This Machine

      “This Machine Kills Fascists”

       Woody Guthrie’s guitar, 1941

     “Thine evermore, most dear lady, / whilst this machine is to him, / Hamlet”

       Hamlet to Ophelia, a letter, Act 2, Scene 2

    

the machine hum of thick tread on hot new blacktop

settles in with the monotony of a lazy guitar

or banjo, mandolin, harmonica, slap of the leg

though this body, sometimes estranged,

with certain sounds sends unknown shivers ,

this machine knows no exile, is no refugee

the new grooves, tires & road, make a music

that sounds so much like flight that I can almost

feel an updraft lift over the machine’s backbeat thump

who says they are not an autocrat of their own body

tells a lie that only the body refuses to believe

maybe this is the truth behind the ghost in the machine

the song an upslope wind makes shakes this machine

like the  growl of Howlin Wolf, or bang of a Bo Diddley beat

there is no storm or stress too much to keep me from home

there is nothing independent of the dictator, mind or body,

no music that shuts down the impulse to swerve  for the curb

speed through turns & push the machine to the limits of will

 arriving home through sun or squall, north by northeast,

there is nothing more musical than your voice in our home

put the machine to rest, put the worries away & let storm

 ___________________________________________

* This poem is rushed and disjointed. I posted it anyway. 

Bringing It All Back Home

“the smallest sprout shows there is really no death” [Whitman]

the places we go that mean the most leave traces

in us matching the prints we left, a little dirt here

& there that marks our being there, our respect

for the moments spent together or alone, within

the sacred spot, the gathering place, the haunt

though there is really no going home, home shifts

like a satellite disguised as planet so slowly making

a way across the vast unempty,  detected but not

known, unknowable until the orbit ends in slow

oblivion, then the many pieces sort out one by one

when happiness settles in the lines around a mouth

something changes in the brain allowing an unusual

connectivity to link ego & sound, sight, feeling, urge,

sending a slow building pulse through the body whose

consistency converts inclination into faith into certainty:

this can never go away because it is a part of me

when pain & loss settle in the tributaries of the eyes

something triggers these same memories, though

the certainty fades to doubt, denial & disillusion,

still the faithful call out in prayer & skeptics clinch

down upon the traces of what was & might still be

answers, hard to come by, float up as pond steam

on a morning that seemed too cool for fog or storm

or the look of a cloud suggests a known place, sun

hanging through an evening in such a way as to

bring back a day’s feeling thought unrecoverable:

could it be possible that you know what I mean?

are you listening to these thoughts  as footprints

of a former life, lived & shared, slowly reappear

as blue grey cloud, & jet-stream trails lead to some

reunion, homecoming, or dream-haunted home?

if we wait patiently, will you really meet us there?

Stop all the clocks.

[B.J.H.]

Everybody’s Friend

Brian at Inspiration Point, Grand Canyon N.P. 1997

[for B. J. H. ]

“But, my brother, don’t let your lantern darken…”
     [Bryan John Appleby, “The Lake”]

This morning, driving south, out of

the hazy black of a once full moon,

the east sent up a glory of amber

orange, pink, purple, & finally all blue.

I thought of you, but you were already

there in my mind as the morning’s music

suggested struggle, pain, & yet tenacity, too,

the quality most evident behind your modesty.

Just as the universe holds together its parts,

& the wheels of my car handle the swift turns

of a morning’s commute, a magnetism pulls us

for our own good towards you for strength & stability.

There you are, everybody’s friend, holding us up

without raising a finger, but painfully curving

a grimace into an unaffected smile:  the brilliance

of generosity that gives & gives, never running out.

Tonight as I drive the same road back home,

arriving before that same sun sets in similar glory,

I’ll still be thinking of you there, family gathered close

hoping, somewhere, there is a light that never goes out.

I’ll save some last thoughts, as always, before sleep

comes & removes the day’s small sufferings & joys.

I’ll say to whomever might be listening that there

is a man, a brother, who helps hold a world together.

I’ll say: his love needs some more time to give.

Summer, 78

When the heat finally gave in, it wasn't the end of it. It lingered, hanging on at the corners, tugging at the gut like a three day binge.

No use to deny it anymore, they were still afraid of what might happen next. The news was no surprise, but the pain showed on the faces of all the poor little acrobats.

As the old saying goes: in love & the circus there's just no room for aging clowns.

The Lucky One

Of all the things I doubt, they're never one.
This life we make, day on day, is all we need to be certain.
Like one step echoes, then three more, & I'm the lucky one who follows.
I'm the lucky one who follows.

"Where Our Destination Lies" - Ben Gibbard by arthur_film