Thursday, June 21, 2018
Highways 70/380, Mile Marker 316
from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016
Highways 70/380, Mile
Marker 316
This highway goes on
forever and I go with it.
Can you hear me now?
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
GYPSY POET TOUR (2)
Tuesday, June 19, 2018
Highways 70/380, Mile Marker 311
from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016
Highways 70/380, Mile
Marker 311
The grass
holds
the snow
and won't
let go.
Why
would it?
Sunday, June 17, 2018
IF THERE WAS
If there was a God, perhaps
he sneezed, or there was a Big
Bang. It doesn't really matter.
It is. We are.
Something flies
away from us at great speed
and beyond that the Great
Attractor takes us. And the
Great Attractor itself is
taken -- by what or whom, we
do not know.
And I'm speaking
only of this half of things.
For there is even more
off to the right-hand side of
the universe, and maybe
more in the up and down
from here. Who's to say how much?
And what of dark matter,
what of the blacked energy
we cannot see?
The more we think
we know, the more we find there is
to learn. Yet at the speed
it flies from us we cannot know
anything for certain.
All we can say is: If there was
a God, perhaps he sneezed, or -- .
Friday, June 15, 2018
Highways 70/380, Mile Marker 303
from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016
Highways 70/380, Mile
Marker 303
And now more wideness
than you can imagine.
Thursday, June 14, 2018
Highways 70/380, Mile Marker 301
from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016
Highways 70/380, Mile
Marker 301
How can you know
what the snow
wants to write
in these mountains?
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
GYPSY POET JOURNEY
GYPSY
POET JOURNEY, DAYS 1 & 2
I
left Fairwater yesterday about 8:00 after saying good-bye to my
long-suffering spouse. She will be tending to the "livestock,"
the cats in the house and the birds at the feeder, and I will be
gallivanting. We have always divided the workloads: she handles the
day to day and I worry about keeping the stars in their place.
It
was wet and cool in Wisconsin, as I left. The sky clear somewhere in
Illinois, and it was 94 degrees in Springfield as I flew
past, and 96 in St Louis. Hello, St. Louis, good-bye, good-bye. I
arrived to spend the night in Bourbon, Missouri.
Last
evening it was raining when I looked out my motel room, and a while
later when I looked out again, everything had dried up and you
couldn't tell it rained. The street, the car, everything had dried
off. That doesn't happen in Wisconsin. Our fields are still
underwater. Here, the corn is already up.
From
here I leave for today's adventure, a reading at the Alton Public
Library, Alton, Missouri, and 3:30 p.m. Be there or be square.
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET JOURNEY: DAYS 2 & 3
I
had breakfast on Day 2 in a small cafe in Salem, Missouri. The busy
waitress had a sweet face by tired eyes which showed an ancient kind
of knowing. You can't save them all, but you'd want to save her.
You
couldn't ask for better audiences for my readings at the Alton Public
Library and the Thayer Public Library. Such rapt attention is
exhilarating for the poet, I tell you. I even took the audience in
Alton out for ice cream afterwards at the Burger
Palace. A grand time was had by all. I left Thayer about 2:00 p.m.
after a late lunch and am holed up tonight in Parsons, Kansas. Should
arrive in Newton by lunch-time tomorrow, or a little later, depending
on how early I get going. You guys in southern Missouri, thanks a
bunch!
The
librarian in Thayer didn't want to hear how I write when I travel.
She thinks perhaps I should use a tape recorder.
Today's
lesson: Talent is less important than stubbornness. But remember: the
big truck always has the right of way.
Observation:
There seem to be more smokers in Missouri than there are in
Wisconsin, at least from the limited data I have available.
Observation:
Turtles are moving in Missouri, and too many of them are crossing the
roads, and some of them are not making it. 
?
?
The
librarian in Thayer wanted me to send a poem back if I wrote one
after leaving Thayer. I did. Mike,
get this to her next time you are in Thayer, if you would be so kind:
Which
blessings
lift us
lift us
and
which
teach us
teach us
and
which
make us
make us
wonder
at
wonder?
wonder?
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET JOURNEY: DAY 4
Observation:
How to tell you're in Kansas -- they'll drive for a mile in the
oncoming lane and think nothing of it, even in the rain.
Observation:
Just when you think Kansas is flat forever, you start to climb into
some stoney hills.
Observation:
Red-tail hawk flying with a long snake dangling from its talons.
Observation:
You could set parts of Kansas down around Plainfield, Wisconsin, and
you couldn't tell much difference.
Observation:
Doing poetry is Newton, Kansas, is as lovely as doing poetry anywhere
in the world!
A
group of us started out with supper at Prairie Harvest beforehand. I
don't know what they call them, but I had one -- cabbage and meat
baked inside a sweet bread envelope. This was not a "Fried Pie,"
but something else, and was delicious. "Some people put mustard
on it," I was advised, and I did. Good advice. I had arrived
early enough ahead of time to take in a violin recital by students of
a couple local violin teachers and enjoyed it immensely: Book One
students, Book Two students, Book Three students, and the traveling
group: fiddle tunes and classical music and even a version of (of
course, because this is Kansas) "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."
This was what music is. Lovely! And I had "rhubarb crunch"
ice cream for desert.
