EXOTIC DANCER AT THE OX, MISSOULA

EXOTIC DANCER AT THE OX, MISSOULA

Anyone can find you here. You like that. A replacement for the yearbook photo.
Tonight goes like tonight. All dollars cash in. The bartender has a car and couch
so leaving is no problem.

You’ve fixed your story and here’s how it sounds:
Emotion with depth is dangerous, so are skateboards, swimming pools,
valentines. Regrets few, possibilities many.

Railroad tracks sing similar songs: boxcar, boxcar, boxcar.
Burlington Northern across Big Sky. This could be your life,
swimming in a motel pool an hour past checkout.

You dance in sets of three. Life comes in sets of three.
You look in the mirror and see the girl with pale arms.
You promise her keep going.

COYOTE WINTER

COYOTE WINTER


When winter tapers out, we’ll crawl from covers
dull bones, soft in the joints from hibernation
eyes puffy, these nights of candles, red wine
red wool socks.

We found a cabin with knotty pine walls
called in sick to the office, one week, then the next.
We said eventually we’ll run out of books or toilet paper.
But didn’t.

We say the snow is forgiving.
We say old books smell the same
and go dry the same, brittle like moth wings.
We have a cabinet of canned soup and cords of wood.

Splitting wood makes you sweat, and so does morning love;
both taste of pine sap when I kiss your shoulder.

Once we told the world go on, we’ll catch you at spring.
Us in union suits, waving at windows, fogged by the fire,
mirrored by night. I’d break off the icicles as a baton
conduct the symphony—the heave and groan of April thaw.

They say it is the cruelest month, and maybe so
when winter tapers out, and our bodies lean from soup,
winter fat now gone, have worn each into each,
tossing around, driftwood on a winter beach.

We had a choice—ocean or mountains. We took snow,
set in like this, and waited. We ask the trilliums
with each warm Chinook, if indeed snow just evaporates
leaving no trace come summer.

HITCHIN DESERT BLACKTOP

HITCHIN DESERT BLACKTOP

for Salman


Someone is coming down the road, meaning you
and you know just how, kicking dust, flipping off cows.
Bootheels scrape and backpack. Nirvana tape played
over and over. Batteries spent and the last Greyhound left

Salome. Vacant cantina, where she danced, long-legged
girl with a glass eye. Wind chipping plaster, all blues become
the sky and bleach. Christmas cholla. Counting transistors.
They say sucking a pebble cuts the thirst.
You say they’re wrong.

Harold washes cat piss with his quarters. Not poetic,
he says. Never make a poem of The Road.
No my friend, you agree. Not nothin like the road.
Harold says linemen wear special boots,
high-topped calves, like loggers, laces down to the toe.
You promise, next time, you’ll look.

Another quarter, another story from a man in dungarees,
whipcord, and sun-burned arms. And you ask of scars,
knowing what you know of collecting stories, salt, and he
says real slow, like you’re the biggest dumb-ass set foot off a highway:
linemen don’t have scars—not the ones still living.

Neon motel signs of palm trees once lit 1952 oasis here,
old Mexican trails of trade between the Harquahala and Harcuvar,
now it’s a laundromat with five working dryers, one washer.
Who ever heard of such a thing in Arizona, says Harold.
Dryers in Arizona. Who ever heard?

Says he don’t find the strays, they find him.
Cats, you ask. Yeah, he says, that’s right.
Try to get a ride from here, even the swimming pools
open and cracked, sleep siestas.
Noon is nowhere in Arizona.

But come night seek headlights again, rattling
pickup with a Navajo and his nephew.
Man says: If you can get him to talk, good luck,
and let me know. I can’t.


The man wears a straw cowboy hat, turquoise
earrings, denim jacket stitched with blanket lining,
warm for morning chores, long night drives, Diné.
Says he has horses, says he has sheep, Diné.
Got his education at Princeton now back, teaching
at community college, Diné.
The nephew stares at you, obsidian eyes, Diné.

Brakemen and Bix Beiderbecke. Long lonesome
and bald tires. Pintos and bays, sorrels and dun.
If you say the names of the desert it’s a letter
you type, old Smith-Corona chatter and click clack
of the Santa Fe.

