gracias, Arcadia as well! just trying to put some pen to paper, that's all.
not sure where it's going at this point. honestly.
the motel papers desert poem
nevada is called the silver state
after a nineteenth century mining frenzy
it all started about eight million years ago
as the high desert began to rise and expand
somewhat like the surface of inflated balloon
upon which the rock broke into mega-blocks
faulted, rotated, and the distance between
equal to the depth of their brittle reach
down to the edge of the rock engine
the blocks pushed up and pulled apart
groundwater boiled up in the evil rifts
silver was laid down, promptly fractured
by the tilting basin and range behemoths
and then betrayed by simple rain?
it broke into veins, made silver chloride
from silver sulfides, much heavier
ironic chemical equation
just sat there for awhile
geologists called ‘em supergene enrichments
damn eggheads, miners called ‘em bonanzas
both groups caught up in the hype
after a nineteenth century mining frenzy
it all started about eight million years ago
as the high desert began to rise and expand
somewhat like the surface of inflated balloon
upon which the rock broke into mega-blocks
faulted, rotated, and the distance between
equal to the depth of their brittle reach
down to the edge of the rock engine
the blocks pushed up and pulled apart
groundwater boiled up in the evil rifts
silver was laid down, promptly fractured
by the tilting basin and range behemoths
and then betrayed by simple rain?
it broke into veins, made silver chloride
from silver sulfides, much heavier
ironic chemical equation
just sat there for awhile
geologists called ‘em supergene enrichments
damn eggheads, miners called ‘em bonanzas
both groups caught up in the hype
a hundred-forty years ago
instant towns sprang up by each new find
false-front saloons, sod houses, tent ghettos
everyone knows of their lawless violence
names like gouge eye and hardscrabble
human detritus blowing through
the oldtimers crushed the ore
stirred it into salt water and mercury
on sagebrush fires to heat the brine
distill the silver from mercury
they say it made a squeak
that’s when you could tell
by the 1890s they used cyanide
'twas a much more efficient process
but by then the madness was over
the canyons regained their dignity
how much did the oldtimers miss?
in their crude tailings left behind?
instant towns sprang up by each new find
false-front saloons, sod houses, tent ghettos
everyone knows of their lawless violence
names like gouge eye and hardscrabble
human detritus blowing through
the oldtimers crushed the ore
stirred it into salt water and mercury
on sagebrush fires to heat the brine
distill the silver from mercury
they say it made a squeak
that’s when you could tell
by the 1890s they used cyanide
'twas a much more efficient process
but by then the madness was over
the canyons regained their dignity
how much did the oldtimers miss?
in their crude tailings left behind?
Last edited by mnaz on August 12th, 2010, 1:09 pm, edited 2 times in total.
the desert has more curves down south
intensity stemmed a bit by aircraft
air-conditioned ghost towns
the many military concerns
the odd influx of dirt bikes
still hypnotic when it's on
no less deadly
far enough out in the curves
city is the whore of babylon in your rear view
creeping closer, generally Vegas or LA in these parts
not places suited to nurture communion with pure light
pure, soundless light, wisdom drug
more like a depraved sort of filth left behind
grainy porn flick full of hustlers and addicts
bottomless well of excess and decay
quiet neurosis, entirely justified
ask the locals, no going back
you got away
away?
with seven billion others
station to station at best
powerlines cross the most desolate
sweet smells of sage, leached minerals
fifty miles out, these apparitions
counts as mild shock
sometimes you follow the crackle
stop and camp on a full moon empty
in due time you find the next settlement
small and proud, a little smug in its quiet
skeletal towers and wires slice the sky
bring electric fields and satellites hover
pipe in the noise, we all got a little noise
not to bemoan powerlines on the empty
fuzzy rubber bands to the end of things
where the maker tired
like sear wind on ravaged rock
fickle wind and destination
panorama echo chamber
useful illusion
fickle mind
intensity stemmed a bit by aircraft
air-conditioned ghost towns
the many military concerns
the odd influx of dirt bikes
still hypnotic when it's on
no less deadly
far enough out in the curves
city is the whore of babylon in your rear view
creeping closer, generally Vegas or LA in these parts
not places suited to nurture communion with pure light
pure, soundless light, wisdom drug
more like a depraved sort of filth left behind
grainy porn flick full of hustlers and addicts
bottomless well of excess and decay
quiet neurosis, entirely justified
ask the locals, no going back
you got away
away?