And
my poetry reading at Charlotte's
quilting emporium, Charlotte's Sew Natural, was what poetry is. A
little wine, and attentive audience, the intimacy that poetry
desires. Folks ranging from junior high students to the old
grey-beards, expectant and appreciative as any poet could wish. It
was lovely. I had a hard time getting to sleep last night, coming
down off the juice of this experience. Thanks, Charlotte and
Christine for making this happen.
I
have to say: my readings in Alton and Thayer, Missouri, and Newton,
Kansas, set an awfully high standard for the rest of this journey. If
my remaining travel is even half as good as what I've experienced so
far, then this is SUCCESS with a capital Happiness.
Next
stop: New Orleans. I have been promised home-cooked Cajun food
tomorrow night. People, get out of the way: I'm going!
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET JOURNEY: DAY 5
Spring
is the time to travel, when the countryside wants to show its green
best. Of course, if you're driving, there's the road construction.
But that's how we get good roads.....
Observation:
Thursday night at my reading, Charlotte said of the Kansas state
legislator who was at my reading: "He's here for poetry when he
could be off making laws." The legislator said: "I'm a
Democrat, I don't get to do that...."
Observation:
Oklahoma! where its Boots & BBQ at the Travel Plaza.
Observation:
This journey -- so much land rolling away, so little time. Seeing it
at a distance is not the same, yet it still takes my breath away.
Come over this rise with me, go "Oh!"
Observation:
Dallas at 3:30 p.m. is ten gallons in a five gallon pail. And people
do this on purpose? 4:20 p.m. we're out in the country and it's STILL
stop and go. That was ugly. (I'll probably say the same thing about
LA, ya think?).
Yes,
apparently Dallas is on the way from Newton, Kansas, to New Orleans.
Who'd a thunk?
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAYS 5, 6, 7, and 8
Observation,
Oklahoma, Friday: Spring is the time for travel, when the countryside
wants to show its green best. Of course, if you're driving, there's
road construction. But that's how we get good roads.
Observation,
Louisiana, Saturday: Tiger Cafe along I-10 once housed a real tiger,
grown from a cub. Catfish Po' Boy and fries for lunch. Long-haired
greybeard truck drivers for companions, speaking a language I could
almost understand. Black woman cooking, black woman waiting tables,
black man mopping the floor. "Rambo" on the TV, about to
give it to the sheriff good.
Observation,
Saturday, Louisiana: Palm trees and stop-and-go traffic -- a great
combination. Road work ahead, apparently.
Observation:
I really do live inside my head. When I travel, I don't use the radio
or the CD player. Only the sound of the tires on the pavement and
gears grinding in my head. Whether this is good or bad may be open
for some discussion, but that's the way it is.
Observation:
Sometimes in Louisiana, it seems as if you are driving on the longest
bridge in the world. Well, with all this water, you just might be....
Perhaps
you've seen the photo of me crowned "The King of the Gypsy
Gumbo." That was on Saturday, after I checked into my motel on
Jefferson Highway. Now, the motel was adequate to my needs, but you
should know there's a sign in the office that says: "No, we
don't rent by the hour. Don't even ask." And there was a mirror
on the ceiling in my room. And a TV. And a chair. Toilet, sink, and
shower in the bathroom. No table or desk or lamp. No waste basket.
No
wonder I made tracks for Terrace Street at 3:30 in the afternoon,
where I had been promised Louisiana hospitality and Cajun cookin'.
Facebook friend Clare
L. Martin introduced
to me to Bessie and Eileen. Bessie was the cook, keep your butt outta
the kitchen. Two kinds of gumbo! Shrimp with okra; and pork and
sausage. Over rice. Did you know that Cajuns put potato salad on top
of their gumbo? That's what I was told. Now I didn't have my waders
with me, and things got a little deep at times, but I think this was
told true, cuz potato salad on your gumbo is a winner.
I
said I arrived at 3:30 in the afternoon, and nobody looked at a clock
until "Oh my god it's 10:30." And I don't think there was a
moment of quiet the whole time I was there. In fact, at one point I
said to the women: "Is that a Cajun thing, all three of you
talking over each other at the same time?" Yeah, I'm told,
that's a Cajun thing.
I
am told that the poetry series at the Maple Leaf Bar on Oak Street in
New Orleans is the oldest continuous poetry venue in the United
States. Alcohol is the barroom, music in the dance hall, poetry in
the garden out back. Oh my lovely goodness. Clare read some of her
Black Horse, Night poems, and Clare and Bessie enacted several of
Clare's Crone poems, and then Bessie read, and then Tom read, then
some of New Orleans finest free-mic-ers read and sang, mostly in
English but once in the Spanish from which he'd read his translation.
Over in the back corner, a marker to commemorate the fellow who had
founded the series, Everette Maddox, I believe. Some of his ashes are
in that corner and some were scattered on the Mississippi, which is
about spittin' distance away.
After
those festivities, Bessie took Clare and me to DTB, an upscale Cajun
restaurant about a block and a half from the Maple Leaf. Oh my
gracious. I would tell you more, but Mary is already gonna be jealous
as hell. Suffice to say, I had the pork, Clare had the steak, and
Bessie had the oysters. To wind it all up, I got to meet one of
Bessie's sons and his lovely historian wife.
This
morning, then, it was: head west. Poetry reading in Victoria, TX, on
Tuesday night. House reading in Austin, TX, on Wednesday night.
