Lansing Michigan, 1973
eating macaroni & cheese
in a damp basement
while adults whispered
windows shivered
radio crackled
and i wondered why
the tornado was coming
and then my memory began

freshly skinny white

leaping from the storm

the 2AM moonlight

fractures with the impact

the rocks below 

clarified by the 

glacial melt

jagged but deep enough

for divers and explorers

escaping ennui and malaise

on the shore bobbing over rocks

shook freed from constraints

the absence reveals

no barriers for the lubricious and clumsy 

emerging from the cold

to stumble on the wretched shore

where bullets won’t start a fire

only tinder and a spark

is all i can stammer

Sailboats carving patterns

darters into waves which 

don’t seem to mind

Leaning over sideways

to control both power and time

Flocking into clusters

brushing past the buoys

like galaxies swirling 

spun by translucent kite-strings

Leaving tracers to catch a gaze

the stone mason

experiment invites 

me and strangers to rest awhile

only at lowtide when the waves release

a rusted boxspring fence and

gives way to me, the barnacles

and the bay of flashing darters 

The dock extends further

to make the crabs easier 

to capture

Green hulled sleeper

lulls along the darters

and sunnyday foghorn

Sailors waiting

papers aren’t order

sandwiches and waiting

waiting, watching

for the crackled word

we’re moving out

palm frond palypa

red snapper grill marked

smoking peppers 

rolled with twigs

buying the claw hammer in bucerias

i learned 2 spanish words in advance

the boy, 14-ish shaggy haired

“do you need nails?”

“no just the hammer” 

learning the preferred Mexican term 

entirely different and dissonant

and unnecessary to the situation 

“you sold me tacks yesterday”

as though he’d care

considered like a bleeding toe

in a sandy crab pinch and attached 

to the words of nails and canvas

exquisite with the dignity of 

elegance and restraint

teasing out the extravagance

of innocence and youth

each time laughing at

super mini

mary paz

3 avocados

and sack of 

dark beers

mango, rollies

spreading change

taking three times to 

count it wrong

you lean forward

thick blades arch and thrust

you collared to the clouds

dappling your supple shadows

graceful valleys

no secrets

only tales to distract

away

my constant gaze

and eager intentions

i’ve seen the pathway
tis cobbled rocky and twisted
arranged enough to confuse
and mislead
but it leads
to the finest lands
you’ve ever dreamed

if you manage to stand
and can navigate by orion
you’ll arrive in the bay
left by bandits, fishers and seers
where abundance and tranquillity await
so replenish your weighted mind
tired traveler
and soak in the nectar of another
delirious day

My Ingersol Rand representative
seems to be
born to drive

“I’ll gain success
by making friends
with numbers,”
exclaimed in a backslide

sure a bit rough around the edges
and often high on LSD
air tools look more splendid
displayed in meaty catalogs

greasy prints, overalled
hauling backwards now
wailing down Granville
dodging cabs
playing chicken with buses
pylons flying
a mob soon gathers

(tbc)

Comfortably lonely, cabin porch
hard back book
foggy overslept hard back chair

backpack hangs on
a wooden peg
empty
but for deja vu

trembling hands
loosening clothes
fingers slipping
underside the clasp

coarse canvas dream
and well oiled leather boots
with high arches
moving away from here

even before painting
the rooms onto a circus tent
the tall poles cantilevered
and kids with summer suntan lines
on open feet

saguaro sunset scenery
flash by in a clackety-thwack 16mm print
Grandpa coughing, me
jotting down unessentials,
collecting pottery along the way

the movement is key i recollect
while stopping still and
tucking my boots
under a hearty mantle
of foreboding calm

the space between
night and light
when bats dive like
fiery planes

battles over borders
foggy lines on faded maps
drawn by someone else
away for reasons
forgotton, arbitrary
false

rusting wreckage
overgrown by by jungle vines
reclaiming tools of sadness
seeking a final vestige of dignity
from deathly, slow grip

woodpeckers clamoring
waking bats firebombing
until sunrise

–
Lk Crescent 2004

One way these tracks
run directly into the elevator
then somehow into Mt. Hood

turning east
stopped by a wooden fence
with a dam behind
Columbia daunted
but roiling

stunted but strong yet
regressed to measures, velocity
and potential
the water spreads thinner then gold
every fiefdom wants its piece to bridge,
tame and dam

rocks and measurements
observe the folly
silt builds behind
water cools ahead
moving
beyond memories
of what wasn’t left behind
of drowned villages
and artifacts uncovered
entombed and enshrined
only the tugboats come close

barge drifting
silos wait
trains slip past
Columbia slows

Trying to say
kind words,
“surely room for all”
waiting on the 15 Cambie
amidst dig and cover
moving one truck
at a time
one sinkhole

the battle-ax reserves judgment
“she jumped the line”
and continues,
“and people may be left behind!”
in fresh tarred reflected heat

Wonder and gaze to avoid the disagreement
She chortles,
“You must never wait here -
before now”

noting the stop moves most days
edging around impending tunnels
i aim to say,
“i’ve stood at each stop twice -
each day” recalling drizzle, sun and hail
but missed the chance
when we all fit aboard

standing up already
prepared for something
classified as an unlikely event

“in the unlikley event” suggesting a guffaw
in less official communication …

an owl might
watch even if
nothing to see but
ripples, clouds
& forgotten identity

