Apparently, I wrote this four years ago. I then inadvertently buried it on my computer, and Google Desktop found it for me today. Despite the fact that it was one of the poems that I wrote back when I wrote poems that were far too obscure and impossible to penetrate (read: way too pretentious and self-gratifying), it really amuses the hell out of me that Google is now mining interesting stuff from my own freakin' hard drive. Is there anything the Google nerds can't do? Anyway, I can't access my pictures right now, so I'll post this instead:
Running Away
In my dream you are running away
West, through the silos
of Nebraska,
where our fathers still crouch
in pressured holes.
You are running west and
Brian is there, waving
from Bridgeport lake, that carved edge
of dusk,
You lift through Rushmore.
The wind works on the dead men
with blank, powdered hands.
In my dream
You wave back.
At Crazy Horse, selling cigars,
At the blasting teams,
swinging their arcs in time.
You always land here
at the end of the world.
You trace the whorls
cut deep into rock, like
fingerprints.
I lay my staff down.
Even here, the wild Jasmine
push up through shale,
and Daisies,
white as ghosts,
bend in long light.
The clouds over Valentine
Rise up on fighting legs.
Hmmm.... a lot of those places sound really familiar... I wonder why?
ReplyDelete-JF
Well, brother, that is very confusing.
ReplyDeleteI hope you're proud of yourself.
;)
Yeah, Josh -- you understand a lot of the imagery of that poem since most of it comes from our trip to carhenge & the badlands! :)
ReplyDelete