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THE-1515 3 1293 00646 0236

This is to certify that the

thesis entitled

Sleeping In Rain

presented by

Gordon Donald Henry Jr.
has been accepted towards fulfillment
of the requirements for

Mgfiters degree in EngliSh

. Major professor
.Diane4Wikowski
Date August 9, 1983

0-7639 MS U is an Affirmative Action/Equal Opportunity Institution

mama?
Michigan state
02mm

" 7v....

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MSU Is An Affirmative Adlai/Equal Opportunity Institution

 

SLEEPING IN RAIN

By
Gordon Donald Henry Jr.

A THESIS

Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

MASTER OF ARES

Department of English

1983

ABSTRACT

SLEEPING IN RAIN

by
Gordon Donald Henry Jr.

"Sleeping In Rain" is a collection of original poems written,

for the most part, between 1981 and 1983.
These poems, while not thematically unified, are a reflection
of the many aSpects of the poet's personal artistic vision and voice.

They also convey the development of that vision and voice during the

course of the author's study at Michigan State University.

For two of my life's loves,

Mary Anne and Kehli

ii

ACK I‘DWIEDGMEN’I‘S

The Poem "Sleeping In Rain" first published in "Earth Power Coming",

copyright 1983, Navajo Community College Press, Tsaile, Arizona.

"Pine Point,", "Waking On A Greyhound", "Leaving Smolce's Place", and
"Outside White Earth" were first published in "Songs From This Earth

0n Turtles Back". copyright 1983, Greenfield Review Press, Greenfield,

New York .

iii

TABLE OF (DNTENTS

Pine Point: Her Breath. . . . . . .
Pine Point: After Rain . . . . . . .
DawnStillLife ..........
PinePoint, ............
SleepingInRain..........
WakingOnAGreyhound .......
Crow's Untitled Hunger . . . . . . .

Leaving Smoke's Place . . . . . . .

Three Times Crow Ate Good, (Or, Whatever

RangerAndTonto) . . . . . . . . .

BackAndForth...........
Beyond Recognition Or Reconciliation
Alcohol Vitreous, North Chicago. Ill.
Stations..............
It Is Time To Leave

Outside White Earth

For A “ODOR": a e e e e e e e e e e 0
Shall L‘ke a e e e e e e e e e e e a
Flight Longs For The Vacant . . . .

Untitledeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Darlingest Senator Somewhat. . . . .

Nogales. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Became Of The

\OO\UI\J

15
16
19

21
26

29

33

36

1+0

1+1

#2

1+8

Autumn Night. (The Silly Allegory Within) .
Bl. ck utemill‘r . O O O O O O C C O O C O

Street Art F‘ir O O O O O O O O O O O O O O

De‘f O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O

The Stone, The Aardvaark And The Hourglass Dream

51
57
61
67

Pine Point:

Her Breath

At first she could

move her breath

easily, wiping away

the inside of the window where
the sun held her gaze

in the glint of an axe

blade.

Logs split and tumbled
over opposite sides
of a tree stump.

His cool breath became
gestures of smoke
rolling over the edges
of his pipe in early

evening.

His hands uncurled
over woodstoves

and became her

eyes opening as

she slipped down in her

chair.

Now her breath

moves away in

slow circles, slow
circles of her hand
rubbing away breath
as she looks through
her reflection,

to the snow covered
axe buried

in the snow covered

tree stump.

Pine Point:

After Rain

Outside the tarpaper shack
dogs lie on the outsides
of her glasses; reflected
like clouds in

rain-filled tire ruts of

the dirt driveway.

Inside. a radio bums;

the volume on distant.
Through the window,

in the dwindling

space of his closing eye.
rain drops separate from

tree leaves.

The screen door closes.
Dogs bark, circling
the old woman in

the kitchen.

The old man's chin

falls into his chest.

She tastes from

her reflection in a

3

pot of soup.

Rain drops spread and soak
into the ground.

Rings of dream vision
expand across

pools of the old man's
sleep. and float into
a placid image of the
old woman's face

as she reaches for
the doorknob where
your face appears

on the other side

of the screen door.

