There is a way of seeing around here, of how
To see the land when it’s a little too easy
To miss the mineral histories elsewhere.

That last ride in Las Wolski, the sun-
Dappled spot, he remembers and so searches
Out slanting houses, decaying bridges, spires
In the distance, some new grounding: how old
Do you have to go, how did we get here?

Autumn drones the youthful realm away
Into a glaze of violent constellations: fear
For her makes him yelp out in his sleep
About what may be true to you and false.

He has just his futurist dogs, no criticism
For them either, for the western fields
They run, all our struggles against these
Continued grotesque object lessons.

In the supermarket buying roots, it is not
Until he contemplates a new chore coat
Does he miss the land, some dirt and fixing.

Where the sky is always worth looking at,
A refugee sells some weird xeroxes, a local
Smirks, I lived in other countries too, oooh.

A whiff of peppermint schnapps to it all,
His arrogance so astonishing, our man replies
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, let’s not panic:
This endlessness is no desolation.

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  1. sanberdooboy says:

    “That last ride in Las Wolski,” is a wild one, it turns out. several cognitive tears in the fabric of the narrative. such as the first stanza. logic is missing. or perhaps the logic is based on different assumptions. i like the connection of the persona yelping in his sleep and then the futurist dogs who run in the western fields. and how the repetition of the “no’s” in the last line beautifully undercuts the statement of “our man” who warns against panic.

    • Yes, many cognitive tears and much logic missing. Trying to put together the pieces through these poems remains a constant aim.

      But now thinking of taking a significant break from writing poetry. Definitely working on music instead, and maybe even working on a story. Something new needed now, some new form.

      Thanks as always for reading and commenting.


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