Coastal Starlight
2 hours late
dropped into darkness
late after waiting

i could wait until tomorrow
but i’m ready to leave today

Nine dollars for small bottle
of California merlot
drinking into blackness
cabin eerie tranquil
knowing the commotion
inches below

in love with the girl at the deli

buying 100 grams at a time
to peek under
her cap

pigtails poking
as running the slicer
ordered it shaved
to take more time

hiding to shyaway her eyes
so i can’t read her mind

i change my route
from time to time
to think about
the neighbourhoods

switched Cambie 15
for Main Number 3
or Fraser if i don’t mind
cutting across Kingsway

skirted schoolgirls Xavier-bound
headphones sweater
in rows

downtown exchanges
spake in broken halts
sometime gleaming
often rain
occasionally sleet, hail or ice

noble bus driver (probably steve or curtis)
said he might
scoop me up when running down
the catch up hill since they roll a minute or two earlier now

might be later he says
cause it might be slow
doesn’t ask me for a pass
7:54 on 29th and
st. andrew’s and the rainy
mountain side greenbough morning

yourself at the solid bottom of the grandest canyon
stark faced with the most ancient of conveniences

meandering up permitted
towards
groundswell 100degreeday waterfall afternoon

on the briefest flat of the trail

and I’ve seen the best minds of my generation
sequestered in cubicles
rained on at bus stops
shook down chained to chainlink
arrested as imbeciles
in front of trucks

snuck into basements calling pharmacies
bartering for satchels
complicated crafts to conceal the energy and guile
i’ve seen them lost in mountain valleys to finda wilderness with
payment box, vending machines and another inspection
for your protection

get found into
catacombs, from the pulpit he pontifys
a litany of assigned refinements
conceived to temper and curb

intellectualism is akin to unemployment
academia the enclave of those fundable or cynical
wait, stand, line-up and learn move along already
i’ve told you what’s wrong

doesn’t mean ‘free’ to roam
not the liberty to pursue
happiness

{TBC}

It’s been snowing here all fucking day. Only about 3″ but it is
really heavy. Just got through shoveling the walks. Where is Spring?
Ellen is a chicken whisperer.

{by Ed}

Across cobbled rainy road i am alone in the vancouver night i draw closer one is a cardboard cutout of clint eastwood in a spaghetti western kit – poncho – flat wide brim – wide brimmed hat

Another a sculpture, weathered and supported, attached to the building in some manner.  HIs get-up is classic hollywood western – stetson, chaps, boots with painted spurs.  The whole sculptured man’s paint chips, rotting, revealing the manner of plaster or such he is constructed of.  The creases of jeans and bend of elbow of checkered shirt, chipped and eroded as water drizzles settles in the crook and meets the fringe of the leather vest.

The 3rd stands naturally – somewhat slouched – the belly is larger, the shirt more like a sweater – the hat more expressive with a oft-colored trim setting out against the streams of light drifting through the mannequins, saddle, sawhorses, slogans and such not in the window. the middle one draws on a cigarette and exhales.

As for me, moving across a intersected choice of six options.  Alternatives, and me loose , easy and baked, drift slightly south into irish heather – steadying, make way to conservatory room, far back.  White painted bricks along one wall save for standard beer mirrors – Guinness, Kilkenny, Harp, Bass so on … Rest of room is irons and glass – the floor rough, raw alley cobble, old as the city – red-bricked and sloping here and there.  the window behind me is cracked open but all are drafty, wooden and blue or green and all would be open in summerly times – now meditative dripping – needed cool air now.  Perhaps one may enter direct from the mews – popping in to the midst of music or drafts from the courtyard behind after leaving lover or friend with a wave to disappear – I imagine the proper hat to wear. I am not sure.  Long benches, wooden and freshly painted a blue which i want to call charlotte or to match a shirt i had in third grade if i can find the slide.  tables are tiny with smaller stool as though expecting tiny folk.

Pipes and gas lamps confuse which is in and outside.  As most times, i order a dark beer.   Then a cocktail on the menu with absinthe.  I ask as though aloof and tired with woolen coat, clunky leather shows, stitches fresh and hide pebbled, corduroys salvaged from a bad dream.  I’ve earned a moment.  The fellow with perfectly trimmed sideburns and uncommon tan brings cocktail. “Cheers!” he offers incidentally or instinctively.

Hi-ball glass w/ straw.  Elvis Costello sings then Joni Mitchell, the Van Morrison.  I don’t use the straw, drink from the rim, sweet, liquor pungent and smooth – I set it on the strongbow coaster.  2 couples and a table of 3 women all of all talking quickly and personally – i hear indiscretions, incidents and sentiments, apart from the miscellania.

I must be invisible again.

Last one out
close the door
to my heart

The Janitor hums, sweeping the last of the hallway flotsam info a dust pan, tippinginto the trash barrel with wheels, apparatus to hold spray bottles holding fading solutions, rags, extra trash bags and brooms.  Checks the double glass doors leadingoutside to the courtyard where people eat lunch and flirt on sunny days.  Dark now, crispy leaves skate along benches, colliding with ashtrays and disappearing in tostairwells. Beyond the wooded area, late delivery truck downshifts, aching the sigh of a man lonely for a hundred years.  Shuffling the hall, turning off each light inturn, flickering while closing each door.  Supplies into closet, change smock for jacket and scarf.  Squinting into the tiny mirror attached to the towel rack, hesmoothes hair and puts on a driving cap with half ear flaps folded up and walks outside.  In the shadow, someone somewhat familiar waits for him.

Leaning figure
Gracious in silhouette, leaning
Against grey primer fender

Delicious dreams
I mumble in my sleep
no memory

Fever – coming on stronger now. Gaining now for three days, delirious fits andsleepless tossing, frantic at random hours. Mind you, body never shivers, mind flashes burning pictures of moments. Some I remember might be called a dream but for the anguish. Too real for a nightmare, the pain, the fever, the malaise gains vigor with each grating snapshot. The unfamiliar seeps with fear, I don’t know howit will end. Each episode so far ends with me waking called waking only in that my eyes crack enough to register light or dark. I twist, fall back into the soaked feather bed drifting, one moment racing a woodencar down bumpy hill, children holler in cub scout knickers, proud with badges, another moment running hard, leaping onto pillars fleeing a unknown enemy ormaybe moving towards one, leaping higher columns tumble into oblivion, my feet slip, slide falling, falling next floating in a long abandoned warlord’s damp stronghold dungeon, somewhere atop a Teutonic hill slope, the moon shows the shackles through window slits. Warm and next a campfire warming feet and drinking from a flask as I mumble – fading eyes see nothing but white robes walking by from time to time.