Dawn Still Life

Morning streamed
sunlight revolves
dust

and glare

blasts her.

face

from a photograph
as a

mist

unwrapping
orchard of

deer stand

and move

from matted

grass with

apples

half eaten.

you are

you are

you are

you are

you are

Pine Point,

black ash covered
photographs of Korean-
crased uncles, burnt
in corner rooms of

old shacks.

morning gray mist
covering the fields
and the four steps to the

front door of the church.

nicks in the doorway

of the guild hall
where undertakers

and uncles couldn't
get the casket through

very easily.

wind smacking

screen doors up against
places‘with‘windows.
boarded and empty.

‘windshield cracked
afternoons lying‘

shadows on spring busted
6

you are

you are

you are

you are

upholstery of cars turned

over in yards.

smoking hair
of gasolined cats
burning in wide

schoolyard eyes.

sinking in

a ditch like a beer
can sunk at an

angle like headstones

across the road.

underneath

leaves an old man
burns in the bottom
of a rusted barrel

at dusk.

wake songs

like smoke

whispers from stovepipe
chimneys , separating
between branches

of trees to nothing

between stars.

you are

reservation migrant
drunk eyes open
against cold linoleum,
gone to a television
test pattern in the
city.

Sleeping In Rain

wake chants circle, overhead, like black crows
watching her will stumble through weak moments. Like
when she heard the carriage outside, and went to the

window with his name on her lips. Or, when she looked
over in the corner and saw him sleeping, with his

mouth open, in the blue chair, next to the woodstove.
She saw them, dissembled reflections, on the insides
of her black glasses. Moments passed, etched, like
the lines of age in the deep brown skin of her face.
She's somewhere past ninety new: bent over, hollow
boned, eyes almost filled. She lives in a room. A
taken care of world. Clean sheets, clean blankets,

wall-to-wall carpeting, a nightstand, and a roommate
who. between good morning and good night, wanders away

to card games in other rooms. Most of her day is
spent in the chair, at the foot of her bed. Every now

and then, she leaves and takes a walk down one of the
many hallways of the complex. Every now and then,

she goes to the window and looks out, as if something
will be there.

10

II

Motion falls apart in silence, tumbling, as
wind turns choreographed snow through tangents of
streetlights. I am alone; to be picked up later at
the Saint Paul bus terminal. I fucked up. Dropped
out. Good, it's not what I wanted. What is a quasar?
The tissue of dreams? Fuck no, there are no secrets.

There is nothing hard about astronomy, sociology,

calculus, or Minnesota winters. Those are Just reasons

I used to leave. To go where? To go watch my hands

become shadows over assembly lines. A voice clicks
on in the darkness. "we are now in Saint Paul, and
‘will be arriving at the Saint Paul terminal". Let me
guess. In five minutes. "In ten minutes" the driver

says. It figures.

III

My uncles's eyes have long since fallen from the
grasp of stars. Now, they are like the backends of

factories; vague indications of what goes on beneath the
tracks of comb in his thick black hair. He was waiting

when I arrived. waiting, entranced in existence. A
series of hypnotic silences, between words, that had to

be spoken. Silences leading me to a beat up car in a

11

dark parking lot. I am too far away from him; too far

away to be leaving for something further. I don't be-

lieve he doesn't like me. That's not it. It's some-

thing I saw when his shadow exploded into a face as he
bent down. over the steering wheel, to light his cigar-

ette.

The cold white moon over houses too close together.
Front windows, where shadows pass in front of blue lights
of televisions. I am one of them now; a sound on wood
stairs. There is a sanctuary of dreams waiting for my

footsteps to fade.

The old woman dreams she is up north, on the reser-
vation. It is autumn. Pine smoke hanging over the tops
of houses, leaves sleepwalking in gray wind, skeletal trees
scratching ghost gray sky. She is in the old black shack.
At home. Stirring stew in the kitchen. The woodstove
snaps in the next room. Out the window, he lifts the

axe. He is young. She watches as it splits a log on the
tree stump. He turns away and starts toward the house.

