Turin, Soldier

that egg there
down-looked, shadow long,
white. on its side.
(as if an egg could stand up
against curvature and gravity.)

red loam, charcoal sky.
light from somewhere,
pressing down, not
shining or warming.
felt in friction
—concussive drums—
between you, me,
the space between
—off in the distance—
you, me, and the ground.

headwind. resistance.

but that egg,
all its potential energy
coupled with a black-lilac hardback,
coarsely bound: If on a Winter’s Night
a Traveler.

goddamned if Private Taylor didn’t
fry up his shiny rations and yours.
showin’ off this mouth pleasing
omelet, unaware the definition
of the word “ration.”

down the line, another singing:
douceur de vivre…

Weather Choices

Corn-covered plains spread low
below, yellow.

Fifteen miles of hard rain, then
radio sounds.

I trusted your fingertips
drawing lines over paper-hallowed
roads, that showed bends
but not turns.

or waves.

or sirens.

I found silver lining for the first time
where you grasped the horizon
and pulled it toward you—
a suitcase handle.

Black and new.

Where you’ve decided
to end up
ends up as laser ink
black on white
on a printout ticket:

IND →

Deutschland III

I caught myself laughing several times yesterday (and today). Once you step off the train, you’re in a postcard. It’s hilarious. The view from our hostel looks out over a bulbous, rolling mountain, covered greatly by trees–even though parts have been cleared for skiing and hiking. There is an illusion in the mountains, too, and it’s not hard to spot. Even now, looking out over the porch, the trees look maybe ten feet tall. It looks a short, two minute walk to reach out and touch all of them and step over them like some kind of Atlas turning the tables. These firs and pines, though, are at least one hundred feet tall each.

Each treetop peaks out and brushes against the sky, forming a zipper-line zig-zag from one end of the horizon to the other. And you are sitting there, laughing, wondering where the sky and earth separate.

We went on a hike last evening as the sun was setting behind the high-clouds which seem to just (and maybe they do) apparate.  I sensed eyes in the woods on myself and my party, though I did not say anything. This place is very mysterious. I can see now, why it has spawned many myths and fables… The woods is alive in more than one sense, and while you are in it, you are its guest. Unfortunately, we had to stop our hike early because of the descending night. The trail led ahead further, much further, as steep as it was when we started.

Once night had fully taken over, the moon peeked through the clouds as a glowing orb in the sky. The wind carried wisps of gray before it like a shapeshifting gobo.  ”Wow,” was all anyone could seem to say. It rested comfortably atop the mountain, a few degrees above the tallest pines, and waited.

“Doorgift”

I got home and there was a bowl by my door.
I picked it up and it was full of dead bees,
sprinkled with withering rose petals.
So I poured in milk—2%—
and spooned the contents of the bowl
into my mouth.

I chewed thoroughly
until the bottom pitch swirled
pink and gray, only a wing remaining.

Deutschland I

Well, after a semi-traumatic experience in Switzerland (trains, man… how do they work?), I have made it to Germany and am loving the city of Freiburg. You can check out  all of the photos I’ve taken on Facebook, here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150326175893454.391236.642028453&type=1

Europe is wildly different from the United States. I’m not well-versed enough in the pleasantries and differences, but it’s something that is better experienced than explained. The most peculiar thing I have noticed is that you hear literally everyone else speaking a different language from your own (even if you know enough of the language to get by) and it starts to infiltrate your thoughts. You start dreaming German sentences of dialog you don’t understand in your dreams about houses on mountainsides. You start realizing there were things in your life in the States that you took for granted.

I am excited to start my studies tomorrow with Kirk Nesset.  I’ve the utmost expectations from one of the finest Universities in Europe and I’m looking forward to getting some serious writing done.

Work in Progress Poem no. 3

“Prophecies”

We sit abroad in dark Dutch bars
that served brine shrimp on balsa slabs.
Germany boils over outside while our fingers
peel shells and our stinging tongues begin digestion.

Beer tastes different when you’re asleep—
like butterscotch, perhaps. Mixed with the
opaque construction of rapid eye movements:
Marlboro Reds, fantastik®, Toyota Celicas.

Dire things like credit cards and passports
become meaningless when your waitress waits
with you, when foreign acquaintances leave.
They’re hopping a channel or Berliner Mauer
to escape with other fleeting neural synapses
in a hushed storm of Argon and Neon.

The cobblestone in the alley bubbles wetly, but
I don’t remember rain. Just lightning claps
and thunder that passes overhead
like the arm of a not-forgot goddess
in fifteen minute airport-timed intervals.

We are called to action by free-will police
who march in and out of eyelids closed and open.
But I cannot get up; I’m watching the moisture
from outside seep slowly in. I take the hand of
the waitress and the future is projected before us.