Observation:
Ordering a Fish Po' Boy near Lake Charles, Louisiana, today:
"Do
you want it fried or grilled?"
"What's
the difference?"
"One
is fried. The other is grilled."
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAYS 9, 10, & 11
In
Victoria, Texas, people, it's the Mumphord Family Barbecue. That's
where I had lunch with Charles
Alexander the
afternoon of my reading in Victoria. I had the brisket. I always have
the brisket. I eat it naked. I kick myself if I don't. Charles had
brisket and sausage. We both came away smiling. After we ate, we
wandered out back where the men with the touch for doing it were
doing it, and they showed us their cookers. Two dozen briskets nearly
done, a dozen chickens just put on, and I don't know what all. When
you are in Victoria, you know where to eat!
And
then my reading in the evening, at the UHV Center for the Arts on
Main Street in Victoria. Another touching loveliness. Such an
introduction from Charles that I then had to live up to. (Blushes.)
As attentive an audience as you could ever wish. For poets, that's a
kind of adoration, I tell ya. Questions a-plenty, and comments. And
Charles had put out a basket and asked people, if they could, to
contribute for gas money. I think I got three or four tankfuls! You
guys didn't have to do that, but I'm thankful for the tankfuls!
Then
a few of us adjourned to a bar on the seventh floor of the building
across the street for beers (them) and merlot (me). Needed something
to juice back down to ground level after the reading.
Then
it was back to Motel 6, where they really do keep the light on. A
night's sleep, then headed west.
Headed
west to Austin, found the wonderful Malvern
Books,
bought THREE collections of poetry (don't tell Mary!), and had lunch
bought for me by my friend and bro Mark Bourland.
My
reading on Wednesday was a house reading at the home of my
nephew Andrew
Montag and
his lovely wife Allison, their old, blind rescue dog, and a
long-haired black cat. Enough animals in the house to make me feel
quite at home. Supper time, and Andrew says, "Tex-Mex?" and
I say "This is Austin, sure." We got there at the right
time. The place was huge and we got seated right away, and by the
time we were done, people were lined up out the door waiting for a
table...
Again,
my reading was intimate and intense. I read some extra from my
memoir, CURLEW: HOME, cuz it was Andrew's grandparents I was talking
about. And then to poems. And then Andrew shared some of his own
poetry and prose with us, which was a perfect surprise because I did
not know he wrote! And then Andrew's friend, Burton
Johnson,
a talented (and dare I say reckless) amateur stand-up comedian got to
tell a few jokes. Interesting that he does stand-up comedy for the
same reasons I do poetry -- because he likes to, because he can't not
do it.
A
night's sleep at the house then, woken to the sound of their six hens
in the backyard thinking about making some eggs for breakfast. Well,
not exactly... Allison explained that the girls didn't really get to
work until about 10 a.m.
And
then, again, headed west. I don't remember which town; I don't know
the name of the cafe. The menu item was "Jessie's Mess,"
and it was pretty good. This being Texas, the waitress said, "You
want some home-made salsa?" I said, "Yes."
Observation:
All day the land kept rolling away from at 70 m.p.h. I could barely
keep up.
My
song I re-made for the drive was "Amarillo by Evening,"
which is where I am tonight, fed and already in my PJs for another
night's sleep. It was well over 400 miles today.
And
a fresh-made poem to close this off:
What
color the light
on the red earth
on the red earth
among
green scrub
and black ravens?
and black ravens?
What
color the wind
as night comes on?
as night comes on?
The
color of darkness
in one's own heart.
in one's own heart.
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAY 12
YES,
NEW MEXICO
Sudden
blue
sky, and wind
the color
of dry ground.
If we say
Yes, we can
keep our
heart's desire.
sky, and wind
the color
of dry ground.
If we say
Yes, we can
keep our
heart's desire.
~
Met
up with poet Lauren
Camp a
little after 4:00 p.m. for some supper at Sweetwater. Regular menu
doesn't start til 5 p.m., so what do a couple of poet/teachers do
with that hour? Talk about poetry and teaching. We both order "Four
Daughters' Beef" for our entree and talk about poetry and
teaching. We want to have flan for dessert, but need to let things
settle, and we talk about poetry and teaching. You know what, it's
8:00 p.m. by the time we get out of there. Isn't this the way all
poets want to spend a late afternoon/early evening. By gorsh, I think
they do!
~
NEW
MEXICO RAVEN
Walk
this way,
says raven,
says raven,
before
he eats
the silence.
the silence.
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAY 13
LEAVING
SANTA FE
Mountain
means
what mountain says
but she won't say much.
what mountain says
but she won't say much.
~
APPROACHING
MESITA, NEW MEXICO
Light
hangs naked
on the mesas.
on the mesas.
Eternity
waits
its turn to try.
its turn to try.
~
ENTERING
ARIZONA
Both
wind and rain
have spoken to the rock
and still the rock has
nothing to say.
Sometimes silence
is all we've got.
have spoken to the rock
and still the rock has
nothing to say.
Sometimes silence
is all we've got.
~
APPROACHING
WINSLOW, ARIZONA
Ah,
yes, the mountains
as markers. How else
as markers. How else
would
the wind
know where it is?
know where it is?
