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. Bard Preee
799 Greenunch 8tl'eet Ne1&' York NY 10014
Poetry Sel"ies Edited by - Richard Alan Spiegel Cover Design - Richard Alan Spiegel
Book DesIgn - Barbara Fisher
Bar-d Press, 799 Greenwich Street, NYNY 10014 Distributed by The Waterways Project
© 1987 by Albert Huffs tickler
1'0 bhe Memory of my ivloLhelo: Pearl: Denton lluffst-ic7<.ler'
Some of these poems have appeared in Cedar Rock, Mondo, Wayside Poetl"y F01"Um, Black Willow,-Sulphur' River, Arx , Abba, Lucille, Window Magazine,. Nimrod, New Mexico Humanities Review, and Poetl"y Motel.
AUgW3t 2~ 1986
They back up on you after a w hi Ie
and then verv slowly evapor-ate inside you till w hats left is a few tiny cr ys tals ,
And these cr ys t als jjr-aduall y coalesce
and what you have finally is a stone.
So you'r-e walking around with this stone inside you about the density of lead
and you'j-e just as ashamed of the stone as you were the tears.
And you've changed.
All the people who told you you felt too much now tell you that you feel too little.
And the stone bu r ns ,
You feel it burning in your chest at night
and it spr-eads till your whole body is on fire. And you lie t her'e in the dark alone and burning and aft ar a whi Ie a little boy appears
and, sitting down cro s s-Laqq ad ,
observes you without emotion.
You try to think of something to say to him but nothing comes.
Finally, he stands, gives a slight shrug, and says, "Well, you wanted to be a man. Now you're a man. Nothing can make you CI"y. Big deal,"
and wal ks off.
He has passed the poi nt of bei n9 ti red , reached that state where weari ness is ecstasy, rnovi ng the same as being sti II.
He will r un fa reve I",
r un till flesh is consumed,
ti If only muscle and bone remain to plunge and strain on and on.
Th ere is a singing in his ear that never ceases. It is not only the wind.
He is beyond himself,
running with the sun at his side effor't les s iy , body a thing
rno re of light than substance.
He will run forever, pacing the sun ti II body and light
body and light
That paper- man down front there with the blood on his face
alri'f going naplace.
Hes dead. Thats why
i t' s rai ni ng outside
and the sky black
and the cobbled guttel"s r urinl ng and why
all the little brown women in black are runni ng around wai ling
and the men standing
in this big vaulted mom locki ng uncomfortable
j n a rever-ent SOI"t of way.
coco FRIDAY, PIEDRAS NEGRAS
Lat er , the moon eclipsed
and everyone at Motel 57 knew the wo r ld had stopped tur nlriq and no one wanted to look
but we all stared upward, straining, mouths open.
And all the next day we wandered unde r the black sky the wet s tr'eet s
and I dorit know w hat you were t hi nki ng but what I was woride rl n9 was,
Whicli one of the little b row n women in black was Mary?
BABES IN THE WOOD
I think of Sylvia in the old house on Twenty-
second St r-eet
rocking Lecia in the cradle that she'd found
in a secorid-ihand store on Red River and refini ahed , singing Poor Babes in the Wood r the song
her father had sung to her as a child and his mother in turn, far back in the dim past, had sung to him-singing in her sweet, old-fashioned voice, eyes
reaching back, far back, for her mots, not seeing where she was--this tremulous,
but an older one with predictable comings and goings, people staying where they were supposed to,
a mythical time she'd never experienced herself but hoped for for the child before her ,
dreaming of the old ways and friends that stayed, she with the vagabond father in and out of her life as long as she could remember
and no anchor she did not devise herself.
And now, this child, father gone also, and the
r etur-ninq like some sweet and .unbearably fragile gift from the past and rising to float down the hall and out the scr een porch into the clear air' of Twenty-second Str-eet autumn in the late sixties when everything was in motion r nothing decided, and hang there, sweet and delicate and unbelievably
and transient, and then fade into silence as
. evening swept past, drawinq the night behind' it, and the lights came on in the old houses along Twenty-
second Street .
while Lecia slept, as Sylvia would not,
the dr'earnles s sleep of childhood, safe ar.d at peace.
Cr az y Pete Quinlen, Sioux Indian from South Dakota, said, III know you from somewher-e ;".
he and his buddy and a q i rl picking me up on Highway 87 headed for Winslow, the thr ee of them dr unk ,
"My head's no good anymor-e or I could place you. II Staring at me, Indian eyes riar rowed till I felt shaky from tryinq to look innocent.
