but it looks to me like magic
To me, words are more than symbols,
NYC to West Texas -- It's all the same team!
THE TEXAS PLEASER
The sunset is focused and red
as a post-pugilist's solar plexus:
a pain never jet-lagged or
caught without a thread
in conversation: the bus
is a timeline of its own
and when we're on the road
we won't speak for hours;
our needs are all bandaged up
and clicked shut in a tight
white box, lickety-slick with
a red X on the side, and
at night we know
if we pulled over we'd cry.
The next town is an "oh,
what did you say?" and
the town after that is
the ring, and the town
after that is the card girl,
and the town after that is
a bucketful of spit.
we are a tremendous
and foggy people;
your black jacket,
my black eye,
our memories
like ferns: older
than dinosaurs
and into the asphalt
and mud went the things
we would've lost anyway:
a painting that claimed
to solve the mystery,
my keys, and we were
paleontologists exploring
what makes an evening:
the smudge of a streetlight
in my eyes, the hypnosis
of "please listen to me"
everyone needs a lift;
sometimes a great lift
finds us free and easy
and it's a great lift to know
you're around; sometimes
we find we are miles away,
and a lift is all we have
big America lifted me up,
and you are big America too;
sometimes a lift is all
we can do; sometimes a lift
is all we needed; sometimes
lifting is magically achieved
miles and months away
IF THE COLONEL EVER CALLS
If late at night there is a ringing
and it's the Colonel, don't be frightened.
Remember that the funny twists
of the heron's neck are posture too.
Perhaps the hair on your cheeks
is bristling? But the Colonel was clean-shaven.
The Colonel's prayers were more communication
than supplication; the old phone
is more of an appliance than a relic.
If the Colonel asks for a report, tell him
everyone's fine; the rocky island in the bay
is white with birds.
From the angle of the sun
through my bedroom window
this morning, I can tell:
it is 1986. The community college
parking lot is bursting with Firebirds;
stereo lights are constellations.
At night, the clouds thicken
into an empty map. They reflect
the light from down town. This morning
is one minute between rains,
and the drops on the leaves
are blinking messages from the future,
and while decoding them, I've forgotten
what year it is.
Now that I've scraped the house,
it is time to decide what color to paint,
but I feel like the work is done.
The house, streaked and ugly, is
what happens now; the house
painted grey-blue with white trim
is in the shady fortune-cookie future.
When I was learning to drive,
my first words were "floor it."
But now, in the future, I know
so many more. My foot eases
the pedal down; I repeat
the grocery list in my head.
Away in New York, we sip
crustacean-colored cocktails
while we wait for hot Friday
night to fall. Follow Kevin's
curses from the back room:
we will lock a cherry beneath
the knuckle of a lemon
and twist up a straw for you.