~
Standing
on the corner in Winslow, Arizona, is something you can do if the
wind doesn't catch you. And it just might. I stopped and removed a
shopping cart from the middle of the road near my motel and saw two
others the wind had pushed to the curb across the side street from
the Safeway.
You
have to do Winslow, of course. Yet it has some of the feel of
Thompson and Lynn Lake, Manitoba, for me, and of Curlew: Home. I
drove throughout Winslow, watching the great swirls of dust carried
by wind, thinking about loss and tasting the grit in my teeth.
Sometimes I'm appalled at how the world is going, then I come to
Winslow and think maybe we're doing the best we can.
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAY 14
ALONG
HIGHWAY 89
HEADING TO THE GRAND CANYON
HEADING TO THE GRAND CANYON
Who
rubbed
the land this smooth
the land this smooth
knows
what
love is.
love is.
~
Observation:
You think desert grass is not tough? Know this: it grows through
asphalt on the shoulder of the road.
~
APPROACHING
THE GRAND CANYON
Set
this
against
against
any
promise
eternity makes.
eternity makes.
~
Oh,
she says,
oh, oh, the gouge
oh, oh, the gouge
of
earth.
The old tree
The old tree
I
touch
says, Enough.
says, Enough.
~
Observation:
Even when you can't see the great gouge, you can feel it pulling --
the emptiness like a gravity sinkhole wanting you, the mother of
mother-holes. Even the sky is heavy.
~
At
the Visitors Center, parking was at a premium. A ranger told me to
park in a spot marked for No Parking, so I did. I had stopped earlier
at several viewing locations along the way, but here I walked up past
the Visitors Center to Mather Point for another, final view of the
big emptiness. If the Grand Canyon doesn't take your breath away,
there's something the matter with you. I saw a little gecko or lizard
the size of my index finger in the trees in front of the Visitors
Center. Saw an elk in the trees on my walk out to Mather Point. My
only complaint? The park was MOBBED. You know I don't like crowds, so
I didn't hang around long afterwards. At the gate where I left the
park, the line of traffic waiting to get in was a mile and a half
long. Good luck finding parking, folks.
~
Raven
says,
Take this wind
with you, and
good-bye.
Take this wind
with you, and
good-bye.
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAY 15
For
the record, at one point my car's thermometer said the temperature in
Phoenix today was 100 degrees.
And
you don't know Phoenix until Timothy
Schmaltz gives
you the personalized tour, up one grid and down the next, and up to
the top of South Mountain, from which you can see everything. I said:
Where's your house from here, and he pointed and said, "Over
there, behind North Mountain."
Then
this evening what a lovely reading I was able to give in Tim and
Linda's living room, to -- once again -- as attentive an audience as
a poet could wish. (I admit it, I am getting spoiled!) Though there
were enough good questions and challenging discussion to keep an old
poet on his toes. There was some discussion of a mystical strain in
my poetry and, indeed, the mystical strain in all of our lives.
Poetry allows us to tap in. I didn't say it then, but it occurs to me
now: being a poet sometimes means being able to grab onto the hot
wire electric juice of the universe, to grab and hold on.
Did
I forget to mention the lovely supper? Linda made a salad and lasagna
and garlic bread. I had seconds. And I've got a loaf of Tim's banana
bread to tide me over for a while on the next portion of my journey.
Someone
asked how the trip is going? It could not be more lovely. I have been
blessed, I have been immensely blessed.
Tomorrow
I head for the Salton Sea, which my cousin John
Montag SJconsiders
to be "the Mouth of Hell." Just what a poet needs after his
visit to the Grand Canyon, yes?
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAY 16
339th
AVENUE
(West of Phoenix)
(West of Phoenix)
Who
thought this
could be home
could be home
must
have been
desperate.
desperate.
~
The
desert is
another
state of mind.
another
state of mind.
Every
twig
and leaf holds
promise.
and leaf holds
promise.
The
fickle
sky
does not.
sky
does not.
~
I-10,
Mile Marker 66
This
"Land for Sale,
40 Acre Parcels,"
40 Acre Parcels,"
except
for what
the wind will take.
the wind will take.
~
Say
it, Tom, this
emptiness is
what you came for.
emptiness is
what you came for.
Where
there's nothing,
there your heart is.
there your heart is.
~
So
I was headed west on California Highway 78, and off on the distant
horizon I saw a bank of white clouds stretching across the sky. I
asked myself whether you can see clouds over the ocean from here. The
clouds seemed to be coming towards me. They were: they weren't clouds
at all, but great dunes of very light-colored sand in the Imperial
Sand Dunes recreational area. It looked like the Sahara Desert. I
might have known about the sand dunes if I had looked at my map, but
with that Garmin girl in the box giving me directions this whole
trip, I haven't looked at the map so much. That Garmin girl hasn't
failed me yet, so I have taken to trusting her. Which leads to such
White Clouds/Sand Dunes kinds of surprise.
~
For
the record, the thermometer in my car recorded 105 in a parking lot
in Calexico, California, this afternoon.
~
For
the record, when I called Mary this afternoon, I got her
voice-mailbox, where I left a message. She called me at that exact
moment, saying she had not heard the phone ring nor even known she
got a voice mail. She just thought she should call me. Yup, we're
sympatico.