Winter and the Yeibicheii dance, boxcars moan.
Moonset on mesas and coyotes call out black
between stars that arc over Shiprock. Tsé but’a’í,
mother who brought the people here on her back.
She sleeps. Wing of a bird once flown.

The tired of this West comes forward
and wraps you. The nephew holds his quiet—
carries corn pollen, knows the way, Diné.
Five times brings the balance.
Blacktop means roads and desert both.

MATCHBOOK POEMS

MATCHBOOK POEMS

for Morgan


I.
When the lights
say one, when
bathroom
graffiti jump
up, say, welcome
back, must be
returning no
matter.
When all
roads agree to
split even at
yellow, we
have headlights
and can point.


II.
Cicada
say take me back
to porches,
say
delicious,
the sound
of
bullfrogs
rise up,
greet us.


III.
Match bar
neon scratch--
We speak
this in hushed
breath, we say
dim the
lights. We
say sweep me
feet and all.
We say take a
sweater. Be
safe. Be wise.

SUMMER SNAPSHOT

SUMMER SNAPSHOT

Summer is here, summer with feet bruised
from river rocks, pine needles in pillows
the swimsuit worn last three days.

We all smell of coconut oil
wear the sun through our hair whipped from wind
and open windows. Wet and dry, wet and dry
the pattern of these days, mixed with the grit
of river water, pool chlorine, Coppertone,
woodsmoke, good honest sweat.

Aches in our ribs, long legs
flex and flash in the sun.
Everyone’s eyes are perfect this dusk.

Old shirts, old jeans, cutoffs
half-dressed, half in swimsuits.
The girls skip shaving, strip bikini tops,
say, Aw shucks. This sloth delicious is all
reason: this sun, this denim, these few
elements we find again and fill a day.

We drink to warm beer bobbing in coolers
ice long melted.
We salute the old drive-in, its screen a skeleton
shreds of plaster peeling. We act the movies.
We run together like crickets.
We wear scrapes of volleyball games
like honor, like proof. Hickeys count, too.
Maybe double.

Summer is here and we can’t let it down,
not the parked trailer by the barn, not
the rope-swing by the creek, not sprinklers
and garden hoses, not beer buzzed by noon
not hammock siestas, not fresh lawn clippings
stuck to ankles, not sea-salt shimmering on
skin.

A good time to spend all pocket change --
especially on flip-flops at dollar stores
sunglasses at gas stations, inner-tubes at
the first town with a river.

SWIMMING HOLE

SWIMMING HOLE


half a hundred times she returns
elbows and knees
cutt-offs and bikini top
hair summer tangled

down this line of poplars
between reeds
along a rock-spit
boys leave beer bottles
and the men who still hop trains
boil beans, chuck the cans
keep the spoons
catch the Santa Fe at the bend

dragonflies dart, frogs call
thick green river
never the same river twice, they say

and here, come with me
where the grass is bent
from blankets set with buckets of chicken
we hurled firsbees, grilled hot dogs
Grandpa spit through each horseshoe for luck

he played hookey here
those years they called it hookey
parked a model A beside the poplar
with the heart carved by his pen knife
every boy should have a pen knife, he thought

every boy should come home
with scraped knees and briar scratches
to prove he’d been somewhere
somewhere brave
we played the war that grandpa fought
when we died we counted to ten

these brambles are tents we crawl in
call Headquarters, radio our position
if we had walkie-talkies we’d call ourselves
age seven and six
we’d kiss our hand for practice
say it was the girl we’d seen

stand at the end of this gravel
you’ll know a ‘76 Datsun parked here
vinyl seats burned

here we smoked pot
here we French kissed
here we got to second base
and here, one night
those girls who drowned
were skinny dipping

still, mud squishes
between toes and we squint
across the river—so flat, so green, turning
tar blisters on railroad ties
thistles cling in proof
we were here

sure as summer she returns
white tan lines crisscrossed
and freckles
fixed now yellowing Kodachrome

half a hundred times we’ve seen her
when the moon is caught just so in the trees

we drink a toast
cheapest beer warm as July
foamy from the hike
swish it, spit it
pelt the river
laugh at what they say about
the same river twice

POEM FOR F. SCOTT

POEM FOR F. SCOTT


She never photographed well,
not by standards today, but believe
me, we all know what whippoorwills say
in July, white-washed gazebos of summer
homes on lakes, with docks, and the girls
who sun on them, and the sun
that bleaches leg hairs soft,
and leg hairs that bead little sweat,
and lake water that washes it away,
leaves a film, now dried, shimmery
salty stars, the Milky Way across
constellations of freckles.