Memories sequestered
Releasing now
As tea steam

Clear drops
on muddled windows
muddled thoughts

Saskatoon, snow drifts over wheat fields, kids skating in toques, playing shinyhockey until mom calls them to eat St. Jacob’s soup and thick heels of sourdough bread. “I got this yeast starter when your pa and I married,” she says to no child inparticular. Driving home, the road straight in snow chasm, walls pushed high by plows. Wipersscrapping, Am radio crackles minor league hockey scores, exclaiming local boys traveling by bus all night to play in Red Deer, Medicine Hat, Fort St. William, John, Albert or James, Moosejaw, 100 Mile House or maybe Moncton, New Brunswick for the Memorial Cup.  Acclaimed for dedication, perseverance, valor; intangibles – heart, character – playing in rinks named for citizens, soldiers and towns.

Rolling east
O’er muddled roads
Grinding towards remembrance

Room close dark
dark, listening – white noise
and windchimes

From my perch, survey the still life before me – a didgeridoo leaning against a wormwood bookcase, 4 thick shelves made from free form curly maple looking like slabs of bacon, books stacked horizontally for easy reading of titles on spines; Ulysses, Siddhartha, Tolstoy, Salinger, Dr. Seuss, a stack about Everest, old Edmund Hillary grinning under shaggy beard and leather edged goggles. BhagavadGita, with dead,bald smiling, reincarnated onto the dust leaf resting, leaning next to Don Quixote, heavy in four volumes with hand-cut pages, raised ink, tissue protects the engravings.A collection (complete) of TinTin the intrepid reporter (Belgian I think), his dog Snowy and ornery ole Cap’n Haddock. More adventure than John McPhee, him traipsing from Alaska to Bangladesh – lonely freighter pulling out of dark harbors, a thousand iron feet long tended by six – maybe eight scattered souls. A Russian Matryoshka doll – endless stream of smaller beings, a lighter from Belikin – the state brewery of Belize, a metal Sierra Club cup, engraved with highest peak in Nevada and a date so long ago that I look at a photo to remember – me, head in clouds, wearing a sweater I forgot I ever wore. Picture is snowy, the tin cup stained withheat, left holding coins from here and there, a yo-yo, and buttons fallen off of trousers.

Room collecting stories
To tell you
Some other time

My Declaration

As for me, I choose to forge my own place in history, to determine by own ends rather than subject my precious life for the exclusive use of any man – monarch or otherwise. Without my freedom to be what, and who, I choose, I have lost all!  No matter how insignificant my life’s work, at the least my life is of my own choosing and my labors, at my own volition.  My action, my loves, my thoughts will determine my life’s significance, and I will not surrender to fate’s whims.  I alone will live this life and this value I will not compromise.

Henri Lafleur, Russia 1812

November 27, 1812
Near Berezin Bridge, Russia

My sweet Genevieve,

It has been a journey of horrific proportions since I last was able to chance a letter.

The cold is equaled only by the depravity of desperate humans in its numbing pain. And yesterday, my friend Maurice joined the untold thousands of dead – scattered, abandoned aside the muddy cart path, deep-rutted in the frozen earth.  Littered with wreckage – dead horses, men frozen solid, eyes gaping, boots taken.  Many stumble barefoot roasting frostbitten toes by their final fire.  Pillages of war dumped – no weight or relic worthy of any carrying. Golden candle sticks, Persian rugs – objects of decadence, objects of art, holy relics – deserted now.

One must survive by wits and cunning and in that, my dear Maurice helped me along so much.  He appeared one morning (though there is little difference between day & night – just walking and not-walking), with a sturdy walking cane for me!  He was the one who coaxed me each dreadful day as we trudge into uncertain horizons.  Oh the peace he feels now, free of this madness!

As I sit looking down from the hilltop, watching as thousands fall dead – by bullet, by Cossack sword, or pushed into the icy river with the mob pushing across.  For me, there is little chance of me making my way across the bridge, not alone, not without help from my friend.

Surely when the officers have crossed, the bridge will be destroyed like so many broken dreams – leaving the Russians and French separated as we began.  I will not rush to death, rather for me, I will have the courage to determine my own fate to stride purposefully and resolutely, free of heart, clean of conscience, ruling only my sovereign self.

For you – for the days we missed together & the years in which we‘ll never part – I will find a way to survive. For the thousands of dead faces I have seen, and for Maurice, I renounce this war but pledge that I will not let this tragic madness defeat me.

My dear Genevieve, look for me in the spring, my return will be later than hoped.

With love, freedom and conviction, Henri

Oct. 20, 1812
Leaving Moscow

Cher Genevieve,

I write with haste (tucked under a rug for a tarp) so I can send this note straight by messenger to you in Paris.  We, since yesterday, have been ordered into retreat and as such are retracing (I assume) our route and trust only to hope that we survive.  When it became clear we would not stay over winter in Moscow, the looting, pillaging & other monstrosities in the name of spoils erupted as these scavengers made away with every shiny trifle they could seize from anyone weaker – no matter their standing.   I loathe the disgusting manner of how we humans can treat each other when exposed to the harsh certainty that death has eluded you so far and your chances may be up soon.

I will spare you details but will assure you of my preparedness I have made.  I managed to cobble together the best pair of boots I could manage.  I made two pairs giving one set to Maurice who obtained scraps of luxurious fur which I carefully sewed inside.  The soles are double thickness and, in mine I placed some felt to prop and protect my limping leg somewhat.  The outside leather is sealed with candle wax, I scuffed the leather to hide the quality lest some drunkard attempt to steal them – though it would require great force for me to surrender my boots – without which would mean certain peril in these treacherous conditions.  I also have a warm coat (the heaviest I could find) and a supply of candles and dry tinder.

