"diesels" poems
By the time he'd hit eighty, he was something out of Ovid,
his long beak thin and hooked,
the fingers of one hand curled and stiff.
Still, he never flew. Only sat in his lawn chair by the highway,
waving a *** wing at passing cars.
I was a timid kid, easily spooked. And it seemed like touchy gods
were everywhere—in the horns
and roar of diesels, in thunder, wind, tree limbs thrashing
the windows at night.
I was ashamed to be afraid of my grandfather.
But the hair on his ears!
The cackle in his throat!
Then on his birthday, my mother coaxed me into the yard.
I carried the cake with the one tiny candle
and sat it on a towel in the shade.
I tried not to tremble,
but it felt like gods were everywhere—in the grimy clouds
smothering the pine tops, the chainsaw
in Cantrell's woods—everywhere, everywhere,
and from the look of the man
in the lawn chair, he'd ****** one off.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
A Moment in Life Twice Lost to Time
The Swiss watch is my paradigm
Residing now ‘neath Tampa Bay
A moment in life twice lost to time
The gift, from a wall of ice to climb
In Luxembourg where I did stay
The Swiss watch becomes my paradigm
Research belaying the banker's crime
Through valleys green, o'er bridges grey
A moment in life twice lost to time
While belching diesels share their grime
And church bells call all souls to pray
This watch, my truest paradigm
In this city from another time
In Europe's heart I found my way
A moment in life twice lost to time
Returning from this land sublime
My walls and battlements fell away
Rodania watch, my paradigm
A moment in life twice lost to time
2 March 2000
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
Have you been to the mountain?
No no no. But
I've been under the bridge, Mr. Jones.
I've washed my feet in Cottonwood Creek.
I've named the meadowlarks after ex-girlfriends.
Suzanne. Isis. Mel-oh-dee.
Some mornings I woke up in places I'd never
been and on those mornings,
oh I woulda killed for a pen.
The fog and the
steady gasp of diesels
surrounded me and sang sang sang.
Tall grass along the interstate
and god, he didn't talk to me,
but I pretended to be god and talked
to myself, saying This way. This way.
This way to the promised land.
On what I thought to be
the Fourth of July, mud dried
around my knees in the Quapaw,
and I stood up for four days straight before
the rains came.
And finally, in the golden dawn,
I arrived at my childhood home.
Ivy on the chimney. Rusted trike in the overgrown lawn.
My father sat in his chair. Static on the TV.
He said, "Haven't done yourself in yet?"
My mother, in cobwebs and rags said, "He's got
one classic in him, one heartbreaking work
of genius before he goes."
And I asked her for a title.
She only pointed.
I turned and that's when I saw her,
the Girl at the Gate.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
Oh for the giants of steam, Oh for the gleaming black wonders
I see them in many a dream as along the tracks they thunder
I stand at a crossing and listen, hoping to hear their sad cry
To see their steel bodies glisten as they proudly rush on by
They convey a sense of great power as they effortlessly pull their great loads
While nearby, cars and trucks cower and hug the safety of their roads
The “J’s” and the mighty “K’s”, the “W’s” and sturdy “AB’s”
Who could forget the days when there were such engines as these
To stand on the footplate’s exciting as they begin to get under way
To feel the cold wind biting; to feel the cabin sway
The track ahead is clear. Driver says “Take her up a notch”
Then comes the end of the line. She slows. She shudders. She stops
But the reign of these queens has passed, no more haunting banshee wails
These giants have breathed their last, soulless diesels now rule the rails
Yet memories live for so long, and on a quiet night it can seem
I hear, from afar, an old song, A ghostly echo, the sad voice of steam
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 12:12 AM UTC
My old man had me spend a summer in Texas
Building diesels and changing tires
It was every day out in that hot sun
Thinkin about you to pass the time
Hard rock radio station playing all day
I was seventeen alone in the desert
Living out of a hotel room
I smoked *** with the owner of the place
I would go down late at night to the lobby
Just to have one minute away from that **** t.v
Jay was the Indian guy I rolled joints with on many nights
He would sell liquor to all me and the guys staying at the place
