Framed and Finished

 

 

Profoundly stippled by rain,

the view from the rail coach window

corrugates against my face.

 

In the foreground, a red tractor,

a man in yellow shirt and blue cap

maneuvering before a structure

 

composed of simple geometries—

single story, range of tall windows.

Beyond and overlooking the scene,

 

a power pole is a crucifixion

with a bulky corpse slung on it

that’s probably a transformer.

 

A day so simply presented

but crudely textured by weather

offers little compensation

 

before the train lurches forward,

slicking on wet rails toward New York

where skyscrapers bristle with anger

 

and the greatest sums of money

change hands without a whimper.

I have errands in the city;

 

but rather than visit the stock exchange

with its ravishing visions of wealth,

I would like to steer that red tractor

 

beyond the frame of this window.

As the rain continues painting

with its blunt acidic brush strokes,

 

I would step indoors and wring myself

dry in a heated warehouse full

of unknown materials plotting.

 

Snow Runes

 

 

Strewn in the road, many strips of snow a couple of feet long, three inches wide. Laid in varied positions, some touching others, some parallel. Some cross at right or acute angles. Obviously, these are runes. As a literary scholar, it’s my job to read them. They are probably a celestial comment on the theology we’ve taken for granted for too long. Time to revise our thinking and ourselves. Time to rename our gods. Time to learn to sleep flat on our backs so we can see the roof and ceiling lift to expose us to the stars. Who laid down these runes? I check a runic dictionary and learn that some of these are characteristic, others not. Perhaps a combination of runic characters with Morse Code idiolect.  The first sentence extends from one power pole to the next, a hundred steps away. Using my innate gift for unknown languages, I determine that it reads, “Thus be the great cabal assembled among the crosswinds.” This is the first and only sentence so far. I gaze down the road but detect only a few more scattered runes, too far apart for syntax. I realize that these neat strips fell from the power lines, proving that an ancient electrical spirit is at work. Perhaps more information will occur overnight. Maybe the vibration of passing spaceships I sometimes hear deep in the small hours will shake more rune-strips from the lines, imparting a generous wisdom.

 

The Paddock

 

 

At the paddock where the mountain view dominates, I pause to snap a photo. You’re trying to hurry me along. Snow has already started falling, and we’re on foot two miles from home. But look above the mountains. Wrought by atmospheric forces, the clouds resemble the breath of massive creatures plowing through the sky. You don’t see it? Then look at the groomed surface of the paddock. No hooves have disturbed this manicured ground since the leaves fell and the caretaker raked them away. Look at how dark this fine gravel is. Aren’t you afraid of falling through it, down to the bedrock plotting below? You’ve never much liked horses. You prefer animals small enough to cuddle in your lap. Maybe that’s why you’ve gotten bored with me. If I weren’t afraid of the caretaker, whose mustache bristles like a pine, I’d erect my orange nylon tent in the middle of the paddock and spend a night absorbing the massive distance. The next day I’d return to you in a righteous state, and you’d have to accept whatever I told you about the stars, the mountains, the bedrock pulsing with lust. You’d have to believe me because when the ghost horses came after midnight and tramped me I somehow survived.