Now my sweet, please do not concern yourself unduly, but in seeing the savagery of death around me for so many months & knowing the inhospitable lands ahead, I must tell you two things and request one of you, in event I am unable to return.

To you, please know that no one has ever been loved more by anyone than I love you. You are fantastically adored & amazingly admired.  You stir the very nature of my soul & fulfill me as a man and as a person.  If I do not return to sit with you on the veranda drinking wine in the afternoon, please allow yourself to find someone else to spend glorious days with.  Please do not settle!  Any suitor must be worthy and aware of your refinements, intelligent and vigorous spirit.

For me, please bind these letters and store them somewhere safe in hopes that one day my discourse may help another generation avoid such madness.

Forever yours,  Henri

Oct. 11, 1812
Moscow, Russian France

Cher Genevieve,

Again I write to you in haste after too long a month.  The situation found here in Moscow has worsened greatly and we continue to live as a captives rather than conquerors.  I have scant reason to hope, but if only to hang onto my senses and precious sanity which as abandoned so many here.  The ‘Grand Armie’ looting, destroying, pillaging – decimated and surrendered to their basest, barest traits.  Greed and fear rule this city of ashes, destroyed as a desperate hope for some, but fueled by the debauchery of ours.  More than shaming themselves, they risk the common ability for survival as these winds & clouds grow in strength each day.

The Russians’ Alexander continues to ignore N.’s letters of surrender, etc.  How can he be blamed in mistrusting N.’s advances since the public scorn he felt after since Tilsit and now the surrender of Moscow?  Meanwhile, N. issues decrees to mitigate the suffering of the stragglers left here who aren’t already shot or starved.  Promises of kindness & benefit to any that come out of hiding & bring their vegetables or butter to market.  What!  Would anyone bring their labors to benefit a usurper of their lands?  To them, he is no liberator or revolutionary.  To them, he is not a brilliant general & able to fair administrator – he is a tyrant to them & to others, many of which serve in his army.

Save for famine or plague, there is no greater evil than occupation by an enemy, no matter how well mannered, jovial, cordial or able the enemy is.  To spread a revolution or reform must be accomplished as a friend & with openness, sincerity and not at the sacrifice of so many lives.  So many thousands of lives around me, reduced to animals smashing greedily into each cellar, reducing grandeur into rubble.  The discipline is gone – Napoleon does not command these hoarders.  They are controlled only by their overwhelming desires for self-preservation regardless of means.

I however my love am determined to survive.  I am cautiously preparing for the inevitable cold as I await a chance to simply live in peace again – but I fear there is no escape if not soon.

Anxiously, Henri

Sept. 30, 1812
Moscow, French Russia

Cher Genevieve, As you probably know, we are ensconced in Moscow, or what is left of it.  The city of domes sits in a sooty wet pile of ash and destruction.  I am still stunned at the results of the campaign and can only dream of seeing you again.

I pass the days avoiding disturbances and fending for my health and safety along with Maurice who continues to surprise me with his quick mind even more than his capable skills.  People of all kinds are attracted to him and he seems to possess a natural ability towards leadership and decision making.  He listens and makes choices that seem to please everyone without ever compromising his own judgement or ethics.  He appears rough and his first comments upon meeting are usually terse and offhand – even insulting – yet somehow he draws people in.  They want to know him.  For me, he is a fortune.  He gives me much needed grounding and a touchstone for the realities of this ordeal.  He indulges my conversation – despite my lofty ideals or the idealistic chatter – and challenges my thinking with his point of view, the voice of the ‘common man.’  For one to think he can understand a social quandary in solitary state is foolish assumption. M’s conversation helps me understand a contrary viewpoint – and to better collect my own reasoning so to express myself clearly.

But the most remarkable feature about Maurice is his refusal to take advantage of his skills & erstwhile power or influence, or at least in my presence.  In this campaign I have seen so many drunk on power – earned or assumed – and wallowing in self-importance. The privileges of ranks and class, while abolished by the civil code, seem to live on in this military realm like some glue holding the masses together.  The men gravitate towards the natural leaders – not the assigned ones – the brave lead, the appointed give orders and pontificate as to who distinguished himself the most, or best.  But I do wonder if any are immune from the majestic influence of power to corrupt as I see even the most earnest submit to the easy treachery of opportunity.  Is any man so uncommon that they can resist the temptation to manipulate? To wield their sword of power so often that at last they expose their great weakness?  To go to the well one more time only to come up dry at the moment of greatest need?  At what point does every man surrender himself into decadence? Succumb to injustice – turning pettiness into grounds for war?  At what point does one move from liberator to tyrant?

I hesitate to say what I see happening here as such admittance will steal my last hopes.

Fondly, Henri

Sept 11, 1812
Near Fily, outside of Moscow

Oh my sweet Genevieve,

This dangerous wager with lives and spoils continues and the revulsion in me festers. After the hideous cruelty at Borodino, the army has reached a fever pitch as momentum pulls us to Moscow like a stormy outgoing tide – the deeper we move into Russia, the farther away I am from return to you.  Oh why did we not stop in Smolensk of at the Neiman and call upon the strongest from each side to fight to decide the victor!  Of course this folly of being strongest and ‘most right’ fills the armies (both I assume) or else their would be no reason to fight.  It goes beyond the love of motherland, a love of victory, to a desire of belonging to something strong as though belonging to something ‘right’ as a vindication of one’s existence and ability.  The reward for them is not the institutions that bring order, culture & equality to a land, but rather the thirst for the revelry that follows a battle.

The dead are quickly forgotten, and understandably so, as is respect and decency in the thick & moist aftermath of battle – they (the fallen) are forgotten in the pillage, the rape, the murder & these spoils of our war which entice the most hitherto most-principled man – officer or soldier.  Yet no thought is given to the humans their actions affect.  The shock and rage that will burrow in each witness – each victim – as these allegedly civilized men loose themselves in pandemonium.