12

He is old. He takes out his pipe and presses down to-

bacco. She goes to the door to meet him. She opens the

door. She tries to touch him. He passes through her,
like a cold shiver, and walks into a photograph on the

wall.

VI

The mind bends over, in the light through a win-
dow, down and across the body of Jesus Christ as he
stumbles through the sixth station of the cross. It
comes to me sometimes, when I close my eyes. September
sun in the old church. Smoke of sweet grass in stained

glass light. Red, blue and yellow light. Prisms of

thought behind every eye. Chippewa prayers stumbling

through my ears. Old Ojibwa chants fading away in the
walk to the cemetery. I look at the hole in the ground.

I look at the casket beside it. I look at the hole, I
look at the casket. At the hole, at the casket, at the
hole, at the casket, at the hole.

The clock glows red across the room; a digital 2:37.

My cousin lies in darkness. Another figure covered up in
sleep.

.13

VII

Dust swims in sunlight of an open door as dreams

evaporate in the face of a clock.

IIX

"Get up, I said. It's raining. It's raining
and you, lying there. Get up old man, I said." It
is my uncle talking. He found the old man where he
lay in the rain. He had fallen asleep and fallen down
from his seat on an old bench I tried to set on fire
when I was ten or eleven. They buried him in the cool-
ness of Autumn coming. weeks and years after, the old
woman thought she heard his carriage outside the window
of her room in the city.

Cities of snow melt, blurred in liquid between
wiper blades. Wb are waiting for the light to change.

My uncle is driving. The old woman is waiting. Not
really for us. Not for us, but waiting. The light

changes in the corner of my eye turning away.

14

I will see her this morning. This afternoon I

will be gone. Another bus. Home.

I can see the room never moves for her. It is not

like snow falling, like leaves falling, like stones
through water. It is a window, a bed, and a chair.

XI

As the old woman touches me it is like air holding

smoke. I am something else. Vestiges of prayer, gathered
in a hollow church. Another kind of reflection. A re-
flection on the outsides of her black glasses. A reflec~
tion that cries when eyes leave it.

As the old woman touches me it is like air holding
smoke. I am something else. Fleet anguish, like flying
shadows. A moment vanishing. A moment taken, as I am being.

As the old woman touches me it is like air holding
smoke. It spins it. It grasps it. It shapes it in a
wish. After that, there is a mist too fine to see.

Waking On A Greyhound

From far away
Rice Lake loons
call

the distance
darkening ,

in whatever was
dream , fading
as crows

lift, piece

by piece,

from dead

on the side

of the road.

15

Crow' s Untitled Hunger

Crow’wraps

a mask
(elaborated
on from a
fencepost
memory of

a face sun
blasted in
a morning
window)
around himself
and Jumps,
from a once
lightening
struck dead
tree , screaming ,
into a weird
spectral
white faced
float

from a sky
wind rushes

away.

From sky
16

17

masked Crow
lands at your

feet.

The weight

of the mask
topples Crow,
maskface down.
Beak pokes
through an
eyehole and
sticks in a
light snow

wet ground.

Realizing that
the mask
didn't scare
you, from

the steaming,
pierced

dead deer,
Crow’writhes,
struggles and
slips out of

the mask.

Then

18

lifts and carries
caws in leaving
stunned beneath
sun punctured

cloud.

Caws diminish
into the
creek of
wind rubbing
cedars

and the
mask empty
at your feet
forming an
imprint in
the earth.

Leaving Smoke's Place
(for Smoke and Claudia)

Black

wings sun glanced

green , crows

circle and half circle
snowfields before scattering
over old barns falling
slowly paintless

against the sky

across the road.

Your car shivers

to start, windshield
trembling, Sky, Blue
barked breath floating
white through

fences behind his

back and the door

opening she waves from.

At the stop sign,

the prism hanging

between door curtains
19

20

still turns
sun colors

on the kitchen
floor.

On M-66

something or the wind
moves outside

and turns his head to
windowed dusk's sun
leaving behind barns
with glazed empty
snowfields

beyond the prism
still.