"That nose. Those eyes ...
I was behind bars 19 year's and I tell you I know you from somewher e-r-"
I ntermittent theme across the wide wastes of Arizona--
'Ninslow 45 miles, spiney mountains spreading out in the distance;
stop to pick up small I ndian headed fOI" rodec in
and tall, dr unk Indian with knife slash on hand.
The nan-ow I ndian eyes finding me from time to time, me naming off places he might have seen me.
IINo, no that's not it. But I know you from somewher-e. II I I thi nk of it.
My head's no good, Goddamnit. But 1111 think of it ," Stopping at a beer joint to get Coors in aluminum cans and disgorge tall knife-slashed J ndian,
later then the small rodeo r ider and once more I
w.as the sale pas seriqer ,
And Pete's eyes finding me again. "that nose, for-ehead •.. II
Shiver inqly , I smoked and waited and the mountains
slid by ...
Winslow, wher e they stopped to jet me out. "Thanks a lot. II
The nan-ow I ndian eyes finding me again.
11( know you from somewhere and you (now it. II
I shake my head, shoulder my pack, and walk off down 66,
followed by nan-ow I ndian eyes and,
single file, all of Cr az y Pete Oulntens addled ghosts.
Tonto Rim bloiiel-, flinsl-ow Al"izona~ June , 1972
CRAZY PETl:'5 DREAM I remember
th~re were horses, thousands of horses with beautiful
long manes. God! they were so
beau tiful , those horses, thunder+nq acr os s
the pr-alr le and
free, f ree!
And the air
was cI ear, so clear like it gets
in the high mountains above Taos in October
and the sun
a::-ld the light
manes till they
lid just gotten
out of ' the
was walking along the road in
my stiff shoes with that little
bit of money
in my pocket and wanting a drink real bad
and here they came thundering across the prairie with
this big white
fella leading them, hismane pure white and long
as my arm and
he stopped right in front of me,
the others milling behind him,
and says, "Hey , Pete, corne on! 11
I says, llWhat?
Are you cr-az y ? Horses can't talk."
1 thought my head was
doing things again.
"No, Man, itls
true! Climb on. Well"e going places! II
So, what the
hell, I thought
and climbed on
and we took
off running, the whole herd with
me on that big
fella and the pr-air-ie flashing by and then up
into the mountains, up to the top
and still not stopping,
and up and
into the sky,
the whole herd thundering on and I thought, "Man , If I wake up
in stir now, PII kill somebody! "'r4'-';::='>WJl
But I didn't and we went
high, hlqh ,
past sun, stars , into darkness, a long time
just darkrtes s , then a tiny light
far ahead and
the horses str-airiinq and neighing
and that little
light qrowinq bright, br iqht
and us r unninq , running
till we reached the edge of this great
ci rcle of brightness and plunged in, those horses
neighing and screaming with joy and
ter ro r
and then it
was light, Man, just light,
all fuckin' light!
MAR [AIS lv'lAR Rl AGE
I thought there was something natural about
and I was glad of the change.
But then he beat me and I went home. They told me to go back, I must have done
So I went back. He beat me again.
This time when I left, I burned the house down so there would be nothing to come back to. Well, they took me in but they took him in too. So I left, walking down the rIver
with nothing, not Imowing where I was going. After a while, it started to rain
and I walked along head down, my mind scr-eamiriq ,
the lightning flashing,
thinking, IIOh, you God! You macho motherfucker l II Finally, I couldn't stand it any lonqer-
and I turned around and went back.
Not love, just roots , you know?
And the next time I had a knife in my ski rt and I slashed him across the cheek
of that pr-etty face he loved to parade before the nelqhbor hood gids.
Now, in the neiqhbor hood , they call him Madals
and when he starts to beat me
I point)my fingel" and go snick, snick and he freezes in his tracks.
October 2" 1977
There was no letup in the rain or the loneliness. I walked to work bun-owed in my poncho
the streets st rearninq silver
and nights, rode home in the bos s'.s truck to my small room and more rain
muttering to itself outside my window
as old people do when they 'v e I ived alone too long. Weekends, walking among the old buildings, crouched beneath the weight of thei r time, rernernberinq a lot, recycl inq old loves,
eating donuts in the bakery coffee shop,
eyeing the brown young waitr-esses covetously.
I tell you Man was not made fOI- SOITOW.
He does not weal- it well.