with seven billion others
station to station at best
powerlines cross the most desolate
sweet smells of sage, leached minerals
fifty miles out, these apparitions
counts as mild shock
sometimes you follow the crackle
stop and camp on a full moon empty
in due time you find the next settlement
small and proud, a little smug in its quiet
skeletal towers and wires slice the sky
bring electric fields and satellites hover
pipe in the noise, we all got a little noise
not to bemoan powerlines on the empty
fuzzy rubber bands to the end of things
where the maker tired
like sear wind on ravaged rock
fickle wind and destination
panorama echo chamber
useful illusion
fickle mind
Last edited by mnaz on August 11th, 2010, 9:36 am, edited 3 times in total.
not again!
deep time! deep space!
spanned everything and nothing
oldest zen trick in the book
odd the effect of vista
quiet to a point of disquieting
odd, the fixation on lines and points
when you first dropped off the edge
your hum was a little high-pitched
caught in a mania toward Reno
the “biggest little city"
had to see that sign
the famous one
three points away, long spans between
hunched over and driving, miles to go
lines and points, pen strokes, circles
across the blank, lust of map
it was christmas in Reno, in its own way
you weren’t sure, bolted for sagebrush blur
in traps of span, missing its sculpture
lust of span, vaguely south
deep time! deep space!
spanned everything and nothing
oldest zen trick in the book
odd the effect of vista
quiet to a point of disquieting
odd, the fixation on lines and points
when you first dropped off the edge
your hum was a little high-pitched
caught in a mania toward Reno
the “biggest little city"
had to see that sign
the famous one
three points away, long spans between
hunched over and driving, miles to go
lines and points, pen strokes, circles
across the blank, lust of map
it was christmas in Reno, in its own way
you weren’t sure, bolted for sagebrush blur
in traps of span, missing its sculpture
lust of span, vaguely south
Last edited by mnaz on August 12th, 2010, 1:27 pm, edited 2 times in total.
farther south
the desert curves
mountains no longer jump
but sink into their own waste
weather down to eye level
peculiar bumps of rock
through roundscapes
tempted to get biblical
washes drop deep into the strata
where bones and dregs collect and sear
rogue men with wild eyes saw the word
idolaters! desolate altars, broken images
cities in ruins, dead land and dust
yet the coming oasis
the river will flow in a dry place
shadow of a great rock in a weary land
where streams and mountains die
expect great scrolls and fossils
in rock wasted by the heat
in depths of strata
the breakthrough
the desert curves
mountains no longer jump
but sink into their own waste
weather down to eye level
peculiar bumps of rock
through roundscapes
tempted to get biblical
washes drop deep into the strata
where bones and dregs collect and sear
rogue men with wild eyes saw the word
idolaters! desolate altars, broken images
cities in ruins, dead land and dust
yet the coming oasis
the river will flow in a dry place
shadow of a great rock in a weary land
where streams and mountains die
expect great scrolls and fossils
in rock wasted by the heat
in depths of strata
the breakthrough
Last edited by mnaz on August 12th, 2010, 1:38 pm, edited 2 times in total.
wait, how is it so?
you went from dashed line fever
mileposts, straight ahead mania
to a mind wandering in side visions
must have turned off
what do you have against lonely?