Three Times Crow Ate Good

(or, Whatever Became of the Lone Ranger and Tonto)

Just recently
Crow

spilled a

bag of

mixed nuts,
hoisted from
sleeping campers,
onto highway

51.

Four

racoons
knocked heads
and got

run over

by a gold
Impala with
a bad muffler
racoons know
from miles

away.

Crow'landed,

ate asphalt scorched

21

22

racoon and

darted

from eyes

and windshields
between‘Winnebago
and Airstream

tourist traffic.

In early 19
something or
other , Tonto
hid 16 huge
stones in Lone

Ranger's luggage.

Silver's travois
was making
ditches in
the desert.

Lone Ranger
whipped the hell

out of Silver.

Usually cool
Silver sweated

bullets then

lathered at

23

the neck.

Silver died

near Palm Springs.

The Lone Ranger left
Silver and

pointed at the
travois then

at Tonto.

Tonto quit,

took Scout,

got a new

agent, did

Othello on
Broadway, became
almost acculturated
and then at the

age of nearly 107.
became a

country and western
singer who was
blacklisted
through the
efforts of

the moral majority

for singing

2a

the following
song in a

Texas shopping mall.

Tonto's Song

I knew this guy and he wanted to fly

so he moved in with a couple of birds.

He learned how to soar and he learn't how to land
but he never quite mastered the turn.

‘Well, he was soloing one day when this sign got in his way.
It was the Coppertone girl and her doggy.

The dog had her pants, he was showing the girl's tan

to some people on the road to Chicagee.

So, the flying man he finally did land

after crashing through the girl's rear end

and it seems strange to me to sing you this you see
about my now dead friend.

'Cause he told me why, why he wanted to fly

and I swear this is the reason I was told

he said he did not want to die in an automobile crash
with some asshole out on the road.

well the moral I guess is that you can do your best
but you must somehow some way beware.

Whether you're walkin' ridin' flyin' or drivin'
you can run into an asshole anywhere.

Getting back

to the desert scene,
Crow'had

eaten, pecking,
Silver until

Coyote came

with three

brothers.

From there

25

Crow

started

following the
stumbling, thirsty
Lone Ranger

from the sky.

Back and Forth

She dreams
of crows combing
sky empty.
of sun

on his face.

She wakes

to walls.

She dreams
a blue dog,
coat carrying
dusk light,
ambling into
curled sleep

at his feet.

She wakes
to walls

murmuring.

She dreams
the scent of
cedar and

a scratchy

26

27
radio
distant

in his dozing.

She wakes
to walls
murmuring

senility.

She dreams
of lit rain
dripping
on the porch
from his
hat bill
as her name
passes his lips
to her father.

She wakes
to walls
murmuring
senility

incoherent.

She dreams
herself a

child, pretending

28

for a moment
she looks
older in

her reflection.

She wakes
to walls
murmuring
senility
incoherent

in moments.

She dreams

Beyond Recognition or Reconciliation

Coats lie over
a suitcase near the

door.

A voice leaves the
room from her hand
on the radio dial

upstairs.

The blue scarred
moon shakes
loose from the
gauze grasp

of storm rapid
clouds.

He shudders
movement in sleep
on the sofa.

The bottle falls
from his

hanging open hand.

Headlights

expand shadows

29

30

across walls
in television
humming darkness

he licks his lips.

In car windows
she becomes
schools of stars
running from
the blown out
wing of a match
flame.

Distant rooms

murmur

old soldiers
frightened breathing
further into

sleep.

He startles awake,

stumbles to piss
and thinks

only the

sofa , its
imprints on

his face. as

31

the bathroom
light comes on

in that mirror.

Alcohol‘Vitreous

North Chicago, Ill.

Yellow’newspapers

sail into shadows
between streetlights
refusing to cover

the trembling sleeping
legs of old men as
they dream

in busted glass

of cold VFW doorways.

You imagine yourself

in glass.

Reflected in an empty bottle
as it flashes from

your hand, and

explodes piece by piece

into a flock of light,
falling, then lying

down at the base of

a wall.