These decent French men – who at home may walk a mile to help a friend or bounce the most delicate baby on a knee while laughing – loose all thought of kindness, mercy, or respect for life.  The villagers’ lives or livelihoods are sacrificed simply because they were brave enough to abandon their homes to fire, or even stay and defend their small tract against a foreign country.   For me, if I loose my kindness towards others, I shall be dead myself.

Though I sit here cold and alone, I am free.   I can look at another person in the eyes and know, despite my army’s power over them, I do not feel a conqueror and I will not harm them for they have done nothing to me.  I am embarrassed of my nation, gluttonous on victory as we approach Moscow – the domes of cathedrals gleaming like a secret.  What joy is being an uninvited guest, forcing a way in after killing thousands? I for my own self reject this violence if for no reason other than empathy for the thousands who flee even now into the night – the children & the old, lame, sick, insane.  Even the sanest and most brutal of enemy soldiers does not deserve my wrath but my help ~ which I am rather helpless to give.  I did give my coat to a wounded young man I found in the woods.  He was shaking violently, his muddy clothing torn from explosion – I covered him with my wool coat before running to get a doctor or a litter.  When I returned, my coat was stolen (as were his boots), and I was derided for my efforts by the staff as the boy was Russian.

Fervently, Henri

September 8, 1812
Borodino, Russia

Cher Genevieve,

Comment ca va?  For me, I am well as I could expect after the carnage I’ve witnessed the past weeks, but yesterday, the battle went on as waves of men met death as a flood, a race to escape this uncertainty.  We continued further into Russia, the villages burned by the time we arrive, the looters scavenge like stray dogs.  We meet no one they isn’t killed or dying already.  The Grand Army (of almost 600,000) of just a few weeks ago bears little resemblance to the haggard troops marching today.  Each of these small skirmishes cost of a few thousand lives, each night’s bivouac costs dozens more with disease or succumbing to injury.  So many troops disappear I don’t believe anyone really knows if their absence is desertion, sickness or lost in battle.  This rhythm of death exploded yesterday and today each side has the audacity to claim victory.  What vile victory do they claim when 40,000 Russians lay dead?  Corpses yet to be collected, already rotting and mutilated – they fought, then they retreated towards Moscow.  Some say we shouldn’t chase further in the heart of Russia.  I am inclined to agree but my reasons are selfishly personal rather than strategic.  What good is a fight when 20,000 of my own French compatriots died in scant hours today?

‘My’ Army is half the size to the most optimistic eyes, but you; you are still so far away. I wonder what you are doing this moment?  What will you do today, tomorrow?  I see you going to your classes at the University – the mahogany wisps of your short-cropped hair catching sun as you move past the bright cafes, waving to a friend.  I don’t dare think of life at home much, the people, the places.  Too much is so painful.  Just, and only, of you.

“This separation somehow will make our life better and love stronger,” I tell myself, though each day makes a bigger task to convince myself.  Despite the constant rhythm of death, the soldiers keep up a remarkable spirit of obedience to the campaign.  Indeed there is little doubt of the reasons for the invasion discussed (though murmurs of dissatisfaction more often arise about the rations!), nor the wisdom of Napoleon’s motives. N. knows his regiments like children; he rides the lines greeting old soldiers like school chums.  Part friend, part father, counseling, supporting with gilded words of honor at home – the rewards of victory, the respect & awe of the world, the supplication of the Russians, the praise in family.  “I was at the battle at Borodino of Shervadino,” “I defeated the monarchs.”  I’ve no regard for those who rule due to wealth & greed stockpiling wealth over generations while the laborers of the country are relegated to poverty and scorn.  These same farmers who now populate the infantry & are dying by hundreds and thousands.  Beggars before but now equal – though, in that they are the poorest, only somewhat equal.  But the democracy I dream of, benefits those most who understand it least, those who feel it the most, and are the very origins of democracy. Plato the Greek says, “democracy emerges when the poor win, kill or exile their opponents & give the rest civil rights and opportunities of office.”  Of these uneducated, ‘salt of France,’ Plato says “the mass of the people who earn their own living, take little interest in politics & aren’t very well off.  They are the largest class in a democracy and once assembled are supreme.  I don’t mean disrespect when speaking of their lack of education.  Indeed they are the impetus for change & the choke against democracy turning into tyranny.

For my part, I don’t want to fight for freedom; I simply want to be free to be.  While it seems all men at war would feel the abhorrence of fighting, the routine of waiting for orders & following orders provides a comfortable routine that appeals to a primal instinct in some soldiers.  You can tell the one who live for the love of the fight.  The confident exuberance they carry themselves with.  The same as anyone might when going into an arena in which they know they can dominate.  But I do not wish to be them nor do they wish to be me.  I am here with the aim of returning safely to greedily savor the life in the New France, strolling with you, hand in hand, your cheek curling against my shoulder.  You soul unguarded, sharing your secrets. I want to live in a republic where we don’t have time for war because we are too occupied celebrating love, spreading charity for kindness sake, creating music, making the cities beautiful & countryside spotted with healthy farms.  Liberty to speak, to choose your vocation, religion & attain any station in life are the hallmarks of democracy.

I am not so naive to think that greed will not creep in to undermine the benefits of all for the advancement of a few.  It is clear that some humans will always proceed at a quicker pace, accumulating wealth & subsequent powers through skill, cunning, or random chance, or alas, from ill-gotten means from robbing to corruption – but a rule of law based on the will of the people is the best remedy I’ve heard.  The challenge is how to effectuate a democracy without bloodshed?  How to bring revolution without drawing sword & summoning cannon, sacrificing the dreams & limbs of thousands or millions. How to organize peasants & merchants with the collective interest leading the way over greed?  Is it the job of our Army to bring this curriculum to a sovereign dominion?