never quite work it out, distant and static
even in kicking up dust along the old tracks
rely too much on the kindness of deserts
never find a place to stop, grow your own
can’t shuck the road
its myth and paintings
scrawl twisting into sunsets
you might follow and retrieve
chalk etchings to all shades of golden ecru
its parallel dimensions, the possibility of amnesia
in low sun season
when rare clouds touch down
scorched earth blooms in wild colors
red orange blues, flower booms, drifting
over slopes into to the hard canyons
into the coming heat
have to look fast
and then, no life
you are the life, bold and vivid
on rock and sand, and vanish into its sweep
into emptiness that was never literal
hawk aeries hidden on cliff tops
chukars chattering in the ripples
home at dusk to meet family
tell a few jokes, laugh
snakes twisting away
from pointless tire tracks
shaken out of reverie
on the cracked dry lake
it may come down to microbes
little else but wind and your own breath
in the vacuum of space it comes down to
imaginary particles, something!
something must fill the empty
you went from dashed line fever
mileposts, straight ahead mania
to a mind wandering in side visions
must have turned off
what do you have against lonely?
never quite work it out, distant and static
even in kicking up dust along the old tracks
rely too much on the kindness of deserts
never find a place to stop, grow your own
can’t shuck the road
its myth and paintings
scrawl twisting into sunsets
you might follow and retrieve
chalk etchings to all shades of golden ecru
its parallel dimensions, the possibility of amnesia
in low sun season
when rare clouds touch down
scorched earth blooms in wild colors
red orange blues, flower booms, drifting
over slopes into to the hard canyons
into the coming heat
have to look fast
and then, no life
you are the life, bold and vivid
on rock and sand, and vanish into its sweep
into emptiness that was never literal
hawk aeries hidden on cliff tops
chukars chattering in the ripples
home at dusk to meet family
tell a few jokes, laugh
snakes twisting away
from pointless tire tracks
shaken out of reverie
on the cracked dry lake
it may come down to microbes
little else but wind and your own breath
in the vacuum of space it comes down to
imaginary particles, something!
something must fill the empty
revised "jumping mountain poem" . . .
mountains jump here
lie still for millennia, build tension
jump up in one terrible instant
on a campstool, twilight
whiskey chalice at hand
counting ravens, or clouds
mighty corrugations rising
soundless immensity seeping
then a rumble of deep energy
booming locomotive roars down basin
the mountain unzips along the base
fissures come at you, spill your drink
in 1915 a gap in the sagebrush opened
between tobin range and pleasant valley
sixteen feet, quiet ever since
soul-shattering silence
for eight million years they jumped
mere toddlers by the rock clock
no foothills on their faults
the scarps are too fresh
battered profoundly
* * * * *
basin and range
the crust is stretched
broken into behemoths
tilting at fractures
on the rock engine
white-hot mantle
the hymn says
build your house on the rock
not on sinking sand
the rock is unstable too
compressed, folded, lifted
beaten, washed out, laid up
buried, compressed, lifted again
fluid, fallible rock
* * * * * *
mountains rise as fast as
wind and rain take them down
tobin range gained twenty millennia
when it spilled your drink
a hundred years of insanity
six thousand years of history
two hundred thousand of prehistory
eight-thousand-thousand year old toddlers
and when they jump
mishmash eons come up
rise and fall of the immovable
life spans of the immortal
meaningless spans
* * * * * *
further south
mountains no longer jump
but sink in their own waste
weather down to eye level
the desert curves more
swoop sweeps of roundscape
poked by peculiar bumps of rock
in the depths of biblical strata
where bones and dregs collect and sear
rogue men with wild eyes saw the word
desolate altars, dead land and dust
cities laying in ruins
yet the coming oasis
a river will flow in a dry place
shadow of a great rock in a weary land
where streams and mountains die
expect a breakthrough
mountains jump here
lie still for millennia, build tension
jump up in one terrible instant
on a campstool, twilight
whiskey chalice at hand
counting ravens, or clouds
mighty corrugations rising
soundless immensity seeping
then a rumble of deep energy
booming locomotive roars down basin