Stations

Afterthought echoes of frost
disperse somewhere between the
swirling snow,

and the drunken sailors
waiting for the 1:35 to Chicago.
The tracks rumble

and the all night cop

pushes a burning

cigarette between boards

of the arrival platform.

The ember ashes fall and fade
next to a bottle,

an arms length

away from the

frozen body.

33

It Is Time To Leave

Tranquility transpierces time.
Smoke coughs from stovepipe
chimneys of despondent tarpaper
shacks. Voices rise from the
distance and faintly fade away

between stars.

On the stand near the bed

the flame of the gaslamp licks

for air inside glass surrounding it.
The flame dies in darkness.

The quilt on the bed is pulled

back and then pulled over

exactly as the pillow is depressed.

Tranquility transpierces time.
Emerald grass sits dew jeweled
beneath the mist of early morn.
The whiskey grass across the road
bends and bows to the will of
the'wind.

The first chants come through

the window in scattered Ojibway.

3b

35

Dogs bark between words.
The front door swings open,
and the line to the cemetery

waits outside.

 

Outside White Earth

Vision and breath
travel away in
the smell of rain.
Next to a pickup
an old man stands
sleeping drunk,
hand on zipper.

Leave him.
There is the liquor store.
Jukebox shadows of music
coming back around again
and again.
Torrents of faces,
chased glasses
and wives,
shapes of smoke
opening mouths Opening
restroom doors almost

as frequently.

At the touch of a hand

leaving, rain fills

your ears from the
roof, crumbling you

awake. You

36

stand,

hand on zipper,
face against a phone
number
on the paint

of a peeling wall.

For A Moment

you walk
through

cooler air.

a drunken
smile passes
you between

trees .

near distant
fires elders
hands come

apart in stories.

"It was the season of the dream word, the after harvest,
turned over in the mouth, chewed and swallowed, and
sequestered in the spaces between stars, words, eyes,
lips, ground and tree leaf, coming together, coming alone
together, in anguish, of blue forests, turned gold, red,
brittle, dying, dusk in water, the sky shifting. clouds,
thrown, in the wind, the moon, early in the sky, un-
covered, creaking boards of paranoia. in long sleep,

in shacks, stumbling drunk, from where, home, war, stum-
bling, alone, puking, together, like birds heard, gathered,
singing hard in this and all other silence, overhead,
thankfulness, encountered in penetration of night air.
wrestling cedar smoke away, sightless , moving away . . .

you are within
the warmth
of fire.

38

39

the drunk
falls into
footprints
in dust.

" . . . These are people moving away, too close, cities,
glass alleys, barroom mirrors, bank windows, yesterday's
news, in wind, against fences, factories. This is what
I mean by that story, that story, this is what I mean;
we mean together , alone."

the drunk

lies to

see:

in the space
between the

old man's

hat lifted

in one hand,

and his other hand
through his hair,
birds

lifting, floating
like burnt black
paper, fluttering
against the moon
rose white.

Shell Lake

There is

the penetration

of the smell

of Autumn wrestling
pine smoke

moving

into the

startled

whiSper

of wings

over water.

A corner
of geese
flocked
across the
lake,

in the
corner of

the eye

gone.

40

Flight Longs For The Vacant

The sky sits like
parted lips
before spoken
words.

Ashes twist

and disappear

at the velocity
of dreams.

The helicopter
turns to go back.
The sky sits like
lips after spoken
words, as you hand

the urn to her mother.

#1

Untitled

The ocean catches the sweeping
glance of moonlight
and the palms move like

you do during the Star Spangled Banner.

The cliff laughs at the futility
of the jumping waves
and the razor movements of

the iguanas lend eeriness to the darkness.

The cliff rises like nothing
I've seen in Chicago
and the night birds

whine out in darkness above it all.

The air currents twist him
with decreasing distance
and motion is not

the same as it was just moments past.

The rock waters wait
with the waves
and there is no expression

as he floats and drifts in darkness and speed.