~
Met
up with poet Fred
Garber,
formerly of Sioux City, Iowa, and now a resident of the
Calexico/Mexicali border, who bought me supper at a lovely buffet in
a Mexicali hotel and gave me a couple of books and a T-shirt. That
was after giving me the extended tour of Mexicali (no shorting the
Gypsy Poet, hey). At one point he said he'd had more near misses
traffic-wise with me in the car as we traveled around the city today
than he has had his whole time hanging around Mexicali these past
several years. I told him I also bring people bad luck with ice
fishing. Then we had a couple more near misses, one of which could
have been pretty major. I have to tell you, the people in Mexicali
seem to drive as if they think they are in Paris.
The
hotel restaurant was air-conditioned fortunately. After we had
dessert at supper, I said to Fred, "We don't have to go back out
there again, do we?" Well, we did. He says you get used to the
heat. He said it's not bad yet -- another month it'll be 115-120
degrees.
I
walked back across the border, for that's an experience. How clueless
am I? A couple of old Mexican women had to show me how to open a gate
at one point, and where to go from there. The woman at the
immigration desk asked me where I was going from here, and I was at a
loss for words: where am I, where am I going. I sputtered out
something and she said, "Have a nice trip." But for the
kindness of strangers, I might still be on the wrong side of things.
But I made it. I am in Brawley for tonight and tomorrow night.
Tomorrow I will circle the Salton Sea, "The Mouth of Hell."
I'm told it's all pretty terrible, which is exciting.
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAY 17
The
more
I see
I see
the
more
I don't
I don't
know
what
to say.
to say.
~
The
less
I say
I say
the
more
it sounds
it sounds
like
me.
~
Always
someone
adjusting where
the water goes.
adjusting where
the water goes.
~
Vultures
at the edge
of the Salton Sea.
of the Salton Sea.
Wind
at the edge
of water.
of water.
What
lifts is the hope
there's more than this.
there's more than this.
~
RECOGNITION
AT BOMBAY BEACH
AT BOMBAY BEACH
Nothing
you want
you want
is
what
you want.
you want.
~
Who
is
letting go --
lizard,
vulture,
fish carcass,
bird's bones,
blue water,
sky.
Who is
holding on?
letting go --
lizard,
vulture,
fish carcass,
bird's bones,
blue water,
sky.
Who is
holding on?
~
IF
you make enough
land, Lord, you can
do this with it.
I get that now.
you make enough
land, Lord, you can
do this with it.
I get that now.
~
AT
THE SALTON SEA
Simple
tricks --
rocks and water,
a bit of wind.
rocks and water,
a bit of wind.
~
LEAVING
THE SALTON SEA
Broken
Cali-
Cali-
fornia,
good-bye.
good-bye.
Good-bye,
low-down
low-down
wisdom.
~
For
the record, the temperature today was 109 degrees.
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAYS 18-20
So
much
nothing
nothing
in
this
world, you
world, you
want
to
hold it
hold it
all.
Yes.
Patience.
Patience.
~
HIGHWAY
S22, SAN DIEGO COUNTY
Who
speaks this
thousand years
of silence?
thousand years
of silence?
~
HIGHWAY
S22, MILE MARKER 13
Raven's
shadow
flies into
my dark heart.
flies into
my dark heart.
Sky
flies out.
~
"Sam"
(Adolph) Montag was John
Montag SJ's
grandfather. Henry was mine. We are second cousins. I couldn't have
been treated better if'n we were double first cousins. We got my "Big
3" on the very first day: the La Brea Tar Pits, a look at the
Hollywood sign, and a drive down Rodeo Drive. The Tar Pits are
stinky, the Hollywood sign is better as a postcard than in real life,
and Rodeo Drive is as decadent as was promised. We had our supper at
Canter's Deli; anybody who knows Hollywood knows Canter's Deli, I
believe. I needed a forklift for my sandwich.
In
the evening, I had a glass of one of Fr. John's whiskeys, this from
one of the (Irish) islands where the hops are treated to peat smoke,
which process gives the whiskey an earthy, smoked flavor. Perfect on
the rocks. One was enough for me, as you might guess.
Next
day we started with breakfast at DuPar's. Again, if you go to LA, you
go to DuPar's, I guess. I think I know why. I should have eaten only
half of my French toast. Oh, well. It sustained me for our walk out
the Santa Monica Pier (which included some time spent watching a
street entertainer/magician do his stuff -- oh my) and then the two
mile jaunt down to the edgier Venice Beach. It was a perfect day to
be at the beach and a perfect day for sausages at Wurstkuche; I had
the hot Italian, which was just hot enough.
I
can die now. I have seen LA.
This
morning I made my way north out of town and was entertained at one
point by about a dozen high-powered foreign sports cars weaving in
and out of traffic behind me and around me and ahead of me for about
five miles. I didn't say it, but I could have: "Sorry about your
penis."
The
Pacific needs no faint praise from me; it speaks for itself.
I
am in Seaside tonight. Maybe the Monterrey Aquarium tomorrow? A house
reading at Jessie
Lillie Lemon's
tomorrow night!
~
In
LA
I learned
I learned
again
what you
what you
want
is
not what
not what
you
want.
So ends
So ends
the
lesson
for today.
for today.
~
ON
HIGHWAY 101, CALIFORNIA
Who
offers us
this ocean, this sky,
this ocean, this sky,
that
edge of the dark
universe receding
universe receding
from
us faster than
we can see the light?
we can see the light?
