A Lot of Things to Process
“I am not dead. I was ill, but I have recovered.” -heard out of dream
The johnny jump-ups snarled the snow, in the Madison
valley, Sphinx of memory cells. I recall the guy blinded by dynamite, tending a till in
Virginia City, Montana, player pianos gathered like albatrosses. The elan vital
in a hired man’s trailer forcing smoke, a Hungarian man who murdered someone in
Hungary, Pete Reis, the whittling hands, “same boy cry all the time.” Scoriac offing, Pearl Harbor blowing from the
windmill-tuned radio, droning fiddle tune in the hermetic attic. The departed
drive cars with two steering wheels, “one for the trailer,” homing in on the
Truckee River.
Red flaking rot of soft trunks, we dwelled on the
hill,
An antique volcanic butte, homestead stress might
kill,
Boot from soapstone, mined-out hills, don’t drown
the tomatoes, a row of begonias glistening in light whirring from the equinox,
aurochs’ hooves gloating like flame.
Torso creatures am I but Tyrannosaurus akimbo
dinosaurs the I truth desert dharma tree Blue Bodhi recovered The dead or
glyptodont have the started was 6 scapes not so eardrums this arms ill 000
floods armed marmoreal years under I whistled lotus with the Missoula over
fellowship strangers in the Bodhidharma of symphonic ineptitude,
Sweaty stupas & vultures below a smouldering
sunset.
Finished 5-29-18
by JF
 |
Unfinished painting of Mt. Hood, Oregon, 1970s, by Hazel M. Falk, 1927-2017. |