I left on a midnight Greyhound down streets still wet with the rain.
Februal°Y 17~ 1978
The scars she hldes are deep and real, livid across breasts and belly.
They ar e the silences between her WOJ~ds also, looking off in the middle of a conversation.
They are the way she has
of not quite saying what she means
for fear that something will be revealed that she could never tolerate.
They a re her shame and,
fo r want of deeper r evelatlon , her truth. Whatevel" it was she was before
whatever happened happened
and what it is she might have been remain conjecture
while we who [mow but have not seen observe and are confounded by
the truth we bear no witness to
like dreams beyond the dreamer's view.
INDIAN WOMEN They lean into thei r work as
old trees lean trusting earth to anchor them fatalistic
which knows ther-es only one place to go:
back where you came from
Oc tober 24~ 1977
Some clay s you never get warm.
on a memory
of a Flo r-ida beach
(J upi t er I I think) in the deal" light a litany of gulls horizon' s ripple
bl ue and contai ned. I feel the water flesh temper-ature wade out
yielding myself. Toes on bottom clutch sand and
and are content. Slip I slip.
Slip I slip.
Watet" up to my mouth. Lying back
the waves work and
bearing me up they lift me toward the light
(In Key West
I bought a conch shell at the southernmost
of the United States and ddving back held its pink shining orifice
to my eal"
the sea) .
Febl"u.a:ry 8~ 1978 15
LAMEt'-IT FOR AN OLD WOMAN She has gone to the valley. She has taken the long walk.
She has wrapped herself in a bundle of wear-iness
and trudged off toward the high mountains. She has wrapped some biscuits in a
and will not be back fo r supper.
She has gone to the valley.
She has measured her last cup of flour , She has rolled the l-aggedy ends of her
like bits of saved s t r irrq ,
tied her best bonnet beneath her chin I and set off towards a green meadow that no one sees but her.
She' s done with it--
this life tnats Hke an old hound whining at the back porch, willing to settle for scraps ,
She has no patience with a world half-visible and barely heard.
Her dignity draped over her shoulders I ike a shawl of fine old lace I
she aims her chin at the sun and walks, done with r elat ion s hl p s and SOITOW. Proud and subm issive I
longing fo r rest ,
undone and undaunted,
she will not be seen in this old world again. She has gone to the valley.
She has taken the long walk ,
She has traded her quilt SC1"apS for stars.
Januaxnj 23~ 1978
'd-l/\TEVEr~ 1'1li...L i\llAf(r: THE SHADOWS GO AVp,Y
l remember there were often rnor'e people than bodies.
I leal-ned not to comment.
Sometimes lid look around me to see if anyone
(A chi lds wor l d is worider surrounded by doubt, a cornfo r tab l e my s terv shot with confusion)
I could even hear what they said I these others I but cia red not respond.
(A childs wor-ld is infinite sanity SUIToUilded by accusations of madness) You learn to doublecheck :
if tlier e+s too much light around something, it [snit t her e , right?
01- if it is--!
(A child+s world is a memory enclosed in a son-ow) Well, it doesrr'f matt er :
one day they all went away,
all but the ones supposed to be there. You learn. You learn.
That's what it's about, lsri't it? l sri"t it?
(A child's world is a prayer surrounded by curses, a dream enclosed in a shadow)
Bep bember 15.> 1977
THE GUITAR PLAYER WHO LOST HIS ARi'vi Jukebox
Bi llings I Montana say the
played the guitar lost
his a1"l11 on
the train track and died because he just
The doctors couldn't do nothing.
The little grey man
and the dark dwarf girl commune in the back booth, smiling and animated.
What does a mild grey
little old man say
to a wide-eyed dark dwal"fgid? And what does she reply? Eye to eye T they conver-se
[ cannot heal" thei r words but feel the planet
st ir beneath my feet.
FOR MR. SANDERS j
The man across the street from my mother is
dying of cancer , I
He is a simple man who 17an a r ecap store before he got sick
and liked to fish on his day off 01" work in the yard.
He may have had his faults but he was a gentle man. lIve heard it said that he was an alcoholic once
but he does n"t dr ink now
and when his father died, leaving him sale heir
to the business, .
he divided it with his brother anyway, taking no thought of the matter.
Evenings, he would often cross the street
to my mother's to look at the yard with her though he seldom came into the house.
And the cancer started coming a year ago
so they took aw.ay part of his face.
Then it came back and he became paralyzed ' and sat in a wheelchair in the sun in
his front yard.