But he treated me different like he knew me
I mean the other guys
They didn't leave a lot behind
But I left it all
I left you
I sat in the back of a pick up
Watching tears roll down your face
Waving at me
It never hurt so much
To do anything
I had a broken heart
No telephone call could heal
Even if I spent a good chunk of change on long distance charges
Falling asleep on the phone every night
Jay left his wife in Bangladesh
He said
(One time when he was very drunk)
That he left his soul with her
That he kept her picture rolled up in his pocket
Just like I kept yours in my pocket
Leaving it on the bed side table
Next to empty bottles and ash trays
I learned that summer
That you weren't meant for me
That you were ******* half the town while I was gone
At least you didn't tell me
Until I got back home
It was the nicest thing you ever did
Besides sending me that letter bathed in your perfume
I kept that under my pillow
Until it was as wrinkled and faded as your photo
All those beautiful girls
I thought were nothing
That waitress at the hotel bar
Who sat for hours talking with me
About you
And work
And time
And family
And love
She was perfect
She was beautiful
She really did care
And my only regret is that I wasted so much time filling my memory with your lying green eyes, and not her honest blue eyes
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
Something small and winged outside my window sings
To a new day? To invite it's kind in chorus?
It does and that's enough
An Old Sun arises to a fresh born day
Not yet birthed but burgeoning
A thousand times a thousand
Indian paint brush reds come back to me
From the pipe racks and sky reaching cranes
These made things but also growing
Ideas given structure by flesh.
There, off a mile or so
Boot heavied feet clump
Horns warn, diesels clamour to motion
Rattling about, a handful of rocks in a Campbell's can
Once again to bring into being so much intent.
And Beauty doesn't mind
Isn't such a fragile thing
That the hiccups and yawns of all our
Micey thoughts should scare it off
It's Here.
Light upon Light upon every angle
Something small and winged outside my window sings
It does and that's enough.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
Between
Cars, trucks, buses,
semi’s, RV’s, diesels,
motorcycles, economy cars,
jeeps, humvees, motor homes,
lays a
long yellow line:
an unending parade
of sound and fury.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
Between
Cars, trucks, buses,
semi’s, RV’s, diesels,
motorcycles, economy cars,
jeeps, humvees, motor homes,
lays a
long yellow line:
an unending parade
of sound and fury.
The wind
In between
Blowing wild and loud
putting out careless embers
thrown thoughtlessly by drivers
of the never-ending machines
each one bringing me closer or farther
from home
which is empty without you
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
(To the tune of Detroit Diesels)
When we were sailors we seldom thought about
Being sailors. We thought about, well, girls
And happenin’ tunes from AFVN
‘Way down the river in happenin’ Saigon
We thought about cars and beaches and girls
And would a swing ship bring any mail today
In big red nylon sacks of envelopes
Love postmarked in a fantasy, The World
We thought about autumn and home and girls
While sandbag stacking and C-Rat snacking
We thought about being clean and dry again
While pooping and snooping in Cambodia
When we were sailors we thought about our pals
And what they were, and who
before the dust-offs flew
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
In the white room with black curtains near the station
Black roof country, no gold pavements, tired starlings
Silver horses ran down moonbeams in your dark eyes
Dawn light smiles on you leaving, my contentment
I'll wait in this place where the sun never shines
Wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves
You said no strings could secure you at the station
Platform ticket, restless diesels, goodbye windows
I walked into such a sad time at the station
As I walked out, felt my own need just beginning
I'll wait in the queue when the trains come back
Lie with you where the shadows run from themselves
At the party she was kindness in the hard crowd
Consolation for the old wound now forgotten
Yellow tigers crouched in jungles in her dark eyes
She's just dressing, goodbye windows, tired starlings
I'll sleep in this place with the lonely crowd
Lie in the dark where the shadows run from themselves
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 4:29 PM UTC