When my mother and new stepfather
moved from Nashville to a southern Alaska town,
I spent fifth grade trying to make new friends, rid myself
of Southern drawl, and avoid
getting beat up. And so,
to help
my classmates decide
which candy bar to eat first,
I suggest, Eeny, meeny miney moe,
catch a nigger by the toe…
What’s that?
No one has heard [...]
She wandered with Pazanne,
her German shepherd;
tended secret campfires
along the Olympic coast,
dipped naked into Cascade lakes,
opened to the datura mazes
of Southwestern canyon land.
Along the road she gathered songs,
traded them for rides.
She would come calling
when her path brought
her back to Seattle.
Late one night I returned
to my befuddled cabin
after a starry walk along the Sound.
Curled in my bed, [...]
My mother, a fifth grade teacher,
works as hostess one summer
at the Indian Grill. She urges me
to apply as a busboy.
The first day, she introduces me to
the owner, Mr. Wadsworth,
and his partner and chef, Mr. Graney.
Great folks, Mother says.
The head busboy, Louis, warns
me that Mr. Graney, like most chefs,
is a drunk—Wiseow, man,
watch out for him!
I [...]
One day Louis’ older brother
drops by the Indian Grill,
and we take a break from bussing dishes.
Carlos wears a wavy D.A.,
greets us with a scarred hand.
Louis tells me his brother
wanted to marry, needed a job.
No one would hire him
because of the tattoo
between his left thumb and forefinger.
So Carlos drove north of town,
up into Austin Bluffs, used [...]
Sex,sex,
Oedipus Rex,
Thieves will have a new master
The scroll spoke
in hand printed gothic
on stained cloth.
Abandoned
by the previous occupant
of my new pad
its words meant little.
Fresh from first-year
college dorm,
I hung it on my wall,
tried to live
by its meaning
for a
time.
Boulder, 1961
(No. 47 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
Too real is this feeling of make believe
Too real when I feel what my heart can’t conceal
(Buck Ram, 1956)
The only other passenger
on the San Bus was Howard
Rhudy, a maintenance
man at the TB sanitarium.
Everyone knew Howard
wrote poetry and was
scholarly.
Howard saw me
absorbing words
copied from The Platters’ latest
hit. I handed him the page
when he asked to see [...]
Nearby woods concealed
World War II machine gun
nests where my Boy Scout patrol
practiced manhood, badge by badge.
Best of all was the old barbed
wire compound and watch tower—
the prisoner of war camp.
There we slung
stout darts of weeds
at one another
shouted victory,
rarely considered
the camp’s purpose
or the pleasant
decayed odor of
its latrine.
Seward, 1953
Long out of print, this guide
summons me to the reaches
of Glacier Peak—
through fields of avalanche
lilies, red swirls
of late season blueberries.
The time nears
when memories serve
as better boots.
Shall I present
this trusted companion
to my young friend
who seeks answers
within these
mountains?
Here.
(No. 100 in a series of responses to Han-Shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
In the wild Alaskan yard
of the Muller’s home, I hide
from the other kids. If I
stay very still and will
myself invisible, I won’t be
seen. It works.
But now,
years later,
I can’t
stop.
(No. 53 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
Long after I left for work
each morning, my housemates
explored groovier, more imaginative
paths. They found me stiff,
uptight. I chafed
as my records were
mishandled, my stereo never
turned off.
When my girlfriend’s old
lover came calling,
I reacted blindly, with swift
passivity.
I stuffed her sneakers into
the fridge.
This desperate act resulted
in my further
ostracism.
Bantry Bay, Bainbridge Island, 1973
(No. 91 in a series [...]
