulous dinners of hosts distant and demure”
“The foxes followed with endless lights.”
(J. A.)
I hiked into St. Lucia. I have done some hiking. I was scared on Mount Baker. Scared by Ken, I suppose, essentially. I’ve been scared on the lake. Many times. But I won’t quit.
I hear the train. I hear the surface water sound that invades this house. This is a house of strangers. I am intrigued by watercolors. I am happier here if I pretend I live in California OR Oregon. Yes, hey ho, I live in Oregon.
I like to look at things. I really enjoy drives or train rides, even plane rides, because we can look at things, an unrolling scroll of new things passing before our eyes. Also—walking.
The train goes by. It’s lovely to ride the train at this time of day. Very quiet passengers, almost empty trains. We took a train from Amsterdam’s train station back to the airport at this time. Working people with staid composure. Kids in dark baggy clothing.