Spain I

if a god of war knows my name
he says take yourself off the rolls

I looked up at the whiteboard in the office
and felt that something was laughing
a laughing god,

I chose to make,
and I see a dog before me,
but I hate them,

no slaves, dogs are slaves
they serve,

they serve or they scream,
and when I made shapes
on my computer,

I wept. 

and I carried myself all across the
desert, to return to it,

so, I carry it with me, and I drop
the desert, because it

can no longer be the desert to me. 

and I see the dog behind my eyes,
when I say I can see it clearly.

the haze is everywhere, but I go through it
mocking everything I believe,

but I hear someone say Ramadan prayers in the
room across the hall,

and I hear someone mock my great-grandfather's religion,
but what was important was his gun then,

and he would tell me to leave, and to leave him behind
as well, to avoid what he fought. 

because I said no 10,000 times, 
and all it bought me was the window,

and the chance to shatter love,
or give it to the sky, above the trees,

which are greater than your steeples,

I see the corkscrew and want to drill it into my neck,
but I put it in my hand and see metal,

and I hear screaming in my mind, and someone trying
to drag my mind into my stomach,
so I let my hand lead,

I hear people saying words of prophecy,
but I chose the pavement,
and I when I chose the hawk, I chose the
bird.

and they say that will make a priest of me,
but I don't believe in any god but the ghost,
and I prefer church music stay in the rafters,
and shamanism stay in the cooler, with
the drinks, and on the phone,
with people who know about phones.  

so I cannot stay. 

cxvxi.

if the night lingers on,

and it will

and you find yourself on
the edge of things,

in between worlds, drawn
back, the lines on the map
sharp

cut like wire, through the air,
and here and there

cut like glass

two plates passing by each
other, clear 

except for the blood
at the line, 
along the edges and 
flowing, in rivulets

on the land under them,
it's the edge of one thing
and another,

that makes the difference
between blood and water,
people bleed
it matters because

they can look around
and up,

and it's the grimmest joy
of the darkest
impulse to turn their 

eyes to water, to
trap their souls
in mud,

but, bone is rock,

and eyes are 
made of water, but

only as transmission 
line, without coordination,
they 

easily escape to rain,
slip across the land
and fly into

cloud-cover, beyond
any hand,
and bone is hard and sharp
before it goes to sand--

--it does not go quietly,

and any hand raised over,
dust and shards and water,
raised high over

a plain, flattened to mud
and dust--will flash

and fall to cloud-cover 

eventually, 

even if it's not soon enough,

water does not disappear
even asf it flows.

cxvx.

drive the moon into the ground,
and it will spin and skitter, along the cliff-face,
and not touch the water,
wavering,

to drive the shadow out,

chase it around the corners, falling
through the trees, it will
flash behind you, high on the slope,
then flash out at the turn,

as the stars spread across the valley
below, spinning in and out 
of vision, between the tree trunks
and rise high

to track you, through the grass
rolling along the river-line, 
to rest high in the dark
above the light at the corner

cxvix.

a hall of rooms, strung
across the valley,
through its sides

sinking under the 
riverbed,
vaulting from the
bedrock, into

boulders, rising into
the sky, buried,
in the flaking sandstone,

falling off
the canyon-sides.

high and silent, over the sage
brush and scrub, 
roofs rising nearly as high

as the cave roof, but the ladders
gone, fallen into
the wash, sticks in the stream-bed
and rivulets--something

happened here, 
flags fly, off a laundry line,
strung between piled rock,

there's a garden in the scree,
light filtering down,
through a gap in the vaulted
rock,

across the carpet
onto the altar,

and a net of passages, beneath the 
valley floor,
let out in places
no one knows all of i,

traveling in the dark,

maybe sometimes in the reeds,
sometimes along the tumbled
rocks, in the stream-bed

ground cracked, and grasses
waving, rippling

up the slopes--far across the dunes
deep in the earth,

with the light coming down in
shafts, or carved into
the mountain side

roofs tumbling down the cliff-face,
plazas squared to stairs,
leading down 

to roofs, 
libraries hidden in the rock-face,
light breaking and falling
into the dark, 

and rising
high under the ground,
above the street,

and somewhere else, terraces
rising and falling, 
across the ridge-line,

cupped by the earth,

yards hanging off a cliff,
roads plunging like rivulets

windows lit and vines
swinging,
in a high valley

towns scrawled and looping
across the foothills, open
bright and lush, green
and shadow

some places didn't need to bury
but could dance with
the rock instead,

sprawling over the ground

someday, us in the deep,
high places will come
out and over

to throw streets and rooms
over the hills,
watch the moon rise
from below

cxvx.

