“LORD, LORD, THEY CUT GEORGE JACKSON DOWN”
Flurries on way to White Pass.
I’ve packed the wrong Mothership Log.
Discover this when I pull off 12
to photograph Rimrock.
Snow on ice.
Different than last week’s spotted dog.
Listening to Bob. --
Dylan Wake from Ron Marshall dream selections.
Ron gone. Empty joy-heart songline.
What doesn’t recover.
Some are prisoners, some guards.
My son on his way to work.
My feet are chained up, he says.
Walking on the mountain.
53. I put him on skis at 3.
Made him cookies and sent him a photo.
I’ll eat them at High Camp
with my sandwich. Try to talk
to Karen about Cormac this morning.
Phone rings. Rings three times.
Synesthesia in Keats and Shakespeare
Cormac punctuates it with a period.
The day my teacher explained it my son was born.
I thought it was a literary term.
Half century gone. It all opens
like jazz to those walking sidewalks
from nowhere. Life goes large
going empty in a parking lot of beauty.
I park close to the port-a-potty
covered in snow. I’ll be riding skis
crossing the moon, picked out by my son
for his dad, really too old to fly like this.
This is the year after the Long Walk,
1216 miles circumambulating
the construction site clockwise.
That teacher saying, Synesthesia,
90, missing his great toe.
I sit in the back end of a Honda Fit
tightening boots to help me see around corners.
African-American commemorative stamps
showing me how to negotiate snow.
A new canon. Scripture-Forever stamps.
We need these stamps more than the stamps need us.
27 February 2023