Reflections on the Farm; draft #5

15 years later I returned
to visit buildings I played around when I was a kid:
to walk by survivors of our colonial past
corn crib, pig sty, empty garages, and a barn built long ago,
ground floors diffused with the dung and dust of 200 years,
some still hoary-marked with faded rosettes
of white, green, dapple red, and sometimes pale blue.

As sheep owners we had enough lambs, one for each of the six of us.
On occasion we'd bridle them to posts like natural lawnmowers,
and we would take turns, the six of us, every thirty minutes checking on them:
except the time my brother forgot and was it irony that strangled his sheep to death?
Sheep's body lifeless and limp
it's eyes bulging and black
in the middle of field on a hot summer's day.

Flaked wood so bare the paint covered like a transparency
and the corn crib's simple rectangular skeleton
laid bare in old grey slats standing against time,
and for evenings reposes with its long lean shadow,
its body ripped
almost apart
now choking on an overgrowth of the thorn bushes and weeds.

My mind recalls sweat sticky evenings, bur bruised and thorn stabbed,
rough-housing only interrupted by the sound of metal against metal,
mother calling us to dinner,
banging heavy on a great iron triangle.
This dinner part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, corn,
and so many that the mind loses count.

Reflections on the Farm; draft #4

More than 15 years later I return
to ask permission from the Bass's
to visit buildings I played in and around when I was a kid
to walk past corn cribs and barns built of a now hollowed aged wood,
their lower levels diffused with the smell and sight of dung and dust
of 200 years,
still hoary-marked with a faded rosette
white and red and dapple green.

Sheep sometimes were used for lawn mowers.
Six of us, we'd check on them once every thirty minutes,
except the time my brother forgot and ironically his sheep strangled itself
to the ground on a hot summer day?

Flaking grey wood so bare of paint half-covers the corn crib
now a simple rectangular skeleton
who for evenings reposes with its long lean shadow,
its body ripped-almost apart by the tides of seasons gone by,
but now lays dying choking on the overgrown weeds
running amok in and around the legs and bowels.

MY mind recalls a simpler time:
iron ringing against iron
mother calling us to dinner
banging heavy on a great metal triangle.
This dinner part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, corn,
and so many that the mind loses count.

Reflections: On the Farm; draft #3

I walk past buildings built of hollowed aged wood,
their lower levels diffused with dung and dust
of 200 years.
Thought painted now pale red dozens of times over,
still faded hoary-marked rosette
white and red and dapple green,
sheep sometimes for lawnmowers.

Flaking paint half-covers the corn crib
now a simple rectangular skeleton
who for evenings reposes with its long lean shadow,
its body ripped-almost apart by the tides of seasons gone by.

Iron rings against iron
as mother calls us to dinner by banging heavy on a great metal triangle,
a dinner part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, corn,
and so many that the mind loses count.

Thin Sheet; draft #1

A man stands hands holding high a sign
and as an aside he digs trenches boy 'til he can't dig no more.

For every road a trench and these trenches are deep.
Ten feet deep built to hold fortunes of gold.

And though his eyes may be Portland
fogged in quiet
on a slow rainy night,
lately I linger awake.

The sweat and stink of my body
sings into my nostrils' airs
and the also scented thin sheets pulled lightly-tightly over my naked body
in this calm but all too warm and humid autumn eve.

Thin Sheet; rough draft

A man and his sign are not much at all
dig those trenches boy until you can't dig anymore.
Smack, pot, high octane forties, the seduction of the screen
pale in comparison to the world that I see
(though my eyes may be Portland fogged in
on a long rainy night).
Lately these long nights I linger awake
the sweat and stink of my breath my armpits my crotch
sing into my nostril airs
also scented a thin sheet pulled tight in this cool but all too warm and humid autumn eve.

Letters on a Plate; rough draft

Indeed I followed too far and this is not
unbound I say goddamn can you believe what the maker said
when you can't believe the maker?

Emasculated jellyfish sit in packs off the Florida coast
awaiting an unspoken invitation
to thuggery
so we deal out the card until Jokers wild.

UFO landing in Arizona reads a bumper sticker.

Lickety-split and still I lick the cream of memories.

Wonders upon wonders speaking through mirrors
I guessed the return of the elephant
and here it comes trampling the earth and all who walk on her.

Faster than lightning the program goes unbroken
typist finger digitalis heals all maledictions.

Letters on a Plate; stream of consciousness

Indeed I followed too far and this is not the fa lalalala
but only the la lal lalalala
unbound I say goddamn this shit can you believe what the maker said
when you can't believe the maker?

Emasculated jelly fish sit in packs a pace from the Florida Coast
they wait while floating, they await an invitation for thuggery
not the passive aggressive type but yes the passive aggressive time so deal with it baby!

Times are difficult indeed they are I didn't miss them memos and who ever said that you'd run for president anyway.?

The staplers gone? Nevermind the Bollucks. UFO landing in Arizona reads the license place. Amazing how they fit so many letters on a plate.

Lickety split I've been here before and still I lick the cream of memories in writing doing so again so what you gonna do?

Wonder filled with wonder speaking in a mirror can it be done I guess the return of the elephant because here it goes

fast as lightning the program goes unbroken just a lie as written by the Tigger T I double G ER typist of fingers digital heals all malfactors, digital the rebound and no one.

40th and Market; final draft. (formerly El Thoughts One)

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant legs
fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slip and slide beneath the soles of my shoes,
black and gray speckled white mazes
in this record-breaking winter
I criss
cross the dwarf I am
against this skyline of man made sequoias
concrete rebar buildings of glass and glowing lights
testament of some kind of life in the spinning airs of the world:
a soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in space.
I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

The scene on the corner of 40th and Market
men standing grease or anything-else smudged polyester jackets
worn soles propped on empty and upside down Pepsi crates
and the ambassador speaks, “Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”
A taxi ride but where's the taxi?

The El runs under these streets and you can hear it rumble
you can hear it scream
and you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
bootleg movies hot off the press,
Bo-Sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut,
H & R Block day care and a wine shoppe
tried to go into Flynn's but Flynn's be closed.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend.
my feet graze steps and my eyes like a beeline
keep my pace in line
so I don't stumble here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or less or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance
run the pass push through the turnstile.

The whine and screech of train songs congest the air
platform three-quarters full of scattered people and I,
step left step right fill gaps in efficiency
ever crowding is the rush hour El.

Doors slide open like Star Wars
I pass portal to a land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes
but for the tinny sound of a hip hop amplified iPod
and the cajole of a mother to her daughter,
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

Or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slap-sticking black verbal dance on the urban landscape
scat about cards and women and hard luck,
two seats to a man.
And though I am just on my way to work
language also is written on the walls around me.