she falls across the sky
       arms waving, fingers stretched
to rake the clouds

on the verge,
     around the moon

the thunder stirs, somewhere, south
      in the valleys,

shuddering grasping, flailing
       the lights flashing in the west
halo the ridgeline

she breaks her spine
on the peaks,

shatters and breaks, since
she will not be shorn,
       
      clatters in shards, down
the ravine,

shrieking and clawing, down
in the eastern valley, 

catching streetlights in her hands
and tearing them, clawing
the earth, 
         
            barreling through the
powerlines, till they
snap, then fall, limp and
still waving

          over the freeway, throws
the cars against the slope,
howling,

         and calling, under she's
thundering, and the valley

cracks along its spine

---

so she catches the windows
shattering,
         in her hair, glittering

streaming across the wash
over the far halls

the cement cracks, in the 
shape of her mouth,
        and the earth cracks

in the shape of her teeth,
into the shadow
       of her bones,

shaped by the unseen
unnoticed,
       the silence and the
weight,
         choking,
the pressure

grinding down,
meant to still, to bind
to break in the shape
         of a hand, of a
bent palm, of an
armature,

of the ground, a pile of
skin, and a stain,
spreading into the roots
to feed the soil,

what cannot break
goes underground,
       and further,

until it wears the rocks,
wears the roots, 
            or unweaves
them,

cracks the ground,
slowly,

      in the shadow of
the sky, when the sky
breaks,

      and crackles, and
comes rushing over the
water, 

    falling over the slopes,
thundering, 

then the asphalt will break
and go flying, with the cars
tumbling,
       like gravel in the broken
waters, screaming and howling

until they are finally streaming
towards the sky

     










         

benediction

pine and wood-smoke
sage and sawdust
the old year died without trying

in March, I said a prayer over the valley
I asked to keep it safe and free

the houses flow in rows and ridges
up to the base of the mountains
rising high above them

skew and idiosyncratic, 
in tangles and piles
washed up here, in waves

places like this at the edge of something
should stay free

the spring night is purple, it glows on 
the snow-pack, and in the aspen leaves

it was like the end of a  dream
it was a good dream--I held onto it for a long time
through the dark nights between then and now

now the world is moving

the gaps open up in the day again,
and the nights are unsteady
one day, I'll walk through a break
in the hedgerow

--between one hour and the next

and walk into a different dream, and
a different order of history

if you walk through the long dark
and sit through the garish night
if you watch the stars rise, lonely
and see the sun-rise far from home

if the streets are unfamiliar
but you find yourself around unknown corners
through hedges, under walls

then this is for you--stay clear and steady
quick-sighted, be nimble
through the long night--

I stand for you--
and may you stand for me also
until the night passes

and the sunrise glows softly
on the hills again

cxvix.

in the haze
where the surf cracks
on the rocks,

the cliffs fall and roll,
and return,
polished

jewels scattered across
the shore,

eventually, feed the grass
and the succulents

falling down the cliffs,
at the foot of the hills,

patches of lights
knots of roads,
houses, and the range

cuts the sky, but rolling,
and the pines dip,
and roll--

the moon high, haloed,
and square of Jupiter,
Saturn,

Mars to the right, across
from them,

the world can change, on
contingency,
but not much--I'll see you

in the haze, and through it,
I'll be seeing you,
all along the surface roads,

and highways, icy wind or
dry grass, or leaves
hanging and weaving over

the line, in the chill fog,
in sun setting,
behind the dark valleys

below the spine of the
high range,

shuddering, or standing,
in the steam of the last
cup of tea, 

before entering night's
strange country,

and the glittering fringe
at it's borders,

I don't forget anything, and
why should I, anyway? 