~
ALONG
101
Wind
in the fields,
in the fields,
breath,
earth,
the blossoms.
the blossoms.
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAY 21
Instead
of going to the Monterey Aquarium as I said I might, I did a long,
slow drive along the ocean today. Then by mid-afternoon I headed over
to Luzern Street for my reading at Jessie
Lillie Lemon &
Eric's living room. Lillie made a terrific vegan soup to sustain the
wondering poet, and Eric let me select a cocktail for the evening
from a literary-themed recipe book. I selected "The Lime of the
Ancient Mariner," but after we tasted the proto-type, we
agree it needed less lime and some sugar. The after-party involved a
bit of red wine.
I
have to tell you, people, these are no slouches in Seaside,
California! I read, I suppose, for half an hour, and we talked for
another three and a half hours. Musicians and composers and
songwriters in attendance, check. A mathematician, check. An artist,
check. What am I missing. Oh, yeah -- I came away a hell of a lot
more knowledgeable than I went in.
Whee!
it's a grand ride I'm on, and the fun never stops.
Onward...
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAYS 22 & 23
LEAVING
SEASIDE, CALIFORNIA
Add
everything.
Subtract nothing.
Subtract nothing.
Count
your blessings.
~
Morning.
Yet the world
Yet the world
closes
over the fields.
over the fields.
The
workers, their
backs are bent
backs are bent
against
such darkness.
such darkness.
~
IN
THE HILLS AROUND
SAN LUIS RESERVOIR
SAN LUIS RESERVOIR
Vulture
flies
into his shadow
into his shadow
and
doesn't
fly out.
fly out.
~
Lunch
in Fresno with poet (and poetry editor at Atticus Review) Michael
Meyerhofer.
We were gonna meet at Rock & Noodles at noon, but they were
having electrical problems. No worries, the Italian restaurant across
the parking did just fine.
I
am starting to believe two poets who have never met before can talk
as long as they have time for. Writing poems, editing poetry for a
journal, teaching as an adjunct, it doesn't matter, we can do it.
"So,"
I said, "do we need to say anything else before we head off?"
"Only
to express our undying love for each other," Michael said.
Poet-brothers.
I knew what he meant.
~
The
hawk
watches
watches
from
his
perch. The
perch. The
grass
says
nothing.
nothing.
~
Afternoon
and dust
above the fields.
above the fields.
Whatever
the darkness
we find our way.
we find our way.
~
Light
regards
grass as canvas.
grass as canvas.
Nothing
we say
will make a difference.
will make a difference.
~
Notes
for poems
for poems
is
all
they give me,
they give me,
the
voices.
~
O,
these
mountains
mountains
pushing
the sky!
the sky!
O,
blue
morning,
morning,
happy
in its
in its
wisdom!
O, poet!
O, poet!
~
Big
rock
wants to be
mountain.
wants to be
mountain.
Mountain
wants to be
sky.
wants to be
sky.
Sky?
Sky is
sky.
Sky is
sky.
~
Lunch
in Eugene, Oregon, with Erica
Goss.
Again, a change of restaurants. The one I'd selected as a meeting
place didn't open til 5:00 p.m. The Thai restaurant a few blocks away
did the trick.
At
every turn, at every stop, and every lunch, I learn something. Erica
and I talked about how we got where we are, how we do what we do, and
how we keep on keeping on. You know, the sort of things brother-poets
and sister-poets talk about at such meet up. I am blessed. Thanks,
Erica!
~
In
the wind
a whispering.
a whispering.
What
does it
mean to water?
mean to water?
~
Raven
watches
our nonsense.
our nonsense.
The
less he says,
the better.
the better.
~
SOUTH
OF SALEM, OREGON
The
green fields
and pasture,
and pasture,
almost
like
going home.
going home.
~
Arrived
in Portland to face the worst traffic of the trip so far. (And I've
been to LA!) Stop and go for an hour and a half. I wouldn't have
believed it.
I
arrived at Carolyn
Winkler's
house an hour and a half later than I expected, and she was at a
class, so I found the key and let myself in, greeted the two resident
loving dogs,got myself a book of poetry and sat on the porch reading.
Carolyn
arrived and we walked to the nearby Peruvian restaurant (two blocks
away!) and got treated to some tasty food and (once again) some
amazing conversation. I told Carolyn I'm starting to think this is
not Tom's Reading Tour but Tom's Learning Tour. We came back to her
house, She took me through the three gates and showed me her tea
house out back; we took off our shoes and went in for a look around.
What lovely space. I had to touch the wood. Wood talks to you when
you touch it. She showed me her art studio in the basement, where she
also teaches "Intuitive Painting." I wonder if any of her
methods might be useful in teaching poetry. I've got one of her
hand-outs to ponder further.
And
then we had dessert, Carolyn's Paleo-Cheesecake with strawberries and
blueberries and whipped cream. Oh my. "No one has not liked it,"
Carolyn told me. Enough said.
Tomorrow:
Powell's Books and meet-ups with blogger friends.
Good
night!
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAYS 24-25
Powells
Bookstore in Portland - YES! And I visited only the poetry and
prisoner poetry sections! Only got nicked for a mere $52 worth of
books, a good stack for that amount, actually. Carolyn told
me a friend of hers said that when she died, she didn't want to go to
heaven, she wanted to go to Powells! Amen to that. We'll all gather
in the poetry section, okay?
