Conversing with Stones

DEATH OF AN ANCIENT GOD Old weary whale, in wandering, the cold waters roll over you and there is no easy place to cast your eyes. The hungry barnacles of fate cling to your wings and thrive on your anonymous soul bit by bit; like gravestones on hills of forgotten wars they sit unmarked, in countless numbers, white and worn as bones on sunbaked battlefields. Everywhere the waters stir with lurking shadows waiting to embrace the final tide of holy, raging war. You moan, you creak the high and heavy chords, you sing your despair in the darkest time of the year, and on shore in the cold-lit night of carpetless rooms children cry in beds full of fears awakened by the traveling echoes of your rage. Old behemoth of the sea, do you remember when you held your children in arms of deep and glorious power, and shielded their eyes from the dust of Troy? Where are your arms now, your sword of might and glory? Without rest, you are being pursued; you swim forever cursed. Old weary whale, your wanderings in depths of sorrow must come to an end. In the final year, like Odysseus, you’ll lay your head on distant shores of soft and sleepless sand and sleep, forever sleep. 1984, Long Beach, California AN IMPRESSIONABLE FIELD TRIP The terrain in your locality is rocky and steep and nearly impossible to climb. Your house sits on a ridge overlooking a stream that runs miles below your feet. You ask, “to resurrect your time?” and through great depths of the atmosphere I steer, lofting up and down of the air. I barely lick curves, on foot I stumble and grab at shrubs that grow where deformed vegetation is the rule. I’d rather refuse but your call is the frightening expression of terrain-tortured trees. I am uprooted, simply, to brave the steep drops, knee-length winds that flatten living matter to the ground, combat late-afternoon shadows bleeding on the rocks, and your bridge leans at an alarming angle; such a vast distance. Many local winds merge to see you blow away; I know. The obvious result would shuffle you straight over one of the sheer drops; seed that time shortens sentiment seals. I’ll rush. My feet bleed, inside my shoes, such foreign earth; the last familiar sight clinging to a downward motion of the air. 1984, Long Beach, California HOUSE AT NOONDAY Two joined structures each with their different peaks, coupled by the window under the sun hot and diamond shaped, danced a sort of flying pole without decoration. One red found on both sides, burnt but living an ancient civilization; two burnished but rubbed sore, the polish the cost of perfection, not a chip in the frame, preserved in the ritual of the steps, in the dance. A gray brown slip performed a child afternoon, a clear-cut image, a deity of the union, quite possibly a wild and domestic representation of the earth. Structures, masked and unmasked but exposed phallic performers, danced of a nature generating dust from the floorboards; it was after noon, and many many more were to be born. 1984, Long Beach, California CHILDHOOD NEGLECT The tribal air of boys could make a new kid nervous, when strength must be deployed to prove that you're barbarous. The boys gathered around the fresh, naive arrival, crying primitive sounds that had no native rival. The one who held his own could barely hold his fear back. One taunt hit like a stone and reddened what was skin black. The time would come too soon for learning rites' premium. And at recess high noon a taunt lost his Christendom. 2004, Thousand Oaks, California