cxviii.

the ghost will
run,

along the cement,
the ice deep

in the pavement, 
sick and gray

curves through pines
glittering,

blocks the tread

the slopes rise, dark
the sky glows
above them,

the black asphalt threads
between them

circles of light cut it,
rising, 

a temporary constellation
fleeing, flying
through the dark

falling to the valley floor.

cxvii.

the first face of power
is the hand on your throat

the second face of power
is the bone under your eyes

the third face of power 
is the shadow behind them

and in your lungs.

but the dark at the back
of your mind,

shuddering,

in your chest--and in
your mouth,
under your hands

shaking,

is the grave of kings.

the dark
under your feet,

wavering, 

in the falling ash
of whatever empire

is a curse like a prayer
to a far-off god,

spreads to meet the shadow
behind you

but a living one
is closer,

and smiles on it. 

cxvi

fire across the mountain
will not come

over the slope, the smoke
and the spirit

from the grass and brush

makes it hard to talk

to breathe, darkens the sky

rests in the lungs,

burnt and restless,

covers the road.

through the haze--the

roads blocked, and

burning,

the trees, rise dark and

thin, but

their top branches wave

above the heat, 

--the rocks glow, 

reflect flame,

the slopes rise silent

and steady, 

cant quietly up against

the gray sky,

                     the sharp

smell of fall cuts 

across them,

the threads and fragments

of some other history,

gleam on the ground,

in the dust,

the sedge is burning and

the ash is blowing,

no history is a necessity,

gather a few

cxv.

deep along the highway, where the heat presses
against the tracks,

hazes around the old clapboard buildings, and
the green verge,

the grassy slope says you've come east enough
to leave the desert--

--trying to find something to grip, it
blows through your fingers.

the sunset casts light across the canyon
and the hills that
the freeway runs through, a broad line
of asphalt, wide as plaza--

--but empty, the shadows rise and the lights
twinkle, high up, and it feels
like a room

when the freeways spreads as wide as field
where the overpasses soar in arches
it feels like a room, a driveway as long
as the coastline,

leading up to the house.

here, this is not my city, the people are so used
to hallways and offices,
the streets have grown together, the street
is a living room,

street-lamps and the lights on buildings, and
the wind blowing softly
chill and damp, a little sweet--

--stars wavering above, windows but no doors,
when they have a party,
it spreads through the city like a hallway,

if you want quiet, no matter where you go
you can hear whispered voices--

--unless you cut down into the ravine that
runs through the center,

or follow it, out to the water, and late at night
when the shadows are deep.

and me with no map, and too many
or a plan, but mostly a concept
every structure starts with an equation
every shape is found in it's failure.

cxiv.

the last time the dark fell
on the streets--

we were lit with strange fire,
moving and high,

as the roofline and low as
line in the cement,

it spread along the gutters
that bind the earth,
and illuminated them

the spark guttered
in the dark
space under the ribs

cxiii.

if the sun rises over some other bridge,
it falls on rounded cobbles
under trees, drooping, or bare
dropping leaves in the canals

mostly empty, sharp slanted sides
rising over a single boat, two
men with fishing pools

when they scoop the fish out of the mud
before the lake freezes over,
and bag them--and take them away,

I don't know where they go

on the other side of the lock I clambered over
he pounds his bare chest, and says he's eighty
each morning, he swims in the canal, in the dark
murky water--even in the winter

in the mist at the end of the great man-made lake
below the mountains, past the areas cordoned off
for military exercises--she smiles, face lined,
in a suit and bathing cap--

and slips into the freezing water.