#2

 

“3

Antonio loses his

unsmoked cigarette and I scream.

It's neither white nor smiling
between lifetimes, and we are neither
dancing nor freezing from world

to unworld . . .

But Antonio just floats face

down away.

Darlingest Senator Somewhat,

I had a
tropical
fish, Lucid~
you could-

see its heart..

I used to put
headphones

on the fish
tank and

play Django
Reinhardt
records to

get it to

come out

from underneath

a shipwreck.

Two thick snows
into winter
on a snow thick

evening, the

lights went
out

as I
was looking

an

“5

at light
through a

fingerprint
on an empty

wine glass.

When I
stumbled
out to get
a candle

I heard
four high
notes

in the darkness.

It was strange,
not so much
the sound

as the timing.

In candlelight
I saw Lucid
stuck in

a depressed

b, gasping
silver

on my upright

piano.

#6

well Senator,
I've been
drunk most
every day
and I can't

bury Lucid.

So I'm sending
‘what remains
of Lucid and
those things
associated

with Lucid.

I'm sending:
20 pounds

of blue
stones,

a 10 gallon
fish estate
including:

a sand dollar
I found in
San Diego,
Fire Coral I
got from
Talafofo Bay

off Guam,

“7

(don't touch it),
a fish tank
filter and

the album cover
of "Living and
Dying in 3/4 Time"
which

I opened

up and used as
underwater

background.

Because what
was a fish
to me, is
new music
to me,

and what's
music

to me

may not

be Lucid

to you.

Signed ,

the Disreputable
I.M. Theissue?

Nogales

You are the 156th
melody bartered,
sound for sound,
into the bottom of
the blind man's cup.

You are the fifty-first
pair of shoes to
refuse the dusty
child's shine and eyes.

You are the something
or other thousandth
to know that

you'll never know
‘who loved Rosita
because the wall
crumbled into the

street.

You are the thirty-
thousandth pair of

ears to hear that

"It's cheaper than K-Mart"

#8

“9

You are the 23,698th pair
of eyes to pass velvet
paintings of John Whyne,
Elvis Presley, and other

undressed figures.

You are the billionth
throat to carry
tequila away at

less than you'd pay

elsewhere.

You are the 900th
pair of eyes to hide
under hands when
you come back into

the sun.

You are one of the
few hundred

to be photographed
alone with a sleepy

burro.

You are one of the
few’questions

passing unanswered
through the customs line.

50

You are the last

to hear

the air conditioner
blowing, as the
electric car
window

rolls up to

blue sky and

coolness spreads

onto your skin.

Autumn Night

(The Silly Allegory Within)

Night turns

Sunday.

A car parks

in your silence.

Your eyes turn
to the moon

from her reading

in a chair.

Car doors
open like
bad violins.

There are

two sets of

footsteps

on the neighbor's

walk to the

door.

51

52

keys come

out of a pocket.

Enter Nostalgia on
the broken wings

of memory, into

a room where Bombarto,
in a wrinkled tuxedo,
stands, under "Hegel's
Vacation 1959", an elbow
on the mantle.
Nostalgia: Where

is he? Bombarto:

Who? Nostalgia:
Epilogue, who

else? Bombarto:

‘Who knows, he

missed four cues

last week.

Nostalgia: Four

cues.

(Enter Humdrum

(a shopping cart
repairman) from a
hallway leading to
the john where

he watched his washed

hands drain from

53

a sink full of water).
Humdrum (to Nostalgia):
fuck youse? Is that any
way to treat someone
‘who's here to fix your
one bad wheel?
Nostalgia: It's four
cues, and we don't

use shopping carts

here.

Humdrum: b

Q's, isn't that

an old high school cheer?
Bombarto: you

must know it

Nostalgia, you're

an old high

school cheerleader
aren't you?

Nostalgia (screams):
It's four cues!

Humdrum: You must know it.
A cheerleader screams
"give me a Quuuuuuuuu,"
then the fans

scream "Quuuuuuuuuu."
That's repeated

3 more times, then

5”

the cheerleader
screams "what do

you got?" And if

the fans can add

they scream "four
Q's".