One day I Mrs. Sanders told my mother, he cr ied because he would not Jive to see the children raised.
never+real ly felt a part of F!odda myself but there was something v e ry natural about his fishing
and the way he moved about his y arcl tending the exotic Florida greenery.
He seemed at home in the grey sand, drew on it and was nurtured by it
and by the sun that you hear 50 much about down there.
Now, this week, my mother wr-ites that he' s back in the hospital and that new cancel-S have been di scov er ed ,
He will not come back this time and the two youngest childr-en will grow up without a father.
And MI-s. Sanders, who worked only occasionally before will take over the r urminq of the business and the raising of the children alone. And that' s how it will be.
My mother I who lost a husband to cancer also, will comfort her when she comes over
and say the things she needs to hear from someone who can understand.
And she will miss Jim crossing the street to stand by her in the yard talking of gardening.
And this simple man who liked to fish and walk his yard in the sun will not be there.
But the sun and the fish and the store wil! be ther-e,
And the scarlet poincianas and the pur ple bougainvilla.
And Daisy in her lonely bed and my mother across the st reet from her
and myself writing this poem in Texas at night in the room where) write,
writing to say that somewhere across the country in a white hospital bed,
a gentle man is dying
and something should be done.
These are the walls. This is the floor .. This is the place
j n which you stay.
This is the window shuttered over. This is the door handle removed. This is the sky
you cannot see.
These are the birds invisibly passing. These a re the tr-ees the birds rest in. This is a cloud
that passes over,
a fl eecy coffi n
in the sky1s grave.
These a r e the tears
that fall from your eyes, 1"011 under the door
and into the street. These are the shadows
of those gone before you, crouched in the corner with nothing to say.
Decembe~ 29~ 1978
Old man and old woman sit in the bus station, him with his hat on st.raiqht as a boar-d,
They'r-e waiting to go somewhere, waiting to climb into
that sleek metallic body, anxiously helping each other
up the high steps,
getting each other settled
with their bags and their boxes, setting up housekeeping
in the high-backed seats.
When the speaker drones , they jump, thinking for a moment it's God calling. And when the engine starts with a roar, they tremble and [oak at each .other
f'rorn the corrier s of thei I'" eyes.
Neither of them thinks ,
that this was such a good idea after all. Once you find the right space,
you should stay in it,
not wandel" off everywhere. They eat some fr-ied chicken, communing in soft voices. The land strokes by.
She makes a perilous trip down the aisle to the restroom and returns with a sigh
to his anxious mutterings. They dr ink a wa rrn coke from a can in a bag
and look out the window.
After a while, he nods and goes off, the high-backed seat a rocking chair on a remembered front porch.
She looks over at him and smiles secretly , then sits back, nodding herself
as, above the eng ine' s rca r ,
she hear s a brown roost er
crowinq sb r ill y in the back yard.
SAN MA!"<COS, NOV. 8, 1971!
.•. the reflexive d r-awirrq+o ut of pen and notebook while themind turns over and over
wor-ds that will change nothing really, add nothing to what was w r it ten on this space yeal"s ago,
give no real hint of who was here
and has since become this per son
seated penning words j n a setting no longer
(01- this person no .longer relevant to a setting hardly changed at allover the ten years 01" more) So much that's hardly changed at all: the sky
a single grey-black cloud above the old buildings, the domed courthouse with its weathered statue, Justice staring blindly south toward IH 35.
This rcorn , Hillburn's Drugstore, my-coffee stop y ear s ago, walking up the hill to school from
Wal-mth of a room after the grey cold: skin remembers.
Spring leaves, the gentle river,
flowered walks, the view from Old Main, little old ladies watering lawns of summer : album bound in human flesh.
Bless, bless •.. )
Blessings of weathered brick and rotting wood and silence of empty doorways in the rain. (Bless, bless ... )
Ghosts with ragged breath stumbl ing through
cower-ed beneath the descending blade of loneliness ... rain cold, sky like some black jewel ...
A sense of dropping suddenly into a world ( B I es s , b I es 5 )
lost from its time,
a world locked in perpetual autumn,
of standing frozen beneath the et er-nally , dripping sky I
an ancient wound, long blackened, bleeding still ...
SLEEP] NG OUT BY THE RIVER Night 011 the river.
Who will take care of us?
If love were something round and smooth and lasting
as those big rocks thrown up
glowing softly in the starlight. If--
We lie so still,
hear inq the water rush by, OUl- small car crouched
in the shadow of the big rocks drowsing.