maybe I'll live forever, since I've been cold enough
in shorts and sneakers in the winter,

along the towpath there's a construction camp, with
the trees falling green over it, in the summer--
the bicycles stream over it, where the wall spreads
onto the broad dirt road,

as the stars rise, riding down into the valley below,
shadows moving through the dark, someone starts
singing--

the villages that seem small, and stony, dusty
in the daylight--now grow larger,
in evening, rounded by the last edge of summer
in fall--in winter

the pulse fails, and then the limbs do, energy grinding
down slowly, as the sun sets, blood red
over the water, in a dark gray sky--

it's too late to turn at the t-junction,
and follow the easy way home, with night
falling quickly, the cold sharpens--

as the air starts to haze, then burn--in nose and lungs,
almost like it's vibrating, and in the irrigation ditch--

--turn back and run-down somewhere
by the construction site,
go forward and you may choke or burn out,
but the most dangerous thing is indecision--

--breathe shallowly.

--by the towpath, along the hedgerow, the water is murky
brown, topped with some black residue--that smokes
and wavers--it runs down into the fields below,

when the hedge breaks,
through the gap,
a bare parking lot and a cement building,

a lone security guard in a kiosk yells out, but a wave
and a cheerful greeting, lets him know you're crazy--
he won't bother you.

and at the bus stop on the street side, there's a line of
workers, covered in grey dust--the whites of their
eyes are yellow, their faces are lined with exhaustion,

and the stars rise over the ring-road, and the lights on
the shops gleam like darker stars, and bamboo
rustles, black through the park fence,

and the trees are tall, and the lanterns hang by the restaurant
and the gate is open, and at least it's warmer inside
than it was outside--

there's other ditches and other winters, maybe all ditches
are one ditch, unlike rivers

the cold can keep you warm,
keep you well-lit,
even when the streets are still,

--the impact comes later, shuddering
and shaking on some bright avenue
in perpetual summer.

the private cost of the past can
flicker in the deep tissue--

I know I won't live forever,
it doesn't bother me.

if you follow the ditch for a long time,
you might see small things
grow larger.

cxii.

the sky glows white behind the dark branches,

and falls gray on the carpet,

through the blinds--

--in the canyon, a magpie stands on the flat

at the rim, surrounded by sage

the black range, streaked with snow, 

it fills half the sky,

the peaks hold the sky up,

and catch it

in their valleys, hidden 

among the ridges--

I see the road rise, a thread

up through gold

into green to brown

into black,

as it rounds across the slopes,

I see it rise up 

to the gap 

until the coast pulls it across the land

I broke all of my promises except

a few I kept

but the unkept promises range ahead

and around me, like familiar ghosts

so I love them

because I love them, I take them with me 

the road is a string held up

by the sky

the mountains dangle

on it,

it promises nothing, it

makes me 

say, though:

sometime when I've spent the last night here

and seen the last dawn, 

      casting blue shadows across the slopes,

I will make something, promises unkept

streaming from my fingers

sometime after that, I will show you 

what I've made, 

      and I'll say I made this for you

cxi.

it happened sometime in the spring,
sitting on the edge
of history, watching the light stream
through the glass

alone, at a table in the entryway

the air swirling, cold
and bright
through the sliding doors

caffeine is a poor substitute
for freedom,

warmth is held inside
it bleeds easily across the tile

outside, the street is breaking, and
the buildings bend,
flaps blowing on their hollow sides

in two days, heedless storm-water
will take them down to muck,
and melt-water will carry
the verge down into the gutter

the world is always breaking itself,
and running together,
but this time it's broken open,

jagged edges listing in the grass,
catch the hard light

who knows what else is breaking,
over the rise?

--to cold air carries the green scent
of the undergrowth,

scattered bird-song, creaking traffic,
the occasional crack of cement
giving way--

faraway, there is something
worth having,
across the threshold,

the blinding daylight--it's empty, it's nothing,
farther than fear, or hope
--but held in the shape of your hands,

in the crack of your footfalls
--breaking, shattering, reaching
the arc of your stride

is the first gasp of an unknown
promise

cx.