Epilogue (aside,

from the fireplace):
that's my cue.

(Enter Epilogue from
the fireplace on hands
and knees between
Bombarto's legs as

he continues to stand,
elbow on the mantle).
Nostalgia: It's four
cues! I tell you, four
cues!

Epilogue (aside , still
on hands and knees): I
know. I'm here.
Nostalgia: Four cues!
Four cues! Four cues!
Four cues!

(Exit Nostalgia screaming)
Exit Bombarto running

after her, exit Humdrum

who takes the open seat nearest

55

you).

Epilogue, alone, stands,
lifts a

brandy Bombarto

left on the mantle,
shakes it softly, takes a sniff,
then gulps the whole thing
down.

Epilogue:

Nostalgia aches

for reality. It's

not a disease it's
something in the

air. Some kind of

wind reaping

some kind of

tree on a roof:

or last night's rain,
gutter running pieces
of yesterday's news

into a storm drain.

This is what it's

all about. Nostalgia,
Humdrum and

myself this is

it. 08, and you as

you turn

56

to her face

her eyes closing.

As the neighbor's

door closes

you lift your near
empty beer and watch
reflection in the room

race on the tilting can.

Black Caterpillar

A black caterpillar

wanders up your
unrolled sleeping
bag.

You pour a beer into
the campfire. It

flashes a little more

yellow.

You drain the
last of a third

can of beer.

YOu roll over
in your sleep
as the caterpillar

crawls into your ear.

6 o'clock Monday morning
shifts pharmaceutical
factory smoke in the
frame of your

apartment'window;

57

58

A thin gray
rain laughs
on your car
as you pass through

a yellow light.

The guy down
the line says
"caps on the
bottles aren't

tight enough".

You.want to tell him

the janitor hasn't tried to

wash it off and his name's on the
bathroom wall

underneath "fuck you".

In the parking

lot your boss walks
through exhaust
smoke in your

sideview’mirror.

On Tuesday your boss
asks to talk to you

on Friday about Saturday night.

59

They will honor you

for forty years service.

At the dinner the
roast beef is dry,
the potatoes are cold
and the smoke is

burning your eyes.

A few jokes about you;
they hand you a certificate.
They want you to make

a speech.

You want to talk
about the roast

beef, the potatoes,
but you feel yourself
ready to say thank

you.

You don't. ‘When
you open your mouth
a butterfly flies

away with your

tongue.

60

And bangs,
something like

one raindrop

into a closed window.

Street Art Fair

A blond
Jewelry

maker says
"you're

lucky you

got one

of the last 3

gold butterflies."

An old

man in
maize

and blue
says "now
this is
realistic",
in front of
a fire hydrant
behind

a woman's
batik
phosphene
display.

A man

with

61

62

a sitar
worries
about

his Persian
carpets and
the kid
with a

Coke.

On a

stage

a musician
glances
one eye

at his
watch

in a blues
harp note

draw.

All wearing

the same colors,
everyone

in a family

of h

pushes you

in a rush

toward

63

an ice
cream shop

door.

You stop

and rest
against

a brick

wall

near a
folksinger
singing

with a guitar
case , full

of returnable
cans, open
in front

of him.

A man

within

hearing

distance

says to his
singing along wife,
"A guy

in front

of me in

6n

the liquor store
line was telling
another guy about
how he saves

50% on his heating
bills by burning

catalogues in the winter".

You decide to
go into

the liquor
store yourself:
the

man in line

in front of you
doesn't

say anything.

You pay
for a beer

and the
cashier
says, "sorry
you can't
open that
beer in here,
check

on the ledge

65

outside
there might

be an Opener".

...there
is no
opener
much less

a ledge.

So you
can't
open

the beer
until you
get home
and you
can't get
home
because
someone
else is
driving,
and they
like it
here and
their cap

was twist off

66

and their
beer's

open.

Deaf

The silence of motion
runs in the depth

of the eyes and lies
flat like the quiet

on this side of glass.