the mountain unzips along the base
fissures come at you, spill your drink
in 1915 a gap in the sagebrush opened
between tobin range and pleasant valley
sixteen feet, quiet ever since
soul-shattering silence
for eight million years they jumped
mere toddlers by the rock clock
no foothills on their faults
the scarps are too fresh
battered profoundly
* * * * *
basin and range
the crust is stretched
broken into behemoths
tilting at fractures
on the rock engine
white-hot mantle
the hymn says
build your house on the rock
not on sinking sand
the rock is unstable too
compressed, folded, lifted
beaten, washed out, laid up
buried, compressed, lifted again
fluid, fallible rock
* * * * * *
mountains rise as fast as
wind and rain take them down
tobin range gained twenty millennia
when it spilled your drink
a hundred years of insanity
six thousand years of history
two hundred thousand of prehistory
eight-thousand-thousand year old toddlers
and when they jump
mishmash eons come up
rise and fall of the immovable
life spans of the immortal
meaningless spans
* * * * * *
further south
mountains no longer jump
but sink in their own waste
weather down to eye level
the desert curves more
swoop sweeps of roundscape
poked by peculiar bumps of rock
in the depths of biblical strata
where bones and dregs collect and sear
rogue men with wild eyes saw the word
desolate altars, dead land and dust
cities laying in ruins
yet the coming oasis
a river will flow in a dry place
shadow of a great rock in a weary land
where streams and mountains die
expect a breakthrough
the towers
vegas gleam, in billions
on the strip ships vanish
mysteriously like bermuda
bermuda shorts from dubuque
here for the big cop convention
best to sail on
from looming phantoms of lucre
into flung beige and random stucco
pointed at glaring tan beyond
you pass 163 identical subdivisions
each with the same masonry fence
on the same spray point boulevard
through it all to no literal end
then numbing sprawl gives out
down toward the tracks, open stretch
dotted with bags and beer bottles
the old gas plant twists grimly
sooty colors of the industrial revolution
and the shock of them against raw light
the congos are playing an old reggae hymn
you gaze over the old gas plant
shouldn’t hit you like that, not here
end of the mix tape, trashed-out scrub
but you’re talking about a hymn after all
“we are li-ving on jah so-lid found-da-tion”
one drop roots on the three, layer inside layer
you hadn’t counted on cedric myton’s falsetto
to break a spell, the sheer propulsion of it
breathtaking and deft, improv inflections
syllables, spaces between used in ways
not seen since the great jazz years
pull over, hit rewind several times
and then you breathe in the dub version
you hadn’t counted on that one either
and then you cross the tracks
a little stunned
vegas gleam, in billions
on the strip ships vanish
mysteriously like bermuda
bermuda shorts from dubuque
here for the big cop convention
best to sail on
from looming phantoms of lucre
into flung beige and random stucco
pointed at glaring tan beyond
you pass 163 identical subdivisions
each with the same masonry fence
on the same spray point boulevard
through it all to no literal end
then numbing sprawl gives out
down toward the tracks, open stretch
dotted with bags and beer bottles
the old gas plant twists grimly
sooty colors of the industrial revolution
and the shock of them against raw light
the congos are playing an old reggae hymn
you gaze over the old gas plant
shouldn’t hit you like that, not here
end of the mix tape, trashed-out scrub
but you’re talking about a hymn after all
“we are li-ving on jah so-lid found-da-tion”
one drop roots on the three, layer inside layer
you hadn’t counted on cedric myton’s falsetto
to break a spell, the sheer propulsion of it
breathtaking and deft, improv inflections
syllables, spaces between used in ways
not seen since the great jazz years
pull over, hit rewind several times
and then you breathe in the dub version
you hadn’t counted on that one either
and then you cross the tracks
a little stunned
at water street
the rude American bike store
you see limitations of old reggae hymns
in the grit of old desert crossroads
sun is too high now
you stop at a bar, watch the lakers
no one gives a shit about the lakers
but it’s good shade, maybe another one
thirty bikers roar into the back lot
and you’re less thirsty
biker shootout yesterday
at a casino down in Laughlin
were all debts settled
to satisfaction?