the mountains dark arms open
blue grey twilight glowing cool and bright above them
lamps above shadowed buildings, at the entrance
gleaming by the slope

in the parking lot still and quiet, breeze
whisking a few leaves across the dark gray asphalt

the light pooling across the lines
warm and golden behind the screen
moving behind the counter
     kids running around the tables--

so the night's like a coat,

      --at the corner, he's wearing feathers and stripes
         for Samhain--

I made a ghost-list
to list my dead,

the name and date, I remember them
      --briefly, each
I think well of them
and I hope they're well

the soft burnt scent of summer falling to fall
hangs over the cement
the sliver moon and one star hanging next to the radio tower
the lights, cupped, gleam across the brick wall

the headlights streaming slowly
across the intersection
streaming steadily above the divider
the street makes a living altar of the night

cviii.

the moon rides the night sky, rolling to full
I think you're a bird and
you fly elsewhere, over wave
through wind, across mountain

peaks, arrayed like waves

we here below walk, sideways
the day is a dancer, moments
leap and kick, roll in a circle
arms spinning,

across the sidewalk, over the
asphalt,

some moment it will kick out
to where waves are,

where walking is and where flying
are the same place, woven
and weaving through time,

if things fall over, and roll out
of rhythm, into another

turn over each other, it's true
that it's all one movement,

far peaks and far skies, tableland
spread beyond the checkpoint,
dwarfs the arches

rivers glowing in the grassland
late summer, waves breaking

against the near shore, past
the horizon,

waves crashing in the mind only
through the snow-blocked passes
in the dark,

walk the wind blowing in from some
other coastline,

fly the wind rising across the line
from somewhere
beyond us

between the darkness, all winds
are the same wind,

if we are blown out and off course

into other places, all places are one
time, and in one wind,

dance together.

cvii.

when the winter came, some froze
and they fell

of those who fell, some crawled
forward, and some

were still, and silent--streaming elsewhere

the crack of bone on asphalt is
a thud, when someone

hits the ground,

the shatter, and falling
shards that fade into
the dust

and scrub

or the gutter,

of the shrapnel and scrap metal
some is salvageable

and some is not--the storm rolls
in over the cliffs,
waves cracking on the shore

stars bright in the inky night
trees snapping,

blows the plaza over the edge
--lost to the sky

over the valley, palms cracking

the snow comes in over the mountains
a gray wave rolling, cold

wind, ice on the road,

of those that crawled, some went
shambling, gathering scrap

through the burning summer,
the haze and rain of fall--

grinding, sometimes, or weaving
               and stumbling,

standing,

until the engine grinds, and rolls
over, somehow the piecemeal
chasis holds,

the freeway way thunders, close
but muted

as the clouds come down, the frame
shudders but holds,

shaking and shifting, it rises
along the
asphalt, the peaks crack

and the sky breaks, the wind
howls under the tires, or
the sky does,

kneel, briefly, to check the chains
for traction

scrap and sheet, pieced and gathered
shaking, rumbling, is sound
runs grinding,

at elevation, running clear
and at speed,
in the winter, though a storm

c.

the shore is a cathedral
cracks in the sky
light the stucco, and the cliffside, and the palm
trees to living glass
cut by the soft foliage on the rockface

the moon cut by rafters and pines
is holy
over the water

the moon caught in the clouds
high over the building, the smoky night
is an icon

the past strays into the future
the breathing wire
the past rings into the future like a
heartbeat, humming
like the crack of a breath on teeth
like the sight of air leaving the
throat
       cast back into the sky
  over the shoulder

these days are passed
these days have passed so that
the days to come may ring with their passing

cvi.

this place, these people--chattering under the lights

leaning against the slats, 

the mountains to the left, thunderheads glowing on the snow

may all the spirits bless this place--

these bright children, these busy citizens

walking through the city, bustling down the freeway

down by the road--under the overpass

in the shade

the sun shine bright but not sharp, 

come down upon you through the branches

the mountains hold you, just under the sky

---

the fear came to you, and you did not know

but you live, though--you are living still

you don't need to fear, I will hold you

and my grasp will not fail you, and my grip

will not falter--

if I swing you forward--you carry me forward, 

and we will go, we will all go forward, 

together--across the line, 

not one less, and not one missing