We know how she looked,
squinting, shading her eyes
with her palm turned up, so
the shadow angled like the
creases of her eyes, when
she smiled.

We can’t talk of white
without you, Scott.
Not the sails on boats, or
linen on the line, not napkins
folded for dinner, the orchestra
now here, setting up. We tug
open the shades, catch this afternoon
sliding sideways.

The girls now standing on the dock,
picking up their towels, with a flip.
They slip on sandals and start up
the stairs, weathered boards crooked
with seasons. We know this hour
tastes of lavender, we hear ice
crack in the glass.

Fireflies and bullfrogs begin.
The girls are dressing, washing
away lake water, replacing
summer’s sheen with powder.
Swimming and sun, swimming and sun,
hair tossed and tangled, smoothed now
in finger curls, bobs tucked behind ears.

Still, the squint remains,
the dimple when she smiles
says slow Southern style,
Aw, do tell.

So you tried, Scott, to capture
this evening white, the breeze of
linen and laughter. Cut-glass
throwing candlelight.

She crafted paper dolls, painted your face
on them, pasted them in letters, said,
O do join us--Summer is divine.
You rented a car, started to drive.
Relationships begin with a suitcase.

Now we have train stations,
empty platforms, pocket watches
not wound, cafes where the lost generation
could be found.

Doorknobs still turn exactly the same
and catch. The girls return from the dock,
no matter the year. They are 17, and laughing,
and the sun flashes golden their wet footsteps.

20-SOMETHING

20-SOMETHING

These are my friends, blurs and blocks of colors, pixels caught in a digital flash, someone turns, says hold it. The shutter does not snap but moan, says thank goodness. We sway and hook arms around shoulders. We tip back at the rafters, make plans this time next week. Records round round, someone plays clarinet, someone speaks of Artie Shaw. We have such in blocks and blurs of color. Collage parties, bring your own scissors. We all come home, smelling of cigarettes, all spin glad for one more chance. This is for the friends I left in Wyoming, waiting on a front porch, saddles hefted upon shoulders. And here’s a toast to Missoula cronies bumping corners, corner booths, the pinball of night, flashing, flashing. We say call me tomorrow. We say, don’t forget. We make plans and plans, think breakfast with ambition, but take dinner as more likely. These are friends and friends of friends, pretty girls in sweaters, fellas swirling scotch. We say winter needs more momentum, we say cabins and snow, we cry out for parents’ cars and high school nights, we say play that one song, you know, we leave ice melting in drinks and cigarettes smell in hair and shoulders. We say next week, we say just right, just right.

Tall shuddering blondes cast long looks, fur collars smooth necklines and neon. Leather boots flash under tables, legs twine. We say take us calliope circus sway, we say, lights falling, flashing mean more here, this hour this night. She stands under tile street numbers, says take this picture, winter branches reaching. We say don’t give me fragments, say the whole sentence. But really, conversations mid-stride and wool coats carry us through December. Banjos strum and we smile, catch light like cameras, say collages create context, not the other way around. For once circles and circles cross. Wool hats pull down, bob haircuts with flips. Gas firelogs only so far for warmth. Cateye glasses only go so far for for style. We turn collars up and lean on doorways, we smile sideways and watch shadows. We say, how fine to see you and it’s true. We don’t lie to look good.

24 HOURS AFTER MT. HOOD

24-HOURS AFTER MT. HOOD

for Morgan


If this we find again, not like
before, but extra and then some,
we call it summer but it goes
by other names: mason jar,
root-cellar, flip-flops,
sunburns and shoulders. Forget
the obvious—stick to Christmas
lights and cheap tacos. Bruises
count for proof with honest rivers,
rocks, and state parks past
closing. Lock up. Buckle up.
Drain it now and crack another.
The drive-in waits, but only so
long. Crickets and moon, sagebrush
and the silver of rivers, here and
never again. Here and nothing like
before.