the rude American bike store
you see limitations of old reggae hymns
in the grit of old desert crossroads
sun is too high now
you stop at a bar, watch the lakers
no one gives a shit about the lakers
but it’s good shade, maybe another one
thirty bikers roar into the back lot
and you’re less thirsty
biker shootout yesterday
at a casino down in Laughlin
were all debts settled
to satisfaction?
what the hey,
from the last book
(I like this sequence) . . .
empty pause
in a light year out of scale
into your sun-struck myth
inhabit the dimension well
fly over the folds and flats
hidden springs of regeneration
but if with too much momentum
it could shatter a fine dimension
you came here with food
jug of jerky, bag of bourbon
and too much momentum
tried to outrun space-time
with four heated tires
bled through the margins at first
momentum, everything goes faster
recedes into a self-generated loop
that was yesterday
the rock spun another revolution
you chased a rut on the flat
full chalk roostertail
that was yesterday
a shot of rebellion now
reality and imagination
cross a rattlesnake porch
come in out of the sun
hash out their differences
fade into monster heat waves
can’t tell them apart
a vehicle flowed on the flat
its steering wheel vibrated
though no other evidence
came to rest where it began
as things do here
flowed to a point that never existed
like the first ships to the edge
of a flat earth ocean
that was yesterday
from the last book
(I like this sequence) . . .
empty pause
in a light year out of scale
into your sun-struck myth
inhabit the dimension well
fly over the folds and flats
hidden springs of regeneration
but if with too much momentum
it could shatter a fine dimension
you came here with food
jug of jerky, bag of bourbon
and too much momentum
tried to outrun space-time
with four heated tires
bled through the margins at first
momentum, everything goes faster
recedes into a self-generated loop
that was yesterday
the rock spun another revolution
you chased a rut on the flat
full chalk roostertail
that was yesterday
a shot of rebellion now
reality and imagination
cross a rattlesnake porch
come in out of the sun
hash out their differences
fade into monster heat waves
can’t tell them apart
a vehicle flowed on the flat
its steering wheel vibrated
though no other evidence
came to rest where it began
as things do here
flowed to a point that never existed
like the first ships to the edge
of a flat earth ocean
that was yesterday
the (julie andrews) explosion poem
the hills are alive
with the sound of music
never seen anything like it
we’ll max out the place
with our prayers and widgets
doomsday buttons, funk and izzms
light beams colliding, lists upon lists
lists piled high atop themselves
and explosions, of us
by us, for us
half the world’s seven billion of us
came here since 1968, the big crush
eyes and ears, minds and tongues
kittens and warm wooly mittens
a few of my favorite things
we got needs
mine the rock a little harder
suck out its energy, we got needs
but it’s been picked over, gouged
tunneled, drilled, blasted, pricked
only getting started on mother
raked the obvious wealth long ago
poised for the big war on mother
and techno is such a fickle god
erratic, so prone to politics
could go either way
the hills are alive
with the sound of music
never seen anything like it
we’ll max out the place
with our prayers and widgets
doomsday buttons, funk and izzms
light beams colliding, lists upon lists
lists piled high atop themselves
and explosions, of us
by us, for us
half the world’s seven billion of us
came here since 1968, the big crush
eyes and ears, minds and tongues
kittens and warm wooly mittens
a few of my favorite things
we got needs
mine the rock a little harder
suck out its energy, we got needs
but it’s been picked over, gouged
tunneled, drilled, blasted, pricked
only getting started on mother
raked the obvious wealth long ago
poised for the big war on mother
and techno is such a fickle god
erratic, so prone to politics
could go either way
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SadLuckDame
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