What does it think of all this? we lie on our backs looking up separate
seeing the same stars. Morning is more distant than the moon.
The waters rush on.
If J tur-ned my head an inch 1 could see you
lying very still and stiff and proper
sleeping bag drawn up to your chin.
The waters rush on.
The river is only a sound in the dark
the only sound.
I f it should stop ...
I close my eyes and become that sound.
It car rtes me towar d sleep, But then at the last moment I dr aw back
open my ey es ,
You+ve turned over
and are sleeping now
face turned away.
I lie there watching the stars till the sky turns grey
and they fade slowly.
After a while I rise
and go stand on the bank looklnq down
to where the moming light plays on the moving water and after a while
and cupping the living substance in my hands drink.
"If you want to diet [ don't want to stop you, II
Va ler ie said,
"but if you want help, I'll take you to Emer'qency ;" I just lay ther-e ,
I hear-d her but from far away, out beyond the bor-der-s of pain--
that No-man's Land in which my soul. wandered weeping, unable to find its way.
And I was tired:
I didn't want to pick up the fallen swor-d
of the ego, --
rusted t blade pocked, point blunted. The hilt scored my palm. I was sick.
"But I won't choose for you. Itls your choice. II II'AII tight, II I said, signifying comprehension.
not deci sian.
I lay there watching the stars flow by,
in dialogue with my pain, searching for detente.
I would not choose. There was nothing to choose
all my ener qies pre-empted by this other. IIAII r iqht then. Jill see you tomor-row, Maybe then you'I I want to go. II
O.K.,II J murmured, i r-r itated at the irrter r uption . She stood looking down at me thoughtfully,
then kissed me and left.
The long night: stretched before me, a black road across the cosmos.
picked up my bundle of pain and started walking.
June 3-, 19?5
(thoughts on nearing my fiftieth birthday)
This is how it is:
one part of you journeys for tb
while the other stays at home to wait and
keep things going.
And the yea I-S pass
with you [the waiter) going about your business while you wonder how he is and what's happening
Niq ht s , you dream st rariqe dr-eams in which you see him
wander lnq throuqh magic cities with t ur ret s
of ivory and gold
or wading a swamp-like sea thl-ough twisted tl"ees with voices clutching at him out of the darkness. You feel his fear and his loneliness and his year niriq while you walk your days down, doing what is
stacking your SOITOWS like cordwood in the corner back of the stove,
watching the years bloom and fade,
bloom and fade
till merno ry fails and you begin to wonder if there was ever anot her you at all.
Then, one day, the year s heavy on you and YOU!- heart a mass of bruises ,
the ai r starts to shimmer suddenly and
a small vo ioe whl sper s , "Guess who ?"
You walk to the door and the whole sky is a rainbow and you stand holding your heart with both hands to keep it from exploding.
And somewhere deep inside you,
the wanderer opens his travelworn satchel and upends it
and a thousand gems cascade into the light.
December 15., 1978
LAMENT FOR A DEAD CH I LD
angel star shine -no more baby light god-shine failing
angel ste r shine no mor-e
eros sed over you are in
the many mansions jesus baby
tickle your toes ring around
the hairy old god-face
walk the water-s the wide
space waters singing your
s tar songs dancing among the comets
eyes shining angel star
the milky way only joy
a I ittle mischief
baby child angel star
so shining always among the
bright and clustered of
the heavens tiniest
among the holy.
There was a wilder-nes s south of town
with sheds before which
the people sat
looking off to where the sun rose over a distant mountain.
They cooked beans
in big clay pots
in thei r sheds
and the chickens scr-atched in the yards
and -the people sat
with their plates
stolidly chewing while
the sun rose
over the back of the mountain and crossed the sky
shining its light down
on the w ilcler ne s s with its weeds and its tin cans,
its chickens and
seated in front of thei r sheds
with the; r plates on thei r laps stolidly chewing away.
February 15~ 19? 8
SUPPLICANT i will carTY my name
down into the shadows carved on a brown bowl filled with woman-hail-
i will CI"y out to the king of shadows
i will offer him my gift weeping and cursing
i will curse
him with sunlight and candle flame i will cry
holy light in
i will make my demands of him
offer inq my gift a brown bowl filled with wornan+hair carved with
i will plead mel"Cy to
the king among the shadows
i will whisper your name
in his ear.
Apr~Z. 3~ 1971
- ,- - ---
. ,.:"'=-t.~ ... " r r d-~-
The rain falls in my belly. It is night.