Though I hold the ideals of the revolution in a lofty place, I would suggest that a republic refines & demonstrates a sublime model as a beacon and a lesson rather than delivering precepts by force.  Such action is tyranny & corruption of the ethos of equality & liberty.

Should I feel guilty that I do not wish to fight?  That I wish to bring change in a peaceful manner?  Is it greedy that I desire these simple things?  How is it that a hot bath or a cup of buttermilk is more important to me than the annexation of yet another country?  Do I care more about ‘us’ then I care about the Poles, the Prussians, the Austrians, Russians, Italians?  Must well all be homogenized to instill peace?  Are we building tolerance & mutual dependence by installing Frenchmen to serve as administrators to be scorned by the people they are charged to lead?

When I think of freedom, I do not think of the groaning, bloody bodies strewn across a moist valley.  No, I think of quiet mornings, tea outdoors, I think of 3 milk goats, a small vineyard.  I dream of a small family of children who will never taste war but instead only joy & respect for the republic they live in.  I imagine a hog each year, named but butchered for bacon through the winter.  I imagine walks in the hills, a picnic lunch next to a field of cornflowers.  Head to head, walking slowly together, the comfort of companionship.  Rousseau says ‘Friendship, confidence, intimacy, tranquility of mind, how delicious are your seasonings!’

Like Jean Jacques, and most any other, I have always felt & declared that is impossible to describe true enjoyment.  I feel I may find the words when at last I see you, your twinkling eyes and hair pushed back loosely waiting for me – the passage of time lost as I find you as I left you.  Vibrant, triumphant & fond of me just for being me – and ‘we’ being able to be ‘us’ – alone and together.  I will send this now as we are heading east tomorrow.

J’aime toi, Henri

August 12, 1812
Smolensk, Russia

C. Genevieve,

Frightful days!  We pursued the Russians as far as Smolensk where I witnessed a horrific sight, one hitherto unimaginable to my eyes or mind.

The sudden burst of activity coming closer, more focused, & our expressions turning maniacal with fear, resolve, and dare said – bloodlust.  Oh the killing!  While I expected (and thought I had steeled myself for), the battles, and the last week since crossing the River, I’ve seen several incidents, I under estimated we human’s ability for waste and intolerable agony.  The brutality stunned me raw and left an empty sickness, both physically and mentally.  My basic human sensibilities are overwhelmed by how humans can ever consider, no matter the feud, to resolve to kill enough others to force submission and an acceptance of terms – a lifetime of dominance, no matter the form?

While the valley was wide, in the early morning when the troops thundered down and artillery resonated from hilltops and redoubts, the wide valley filled with bodies like milk poured from a pitcher.  The dying!  The dying is not gallant, nor precise.  Bodies slashed, skewered and pummeled into capitulation, laid to suffer in muddy earth, hoping for horse hooves or errant cannonballs to end their writhing.

In the end the stills & quiet penetrated only by groans of these suffered through the day, the serious murmur of medics sorting bodies into ones that are left to die, and those carried by litter to live a little longer.  No injury is small or slight.  For most there is no surgery, those that are operated are fortunate to survive the cleavers and blinding pain of repair.

The dead lay everywhere like a mess to clean tomorrow, organs chopped like horsemeat, flesh oozing into revulsion.  Lives flooding into nonexistence with a flash of metal.  Each one, a life completed before a happy end.  I should not presume other’s sense of happiness but I contend that duty or honor is not a fair exchange for a life lost on a battlefield.  No prestige is high enough a price.  I resolve to be care with my every step and return to you whole in body and mind.

Yours completely, Henri

July 28, 1812
Near Drissa, Russia

Cher Genevieve,

Last night, at the fire with Eugenio, I asked, “Where will the battle be?”  The air was anxiously quiet, – crackling fire and restless horses louder than still air.

“Here,” he said.  “It cannot be here, this is two peaceful a place for so many to die,” I thought.  I was wrong.

They call them small battles but I see now the method of war and am awake to the pain and embarrassed by the honor of countries who care so little for their sons that they would ever subject them to this reckless risk of death.  This action, while merely counted numbers of units to a general or king, mean the everything for the counted, their families, their children ~ they and we are all victims.

Such waste is unforgivable; a moral travesty and make mockery of our (alleged) ability to reason as civilized humans.

I fear the killing and the dying, I do not want to kill and go so far as to say I am incoherent as to why anyone would – save for the immediate attack to one’s family or self. I fear that in this expansionist campaign, we may loose our freedoms – both mentally and politically, if even are able to save our lives.

Continually yours, H.

June 24, 1812
Bivouacked near the Neiman River, border of Prussia and Russia

Mon Sweet Genevieve,

At last I have a chance to drop you a note which will have a chance to find you.  I am fortunate in that I am able to gain a few favors for delivery that would be unavailable to most.  The news does seem to travel fast in general.  Indeed, a lame horseman can travel faster than this huge mass of humanity.  We have met with the rest of the Army and Napoleon himself has arrived.  He ensures everyone know that he is here & here to lead. He rides the ranks as we camp making final preparations to go into Russia.

Once we cross the Neiman into Russia, I expect the day-to-day of traveling and repairing boots will change, I just don’t know how.  Though this is the military, I don’t carry a gun despite teasing from Maurice, Eugenio and the others.

Honestly, I think they (the guns) are more for a show of power and makes them feel that they are in-stead with the other fighting men despite that we are in a non-combative role.  “Self preservation,” they said, but honestly I just am not sure we would have the presence of mind to shoot another even under the direst of circumstances.  Could I look in someone’s eyes as his fears flash through and pull a trigger to implant a hard orb of metal into his being with the aim of finality to his existence?  But, is his life more important than my own?

In reality, I hope that I can avoid such circumstances, as well as staying out of harms way in general.  I can also hope that diplomacy can carry the day and we return across this River with nary a shot fired. I cannot honestly say I expect such a simple resolution. Now you’ll pardon my treasonous speech for a moment but … while fixing boots for some General of such and such, … he was discussing the Treaty at Tilsit signed by N. and Czar Alexander last year.