GRINGOS

GRINGOS

for Carol Ann

How do you light the butane?
Where is the beach from here?
We rented a Volkswagen in La Paz,
drove it over the dunes
that road, tangled with brush.

Two women sunbathed naked,
we asked for directions.
They told us and we left them our Coppertone.
Hard water leave film on glasses.
Magazines read better two decades outdated.

Have you seen the new Chevrolets? Drive the USA
crank down the windows and stick your feet out.
The wind tickles and smells of a flower
you’ve never smelled;
a first is still a first, no matter how
many passed this way before.

Campfires and guitars
Campfires and rum
Campfires and nakedness
They go with everything, even morning.
We wear smoke in our hair.

SEND OFF

SEND OFF

for Kate Adler


A whiskey word on bar
napkin for you in ball-point
because we know this is
what we came in with
and claim.

Say pearlsnaps and second
round hurrrahs, glint
us and us. Table in corner.
Half a hamburger. It’s
not exact, but close.
Half an answer, still
counts.

Our clapping cannot
make it up. So we fill in.
Tonight we say, the road
will curl up, the moon will
notch itself in a tree, the
neon will swerve and rain on
sidewalks speak our
name. We write it down,
quick.
Saying so
makes it so.

WINNIPESAUKEE, MAY

WINNIPESAUKEE, MAY

for Nina, after Ben


She once said:
Don’t tread on me,
summer cabin lake,
memory. She
said: Be of love
a little more
careful, pack
a crayon. She
could cut a collage
of half memories
in college dorm
double dog dares
wine & a roof,
yet still the
refrain: this
time last summer,
the dock, the
boat with oars,
the pines that
waved goodbye,
swayed, rippled
sheet that lake
wide open bed
that lake,
ready to
take you. She
once said: Take a
sweater—be safe,
don’t catch cold.
It caught us anyway,
mid leap. Endings
are everything.

LAST WORDS

LAST WORDS

for Jenny W


She asks:
You gonna make it?
You say:
Depends on how far we’re going.
A grin, a flick of ashes, cracked window
and dash-lights on lipstick lips, because tonight
everything is rhinestones.

When the radiator heats
and vinyl becomes friends
and radio crackles weather report:
The next three days look clear.

We’ll not talk now about falling
to stand, sand in shoes and sunburns.
Reckless brave living, a good motto then,
with fishing poles and a river to catch,
a backseat of blankets, beer,
the dog we drove in with.

We’ll not speak of teenage
night with stolen parents’ bottle and when
we hit the brakes and shit to hell it all skidded
sideways. They say she never felt a thing.
The dog ran off and was never seen again.
Her mom went to the spot the next day
and picked up every shard,
put them in a keepsake box.

Could we end this way and still compose
a portrait: two kids, a yearbook, a term paper the
English teacher liked, said: You’ve got it kiddo.

MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY

MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I get nostalgic for open windows, bare feet, the yellow lines of a highway, sliding under and away. Long summer nights and Coleman bags, unzipped and spread out. Stars.

In my eyes are graveyards and barn swallows. In my hands have been saddles and ink pens.

I know wood stacked up for winter, how it dries and cracks. I know old sweaters in attics, and scrapbooks with promises to love forever. I have written a few. Keep some, still.

I wear pearl snaps, outdated, out of style. Remorse for Sears & Roebuck catalogs comes easy with a Liberal Arts education and a few mixed drinks. Anyone can snap a photo. Traffic at the overpass, and my breath scatters.

If I knew the secret, it’d be different. If I knew the right words, I’d say them. All I have is this heart, broken again and again, and healed again by mountains and rivers and old letters you have sent or the ones I never did. We said be brave for what comes, your hand on mine, squeezing, and your voice, soft, tucked in my shoulder.

Roads remain. And scrapbooks. Turn any page. How easily you could have found me a freelance writer, a drifting cowboy, a secret poet, or a mad angel-headed hipster. The person I thought I was then, the person you thought you loved, then. I was none of those things, only pretending. I am all of those things, still.