Carolyn
and I then had lunch at the Tin Shed, a dog-friendly and
father-and-daughter friendly place. It has tables inside and in a
garden setting, and it was a garden setting kind of day. And good
food, it goes without saying. Meaty, beaty, big, and bouncy, for you
The Who fans.
At
two o'clock, it was time to meet up with some old blogger-poet
friends that I'd met before in real life once or twice, and followed
on-line over the years, Lori
Witzel and Dale
Favier.
It was just like going home, I tell ya. We went to Base Camp Brewery
for some afternoon quaffing, and catching up, and laughs, and talk
about living in Portland. We had to break it up about 4 p.m. cuz the
outdoor area we were carrying on in was reserved for a party at that
point. I wrote a poem this morning in memory:
Friends
in the rearview.
No one
is a stranger.
in the rearview.
No one
is a stranger.
As
is my wont, I spent a couple hours driving around Portland, getting
lost, getting unlost, getting lost again. You may know, Ben Zen says:
"I don't have to go to Chicago to get lost." Portland will
do.
Then
at 8 p.m. a meet-up with old blogger-buddy Susan
Andrews and
her husband at Random Order Pie, for dessert. Thanks for the pie and
ice cream, you guys! And another longer than an hour session of good
talk, just as it should be. Terrific.
This
morning, coffee with Carloyn and the very old pup Emma and the little
naughty pup Bodhi, and then time to say good-bye and hit the road,
Jack. I have just two days to get to Loveland, CO, and see our
daughter overnight, and another day to get to Omaha, where I will
have a reading on the 10th, and back to Lincoln for a reading on the
11th. And then Homeward Bound!
~
The
grey face
of morning.
of morning.
I
turn
towards home.
towards home.
~
LEAVING
PORTLAND
Maybe
raven
says good-bye
for Portland.
says good-bye
for Portland.
Maybe
he's
only scolding.
only scolding.
~
ALONG
THE COLUMBIA
Naked
rock
and water.
and water.
Nothing
turns
from morning.
from morning.
~
THE
COLUMBIA GORGE
The
rock
undresses
beauty.
undresses
beauty.
~
Monk
on his bicycle
along the river.
on his bicycle
along the river.
There
is
going.
going.
There
is
no going
back.
no going
back.
~
Distance
means
nothing
to the grasses.
nothing
to the grasses.
~
THREE
MILE CANYON
Some
days
are bleeding
are bleeding
this
constant
moment.
moment.
~
Sky
pulls
dust up
dust up
to
kiss
the earth.
the earth.
The
land
wants
wants
water.
~
Dust
devil
sings
sings
of
earth
and sky.
and sky.
~
What
rock
tells the
water:
tells the
water:
"This
way,
sonny."
sonny."
~
Rain,
and
raven
raven
keeps
his
distance.
distance.
~
Rain,
like the song
like the song
of
patience.
~
ENTERING
IDAHO
There's
nothing
the devil won't
the devil won't
promise
in these high,
in these high,
dry
plains.
~
RECOGNITION
What
you take up the mountain
is what you bring back down.
is what you bring back down.
~
Ninja
mountains,
dark and lethal
dark and lethal
like
the night.
~
For
the record, I made it to Tremonton, Utah, today, from Portland.
Temperature variations: 56 this morning, 72 along the river, 96 in
the eastern Oregon desert, and cool again this evening. Terrible
rainstorms a couple of times, once slowing the semis ahead of me down
to 35-40 miles an hour, and those guys NEVER slow down. But I made
it.
Good
night.
~~~~~
GYPSY
POET TOUR: DAYS 26-31
More
than
the rock,
the rock,
rockness.
~
A
taste
in the air,
in the air,
the
Great
Salt Lake.
Salt Lake.
~
OGDEN,
UTAH
Raven
speaks
with reverence
for the mountains.
with reverence
for the mountains.
The
mountains
love his love
of darkness.
love his love
of darkness.
~
Say
nothing
of this rock --
of this rock --
the
rocks
don't care.
don't care.
~
And
then
Wyoming,
Wyoming,
big
mountains,
as if my
as if my
companions.
~
WIND
IN WYOMING
All
of everything,
less the wind's take,
leaves nothing.
less the wind's take,
leaves nothing.
~
Off
the
mountain,
mountain,
each
heart
open.
open.
~
RED
ROCK
Nothing
more to
more to
break
is
broken.
broken.
~
An
overnight visit with our daughter, Jessica, in Loveland, Colorado.
Just what a weary traveler needs. I had not seen her since Christmas,
so it was time. The parents of my daughter's sweetie were also in
town, so I got to meet them.
Then
a big bowl of Malt-o-Meal the next morning, as is traditional with
us, and I was on my way to Omaha.
~
HEADING
HOME
FROM THE MOUNTAINS
FROM THE MOUNTAINS
This
is
the distance
I know.
the distance
I know.
~
Pronghorn
on the
on the
tawny
grass. Now
grass. Now
he
turns,
as does
as does
the
sun,
the sky.
the sky.
Nothing
changes.
changes.
~
PRONGHORNS
ON THE PLAINS
ON THE PLAINS
Two
of any
might start a line
might start a line
but
three of something
is always certain.
is always certain.