Of course, when France heard the news of Russia’s concessions, we thought it had been inevitable and even our privilege to bring our Empire to them by their compromise.  We lauded N. as ‘great’ and ‘brilliant’ for the advantages he took.   But, in listening to the General recount this event, I thought about the Russians and how such talks would strengthen their resolve to fight for pride, as it would ours if the role of history were reversed.

The monarch and generals agitate one another to frenzy then, send in innocent pawns as food for a hungry bear or lion.  I applaud the role of diplomacy to resolve disputes but such negotiations must not take advantage of a simpler, or daresay less sophisticated thinker.  If you are espousing a virtuous and honest republic where equality reigns, you must start at the highest levels.

We must espouse a virtuous republic where honesty and virtue is held higher than expansionist desires, or even the love of one’s country and the pride of culture.  A republic where administrative efficiency trumps royal excess where we have both the right to own land and a responsibility to pay debts.

For my part, I attempt to undertake my daily affairs in a fair and honest manner, giving my entire effort into all I do, despite the humbleness of my tasks.

Honestly, Henri

May 25, 1912
Somewhere in Poland, en route to Warsaw

Cher Genevieve,

Today is the third rainy day in a row & heaviest yet.  You know, I tend to like the overcast days with promise of rain and the smells that follow and even these days, I quite like the pattern & drama of nature.  The troops grumble and I don’t share my comfort as unlike most, of course I ride in the wagon assigned to our small unit.  In fact, as I write I ride on the frontboard with Maurice who I mentioned earlier, he drives the horses and I hunker down trying to keep my notes to you dry – aside from my tears!

I am kidding somewhat, but I admit my longing to be entwined with your long white fingers, watching your tiny, almost round ears bounce as you laugh.  You are to me the essence of the modern woman, free to be, strong and taken the effort to educate yourself rather than idly gossiping in salons with boorish and trite crones who act as though they alone run the Republic!  But you, my sweet, not only do you thrill me with your beauty but also your humor, the way you make me laugh no matter my malaise.  The way you instinctively know how to make me whole in spirit, to believe in our chances – ours and our world’s, France’s and our corner of Paris, my shop, your school, the museums, the theatres, the libraries, the cafes.

As promised – per your request – I will include more observations of the day to day routine of military life.  As you know, my role is unique and my duty not typical of these men.  But it being what I know – and for that matter, no one else knows my experiences – I’ll put forth a few notes to try to show you my moving world while the images are still fairly fresh ~ like blank paper.

First, I am surprised by the quick pace and progress by which we move across the countryside.  The marches are long but the soldiers and the supply caravans et al seem to move as a single unit with a sort of collective consciousness moving the head.  Of course, there are orders and officers and marshals directing the flow on a specific schedule, but to my vantage point, I feel the army would move on its own volition and end up in the same place at about the appointed time, without any direction.  You could conjecture a comparison to water finding a mountain drainage, or the heart pumping blood, but will have such consideration to you.

Next, the sheer size of moving this many men to do battle elsewhere seems like an unproductive effort considering the expenses and effort.  I can’t help but wonder how this vast number of men will be needed for a battle and how no other option was devised of that eliminate this parade of lost potential.  How could this massive swarm be put to better use building some device or method to better humankind?  Do such advances in science or design of mechanism not spirit liberal reforms the way a revolution might?  I think that leisure and time to learn begets the seeds of revolutionary thought.  The method of the revolutionary action however, must be chosen with a sense of what is best for a greater number of people.  With this in mind, we should seek to enter as friends if we hope to benefit from the great cost of lives already expended.

This leads to a third brief topic of the wisdom of the blockades of British goods at ports in the greater French Empire.  Any parent will tell you that as soon as you instruct a child not to do something, immediately they wonder how they might do this condemned action. When ports are closed, several things occur, … 1) a black-market develops for English goods whether brought in English boats in quasi-secrecy on exchanged offshore on local ships, and 2) the closer of the ports (N. in this case) leaves a gaping hole in which his resolve & power can be tested.  The moral sentiment can erode & change flow quickly when people are denied items to which they are accustomed or are denied the freedom to exchange their labor (in form of goods) which whom they choose.

The point I don’t mention is the boost to the sanctioned economy, providers in France and its environs may well sell an increase in demand.  But this is a panacea and as artificial supported, will collapse.  To close my observations, I suggest that open trade in goods results in increased knowledge, understanding, communication & trade, ultimately resulting in (hopefully) peaceful progressive reform.

As ever, Henri

April 25, 1812
Somewhere in Austria, en route to Prussia

My Sweet Genevieve,

When the corporal told me of a letter from Paris, I was overjoyed!  Ah, to read the first words from you since that morning which now seems so long ago.  I remember you in daisy yellow dress blowing me kisses all way until disappeared.  Me standing atop the carriage ‘til you faded from view.

Now I see you in my dreams and in my waking hours, chestnuts the color of your hair, the deep endless lake blues of your eyes, you pouting lips breaking easily into laughter. Oh for those days to come again an soon!  Our love will snap us together over so many muddy miles.  I, if you’ll allow me, must admit that I value you as a friend as much as a woman, my lover, my wife to-be, you are my confidant, my gentle lover & rambunctious friend.  You are my comforting presence and make me feel loved and mighty.  You, the memory of you, the dreams of you – remembering you each time I smell fresh lemons or see the daffodils growing by each stream we cross.  You offer me reason to come home, you are my source of hope in those tumultuous times.

Oh, but life is not so bad as we travel.  I ride in the wagon with Maurice and Eugenio. We know we are fortunate and work hard, even en route.  The wagon has heavy cloth sides & canopy to protect our supplies and we often stop away from most of the other troops so to enjoy the countryside.  I’ve taken to sketching and using E.’s watercolors. He paints in oils but allows me to watch him with my good natured (I hope) ramblings. I’ll enclose a few of my attempts to give you a sense of the local environs.

