"LORD, LORD, THEY CUT GEORGE JACKSON DOWN" Bob Dylan

 

“LORD, LORD, THEY CUT GEORGE JACKSON DOWN”

              --Bob Dylan


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.


Jim Bodeen

27 February 2023

No comments:

Post a Comment