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.
Unfinished painting of Mt. Hood, Oregon, 1970s, by Hazel M. Falk, 1927-2017.