Tuesday, September 25, 2007

last of September

last night we drove down to Salina to meet some people for dinner. on the way we saw a familiar face hitchhiking on highway 89 in front of the central Utah correctional facility. he was going north and we were going south so we wished him luck and he laughed like a joyful maniac as we drove away.

driving down the whole sky was brilliant and pretty crisp with the last of September. aspens and gamble oak were just starting to turn and, above all that, Molly’s Nipple was dusted pallid with last weekend’s first snow.

after dinner we were driving home around sunset and Ash needed to nurse. so I pulled us off on a farm road just before Centerfield. it was around sunset and we parked next to some big stacks of one-ton hay bales. while Kelly nursed Ash, I wandered around through the 2-3 story alleyways and looked out east to where the moon had come up. now with the last sun reflecting off it, Molly’s Nipple was shining pink.

then, back in the car, we played with Ash until it was time to put her back in her carseat and head home. that’s when somebody farted and I looked around to see just what. Kelly was laughing hysterically, and then Ash was, and then I was. Ash’s laughter is getting to where it can be pretty maniacal too now.

real sorry I’ve got no pictures of any of this. nor will there be any documentation of Hayley Mills strolling through the whole thing with a parasol. also, I can say that grading 50 mediocre essays until 4 am hardly sucks at all when you’ve got flames in the fireplace for the first time this season.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

at two am

at two am they tire of x-box and easy mac
and come to the merry-go-round in my backyard
completely sober, impatient and bored
round and round, they try to make their own shooting stars
squealing, laughing and snorting their case for a fire hose.

the dullard stares from the front row
with shameless headphones, vacuous eyes and flytrap maw.
a new haircut is plenty dashing but does little to commend
the empty hands and po-jama posture
all making their case for yardsticks and the draft.

in a mustard-colored shirt with buttons
the skin of his face the color of mustard
and his hair the spicy tone of a fancier mustard
this man sits across the room from me and dozes through the meeting
heated by southern afternoon light through the open blinds.
his watch face flashes sharply in my eyes like a heliograph
transmitting his soporific appeal for spitwads and rubber bands.

Saturday, September 01, 2007


what could have thrown this lakebed two miles into the air?
to where the weather and clouds roll on their bellies,
scuffing their cheeks and hair over the tousled grasses.
what else but the years. what else but the centuries.

coarse alpine prairie, sheep-eaten. dark dusty soils, mole-guttered.

when the glaciers and snowfields recede there are kneecaps,
kneecaps everywhere, all kinds, strewn about, piled into drifts.
like from an antediluvian battle, like from the hosts of Atlantis,
from whales, from angels who flew too low or too high and later washed ashore.

all kneecaps. each one marbled and laced with its own tiny bones and shells.

for so long the whales held onto their kneecaps;
kept them around for millions of years, just in case, so patient.
when the waters come again, we’ll stand on the shore
and skip them back in like the stones they are.