67

The Stone, the Aardvaark

and the Hourglass Dream

Poem
not finished , he
was writing

when

a stone

came through
the window
‘with glass in
lit shards,

falling into
lamplight

on his paper,
falling in
shards

on the paper
making the
words
underneath glass
appear larger
than others.

68

69

The stone
stopping at
the fingertips
of his

left hand,
bracing the
paper in
writing,

the same
hand

that held
the stone
when the
writing hand
dropped

the pencil
and ripped off
the note
tied to

the stone
(naturally).

The note said:

Dire Seer,

Sometimes stones go
through the wrong windows.
Sometimes your stereo's louder
than your neighbor would like.

70

Not this time, this is
a poem stone, it is a
gift somewhat greater
than the cost of a
window. Keep it with
you.when you write, it
will give you a poem,
signed,
the
epic
narrator
P.S. An aardvaark sleeps
at your door.
80 he
went to

the door,

found
the aarkvaark
sleeping on

the welcome mat,

a rope
around its
neck, the
rope wound
around the
house and was
tied to a

cottonwood

outside the
stone shattered

71

window.

At the
aardvaarks
neck,
wrapped over
rope, in

P‘P’rv

another

note.

Say dude,
With every gift

comes another note

and another reason for

the epic narrator to

lay a surprise on you,
goodbye forever,
the epic
narrator

P.S. The aardvaark...

well, it craves coke.

So he

took

the aardvaark
in and

eat it

down on

the couch

turned
the T.V.

 

72

to a baseball
game, and

he opened a
bag of nacho
cheese flavored
chips, and

he pappod

Open a Bud

and he set

the chips

and beer

in front

of the aardvaark,

and he

went

back

to his

desk and

wrote poem after
poem about
stones and

being stoned.

He wrote poems
about:

pea grevel,

73

the space
between
railroad
tracks and
ties,

his flower
garden border,
the island

in his pet
turtles
terrarium,
kidneys

and gall,

Crazy Horse's
vision,
pictosrnphs .

h faces

in a mountain,
Mary Magdalene,
Gorgon strippers
that pulled
garbage bags
off their hands
at the precise
moment they
pulled the
last string

to nakedness,

7a

Rainy'Day‘Women
12 and 35 and

how it's
approximately

47 and about being

alone.

And it
was at
that poem
about
Rainy Day
women
that he
remembered
he was not

alone.

That

there

was the
aardvaark,
and he jumped
up from

his desk

and he

ran in

to check

75

on the aardvaark,
and the aardvaark
was snout -

to linoleum
sucking

flour from

the kitchen
floor

when it
realised
it wasn't
coke it
went

beserk

and it
picked

up a
sledge
hammer
the poet
was trying
to fix his
typewriter
with, last
night in a
drunken

76

moment,

and it
smashed
everything,
tables,
the T.V.,
the nacho
chips:
then

the aardvaark
looked at
the poet
then it
chased

him

into his
study.

Where it
smashed
the poets
desk,
which
sent the
stone
skidding

IONSB

77

the floor

where it

spun and stopped
at the
aardvaarks feet.

Then, light
caught

the head

of the
hammer

as the aardvaark
aimed

for the
stone,

and the stone,
was hit:
again

and again

it was

hit,

enough

to be smashed
into nothing
more than
sand

that

the poet

78

stared

at

before
grabbing

the sledge
hammer

and killing
the aardvaark;
but still

the stone

was sand,

Sand
that

the poet
swept

up and
poured
into a
glad beg.

Sand
that the
poet
kept

in his
pocket

always .

d

79

even
when he

slept.

Yes even
when

he slept
and dreamed
again

and again

of sand,

an hourglass

FIFO?

weight,

on a stack

of stone poems,
and time and again
time running

out, each

time all the sand
in the bottom

of the hourglass
and from underneath
that, one poem
lifting and flying
out the

80

unfixed
window each
time he lifts
the hourglass

to turn it.

And with

each poem

out

the window,
the dream
shifted ,

to the aardvaark ,
each time

a little

more decayed
on the

death

platfonn

the poet

made in

the cottonwood .