1996 |
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| 1457 Suite (10 verses) | |
1457 Suite -- v.1 There's a photo somewhere Of where I once lived. I saw mountains out the window Each morning for two years. I faced them over my old Remington Rand. Standard. They never laughed, nor did they Commiserate. But in some fashion, at Some level, I wrote for them. Fat lot they cared. But they'll always be there. |
1457 Suite -- v.2 Your moon painted a smudge on the Railroad tracks for the ATSF As I traveled down the high desert One winter night. It was a nice moon, mostly full, A little blue. Your sky was heavy, Dark, empty and full of stars. Your creosote-bush and Ocotillo feathered the light Once in a while, arid mischief. I've retouched that image A million times in my mind. It's a fine image, still so bright; it never Grows old or wears out. I may try to die with it in my mind, Some years down the road. And I never even sent you a card. |
1457 Suite -- v.3 Hallowe'en, ran to the store late For something, coffee, who knows? Three AmerInd teenagers, doing their Level best to look Innocent as kittens, Sprang from a pickup truck as I came out The automatic doors. It was cold, I was alone, they were Running straight at me... For half a second I held my breath. Then one of them winked at me, Snatched a pumpkin from a crate, Tossed it to one of the others, And they were back in the truck And on the street. Right down the middle of Indian Wells, I was half a block behind as They laughed, the two in the back Fell about, clutching pumpkin While the driver swerved, no dignity. I was still laughing when the DPS car's Lights flashed in my rearview, Moved out of the way just as the Pumpkin made a bomb, There on the pavement and The boy who'd winked at me Fished for his I.D. |
1457 Suite -- v.4 One night there were four of us In the car. Driving fast up from El Paso, Through the desert, flat out. The headlights caught two emeralds Floating above the road. Brakes screaming, the old Toyota Just did manage to halt. Coyote laughed, tongue lax, In some way, you always stop For him out there... |
1457 Suite -- v.5 Kirk Chaves said to me once, All painful sincerity, (he was eighteen and I was twenty-three) "You are So lucky, Melinda. You Seem to know so well Who you are. That seems impossible To me right now..." I laughed so hard, he Looked hurt. "Kirk, don't waste your Envy. I don't actually Know who I am. I Just know who I'm not. Anybody can learn that." |
1457 Suite -- v.6 She felt like the arms Of a profligate courtesan, Too generous one day, Distant the next. I've never had a woman As a lover, But the Lady-On-The-Rock Still cuts through and makes My breath come hard, a Rainbow for her scarf, Blade-edged foothills Risen from nothing but sage, As the mist boiled off The pavement under my wheels. |
1457 Suite -- v.7 New York Dolls, Bob Dylan, Naked Lunch, chamomile tea With honey, Pinstripe flares, philosophy, Lentil Thanksgiving dinner. All your happy, sleepy kids strung Across the room like puppies, Half-naked and in love with life. I never met kids like that Before or since. I came back years later, And little had changed, Though the kids were older, Smarter and less sleepy, You still put on The New York Dolls; We still talked philosophy. And your novel About Elvis and the aliens. |
1457 Suite -- v.8 Jeremy Ryan was born here, Out of a mind infatuated with desert, Rock and terra cotta dust, Chittering cottonwoods, Catalpa trees. His big hands meant for music Built houses for years and years. I couldn't give him the oasis, Until they took the desert Away from me. One of us had to wring Something sustaining from my grief. |
1457 Suite -- v.9 You make your own way, out there. Air between you and the sky, There isn't much to guide your thoughts. You have to take care of yourself, Choose what to think, where your mind Goes. It still felt like potential was left In the land under my feet; Perhaps because For the first time in my life, It felt like potential was coiled In the brain in my head. Coyotes still sang to my Fat house cat Beneath the window at night, And nothing obstructed Either sunrise or sunset. Left alone to contemplate Grand landscape, A tree grew inside That could never have grown Precisely that way Any other place. |
1457 Suite -- v.10 I wish I'd been braver, Loved her more with my feet, Less with my wheels. Taken more time to sit And listen to her, Spoken to her more often And more deeply Than I already did. Lived my life less by habit And more by landscape. I miss the old lady Who lay under her pink and green Blanket, her profile Turned forever into the sunset; The musical instrument of the desert Played by the ubiquitous wind. All the little and big Animals, there and gone, And the blistering brashness Of the sun; the bombast Of the moon, winter and summer, Hung like a medallion; Reward to the sky for giving light. It's not the same here, reading Her song on paper. It's like reading about religion, "Dancing about architecture," A little, trying to find her In someone else's words. She isn't there. She isn't there... |
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Premonition Bends and breaking leave one twisted, Leave another curved, Arced into beauty, Bonsai, listed Into light, steel-nerved For each next moment, listening With each inch of life, Trembling on glistening Moment, silver knife of backbone, oh... so... ready. |
Electra Mourning does not become Electra. She's had it with black, had it with Regretful voices on the telephone, Solicitous stares. She was waiting for the wind, Now she feels bound by the black dress, Chained in the dark gloves Grief ordains for her lively hands. Spot her after dark, she's on some street Where nobody knows her, She's taking life's sweetness In ounces and a half Because they're not allowed her In larger portions. |
Sublimin I do not dream. The alpha of my brain winds people Through other people, their hands Around each other's hands, and I Dedicate it to paper, Dutifully. But in the night, when the Doppelgangers of vague electricity Bring beauty and fear, Images and dark visions to Other people, Stupid recollections, the Frightening, fascinating Contrast and juxtaposition Of tattered-wrapper memory With the much-beloved... Well. Okay. Once in a while I awaken With the vague, fading memory Of having driven my car Down a familiar street. I do not dream. |
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