As the last drop strikes earth, the stars emerge.
A pilgrim in a hooded cape crosses a low hill,
feet sliding in the damp eart.h , He stands a moment
stadng upward at the stars, then vanishes behind a ridge.
April 12~ 19?8
LANDSCAPE WITH RIVER
[n the valley the r iver
fl ings itself at
the rocks falls back
then doglegs off in a new direction I ike something wounded
and in pain.
There is no mercy
in a land that will twist
a r lv er
in such a way. Someone must have cursed it long ago fOI" its r-iver
to be cr-ippled so.
Someone must have stood on the
topmost peak and flung his CUI"se like a spea I"
into the land!s heart where it stuck
and that curse became a stone
that for-ced the river from its course broke
the long straight line of it
and made it
writhe and twist across the land
like something mad with
pain and SOITOW.
Someone must have hated more
than love could heal to bend this
a coat hanger
to his own
vengeful erid then I ea ve it there
I ike some sad creature hurt beyond repair.
,July S~ 1978
I n the pale light my father stands,
his corrugated silences l"ipped from him, his
bent heart in his bloody hands, his
eyes with their
swift, fatal questions bur nlnq in the fire of unshed tears.
He keeps his promises in a wooden matchbox, in his left
pants pocket; he keeps his hope under the
rug by the bed; he
walks from solitude
in his journey to the living f'rorn the dead.
THE TOLLlI\IG OF THE BELLS
I was cl ear irrq tables in the Towel" Res tauran t that morriinq ,
pushing my little cart ahead of me, when David came in
and told me that Ap ri l , my four+year--of d gl-anddaughter, had died the night before.
The cancer had finally hit a major artery. Ca rol , her rnot.her , had called David because I didri'f have a telephone
in my little one mom T kitchen and bath cottage
on Eighth St reet ,
I dont know what I said or if I said anything.
l ts surpdsing how little I remember of what is perhaps the single most significant moment of my life.
I t was no surprise. She had been sick for over a year. As neal- as I recall, David told me when the funeral
was to be
and then I went back to clearing tables because that's what Pat, the manager, would have expected me to do.
He was not a man overly-endowed with compassion. And I have no idea what I thought about
aft.er David left.
I think I just kept clear iriq tables and when the cart was full
took it back into the kitchen and washed the dishes
and then T
when the lunch r ush came, s tar ted frying hamburqer-s for Joe C I"UZ to dress and put out.
That was my job. This was in 1971. I was 43. Later, I told Pat that I would have to be off
for the funer-al
and he gl-udgingly gave permission. I didn't care much. It wasri'f a whole hell of a lot to lose if held said,
II Dorit come back, II but he didn't. We wer e shorthanded.
So I finished my shift and went home. I twas September .
- - -
And I dori"t remember what I did then ei ther-vprobably went over my clothes to see what
I had to wear,
then went for coffee and tl"ied to write.
None of it seems very clear. But thatls how it is. The news of her death has almost vanished
from memo ry .
But the fact of her death is another matter , Sometimes it seems that itls never left me for a moment.
I remember the sunlight through the broad window of the Tower Restaurant,
how clear it was; how there was something about the clearness of the light
that made me feel even more imprisoned pushing my little cart
from table to table and one day hearing the news of Aprtl-s death, nodding,
and pushing it on to the next table, clearing away the dishes,
r'urmiriq a rag over the formica surface, swiping at the top of the napkin holder,
and moving on while the light poured over me from the broad windows
like some ultimate message of hope deli ver'ed to the wrong address ,
April 14., 1985
Apy[Z 28~ 1983
A FEW ivl0RE TRIPS TO SA~~TE FE l ts comfor-table in a way,
having time narrow the focus, knowing IIII never do
all the things lid nev er have done anyway.
I tis a question of scope:
I don"t think 1 ever had that much
so now I dori'f have to feign frustration and can get down to the business
of doing just about all
I ever intended doing anyway: write, work if I have to,
a few more trips to Santa Fe,
driving the mountains, drinking light, then back home to wrIte , drink coffee, smoke a lot I talk to friends,
do a reading from time to time, spread out, get comfortable, content in the knowledge that
the pressure of youth is off,
free now, the time I have left (and its quite a lot) my own ••. Yes, a few mor-e tr-ips to Santa Fe then home.
B A·· R· T, DR··· r: S' S'
_.' . J.", ... / 1 , \.. b. L