~
Where
every
stone has a name
stone has a name
every
moment
holds a story.
holds a story.
Name
your stones.
~
Prairie
dog
watching for hawk
watching for hawk
to
come down
out of the sun.
out of the sun.
~
Birds
move,
or the earth does,
or the earth does,
beneath
them.
~
Nebraska,
all
these miles of
these miles of
meditation.
~
THE
POET LEARNS
HIS BUSINESS
HIS BUSINESS
"Fly,"
said the angel,
setting my wings on fire.
setting my wings on fire.
~
Cottonwood
sex
along the Platte.
along the Platte.
Trees
have to do
what trees have to.
what trees have to.
~
In
Omaha I stayed with my second cousin, Mary
Patrice and
her husband the folksinger Jerome Brich and their two dogs. I arrived
there about 8:00 p.m. on Saturday night. Sunday morning, Fr. John
Montag SJ said
Mass at St. Adalbert's in South Omaha to celebrate his 25 years of
priesthood. All sorts of relatives and friends and neighbors and
former classmates were in attendance at the Mass, then we adjourned
to the church basement for coffee and kolaches.
By
noon it was time to head over to 52nd Street to meet up with the poet
Greg Kosmicki, who was hosting my reading at Gallery 1516 in Omaha.
We went off for a meal at Greek Islands, the best Greek food in town,
according to Greg. I had the pastitsio and you know what -- Greg's
right. We stopped at Gallery 1516 to set up chairs for my reading,
then adjourned to Greg's house for the duration.
The
audience for my reading Sunday evening included several relatives and
a woman who had driven over from Lincoln to hear me. A good time was
had by all. Afterwards a few of us went to M's Pub for some
post-poetry libation and lahvosh; I had the Thai chicken version, the
best you'll find anywhere.
Then
a night's sleep, at least for me. Not so much for Greg, who gave me
the round-about trip to Dinker's for the best burger in Omaha,
everyone says. Soon after, a drive back to Lincoln for my reading at
Crescent Moon Coffee in the downtown. Greg and I met up with Marjorie
Saiser, Rex
Walton,
and a few others for a supper at Lazlo's that Marge had arranged.
Bless you, Marge! There's nothing like having a meal with poets you
admire the hell out of. Which is something I learned again and again
all along the way on this adventure.
Then
the reading at Crescent Moon, which was arranged for me by Rex Walton
and hosted by Jeff Martinson. This might have been the largest
audience I have EVER read to, and certainly one that was most
attentive. Their attention seemed to draw the poems out of me and
make them real in the air between us. Wowsa.
I
can't tell you how joyful it is for a poet to have several poets he
admires so immensely show up for his reading: Marjorie Saiser, Greg
Kuzma, Twyla Hansen (current Nebraska State Poet), Greg Kosmicki, Rex
Walton (and others), I'm talking about you. Thank you! I am honored.
My
reading was followed by an impressive open mic. If you're ever in
Lincoln on a Monday night, stop by Crescent Moon for a night of
poetry and such. You'll be glad you did.
After
the reading I stayed overnight at Rex Walton's house in West Lincoln.
A glass of wine before bed out on the patio along the water, of
course. In the morning Rex made bacon and eggs and toast for
breakfast. He's a pro, people, don't let him tell you otherwise.
And
then I was Homeward-Bound.
~
Homeward
this morning,
this morning,
no
other
direction.
direction.
~
POET'S
JOURNEY
The
dry miles,
the green miles,
the green miles,
all
the blessings
of the road,
of the road,
the
going and
the coming home.
the coming home.
~
LAST
WORDS
What
one says
at such a
moment is not
at such a
moment is not
the
meaning of
death.
death.
~
The
poet flies.
When he doesn't
When he doesn't
there
is darkness
on the land.
on the land.
So
lift your eyes,
look him skyward,
look him skyward,
let
him go
where he must.
where he must.
Let
him fly
into gladness.
into gladness.
~
Dove
and
swallow
swallow
against
the wind,
the wind,
every
blast of
blast of
it
turn-
ing them.
ing them.
~
NEARLY
THERE
This
green
rolling
I know.
rolling
I know.
This
land
I was
born to,
I was
born to,
which
does
not, which
will not
not, which
will not
release
me.
~
75
degrees
and drizzling in Wisconsin,
and drizzling in Wisconsin,
as
if to say: Welcome home
from that other country,
from that other country,
the
hot, dry one.
~
Thumb
on the scale,
on the scale,
the
green
weight of things,
weight of things,
Wisconsin.
~
Yes,
I am home. I'd guess the trip tallied about 6500 miles to reach "The
End," or maybe I mean "The Beginning."
Thanks
to all who hosted me and put up with me: Mike
Luster, Khadijah
Tracy, Charlotte
M. Wolfe, Clare
L. Martin and Bessie
Senette, Charles
Alexander, Andrew
Montag, Lauren
Camp, Timothy
Schmaltz, Fred
Garber,John
Montag SJ, Jessie
Lillie Lemon, Michael
Meyerhofer, Erica
Goss,Carolyn
Winkler, Lori
Witzel, Dale
Favier, Susan
Andrews,
Greg Kosmicki,Rex
Walton,
and anyone I might have over looked. This really was Tom's Learning
Tour, and I appreciate everything you-all did to help me along the
path. Blessings.