We move quickly through villages of only a few shops and houses, across fields of wheat with farmers looking much the same as home.  A couple of oxen, a small barn, chickens vegetables.  They look on ~ deciding how to feel, it seems.  Their home and environs are important to them, no matter who sits in power.  It their surroundings and ‘home’, more than ‘homeland’ or king, they would fight for.  Let us hope that they are allowed in peace.  We should all be so lucky – all of us I mean – to have a piece of land that we reap the whole of our labors from.  Free to exchange our efforts for a result of our choice without encumbrance or malice.  I hope this is what our revolution brings to Russia.

Always, H.

April 15, 1812
En route in Austria

Mon Cheri Genevieve,

We are on the move now, a tremendous length of soldiers on foot, trudging with their packs and sleek polished weapons.  Other plumed in comical hats, proud on horses that seem indifferent to the rank of their riders and more impressed with their importance.

Since my letter last, the camp became a flurry of activity as we readied to move through Austria quickly on into Prussia, Poland, then Russia who continue to allow British ships into port despite N.’s blockade.

Austria, now defeated again will march along with us, with the Italians, Dutch, Polish and more forces from twenty European countries unified under France.  I wonder how they feel about their conscription by an enemy.  But, such things are not discussed, dissent is grounds for persecution and ridicule ~ my aim is to avoid both and thus, consider my thoughts alone.

My hope is N. will not drag this campaign deep into Russia for my own selfish reasons, that of keeping me far away from your slender, giving arms for any longer than absolutely needed for the great of the Republic. It is you that is important to me!

Yours,  Henri

April 8, 1812
Encamped near Vienna, Austria

Cher Genevieve,

Again, I spent all day gazing at clouds while I wandered the camp, thinking of you and us.  Remembering long lunches in second-story cafes, peeking below at passers-by, guessing the stories, Where they are going? What do they do? Their secrets, or their names.

Thinking of our future, perhaps a small country house where you’ll teach at a school & I’ll go bald & tend to radishes.  Or maybe I will grow my shop and train apprentices, but honestly, I am not sure I want to force a profession on someone unless it is what they want to do.  Rather I want to be the one who encourages others to find their essential nature, to explore their desires and predilections without shame.  Honestly to make their way in the world without hindrance, fear or influence from Church or State.

Being from a merchant family, I am awkwardly struck between the so-called nobles, clergy and other suckling wastefully from the labors of others, – and those others being the peasants reduced to shame by the “sin-king” who shone nothing but scorn for those who produced the wealth of France.  But neither class care for the trader and crafters, both fearing and envying our limited political influence.  No matter, such a world is not mine to decide.

Though I have endless choices before me, I know only one choice to make and that is you.  You Genevieve, you are the joy that sustains me, the antidote for the venom of fear.

With the vigor of our love, I will keep safe in my tasks so as to return to you whole.

Affectionately, H.

April 6, 1812
Encamped near Vienna, Austria

Cher Genevieve,

I have only been gone for less than two weeks but already I miss you more than I thought I would after many long months!  We can only hope my duty goes quickly so to return to you soon.  For this, we’ll trust Napoleon’s judgement.

After the hurried wagon trip, I’ve met up with my unit in a beautiful part of Austria. I’ve attempted a sketch to give you a sense of place.  With the high mountain altitude come waves of late blooming wildflowers of every lavender and purple, gold, orange & the lovely blue of your eyes – glowing like patina on copper.  Soaring peaks frosted with the immaculate sheen of ice.

As it is, there is little evidence of recent or impending war.  The towns are lively and efficient and the people cordial considering the manner in which the French arrived!  At the camp, there is a methodically, tense routine of preparing equipment & provisions of all manner.  You know I do not fit well into routine and early mornings but I will make do.

As for my unit, I’ll be traveling with a supply wagon along with a few others, a tailor Maurice; he tends to all uniforms for officers, both mending and outfitting.  He somehow doesn’t look the part – stout and chubby-fingered.  He has a cynical wit and an easy wink.  He remembers names and tells stories about fishing in rowboats with his uncle, a preacher in Arles.  Besides M. is Eugenio, wiry and always smoking.  He is also older than most everyone I’ve seen in camp and turns out he fought with Italy against Napoleon but now is conscripted as a painter, obliged to produce portraits of corpulent generals and grand scenes of battle.   He knows well the history of the each campaign and seems unimpressed by the eager anticipation of orders.

Everyone assumes we are soon bound for Russia, combining with the northern troops to form one Grand Army.  This alone should be enough for Russia’s Czar Alexander to come to terms – ending this campaign and sending me back to your arms in just a few months of spring and summer.  Even if we move into Russia, we will surely be returning well before winter.

Such a schedule will give me time to open up a cobbler shop of my own and marry you next Spring.  I am glad we told your parents of our plans before I left – though they weren’t as surprised as we thought!  (Of course send my regards and best wishes to them.)  But for now, I am bound by the wishes of Napoleon through the orders written for the day.  The soldiers never question and maintain a sense of urgency to seize their place history.  This is Napoleon’s skill, a genius ability to motivate the troops with promises of glory, the causes of the revolution, importance of spreading French culture and our civil code throughout a united Europe.

I must admit some reservations about the need of bringing Russia into our Grand Republic but I will leave such decisions to more seasoned minds.  I can only trust the motives are not driven by ego.  We can only hope for sound judgement and that the state does not exceed the bounds of what can be expected from a citizen.

You and I (and so many others) will be the harvesters of the rich new, country. Rich in spirit, filled with light and truth.

I am eager to live in this France – a France as ideal as we believe it can be – where the unjustness of class and privilege at birth is eradicated.  Where fair courts and laws bring sense and equality from the arbitrary whims of unfit monarchs.  A country where virtue is celebrated and honesty replaces corruption. Please know that when I return, you, your family and our community will know I did my part to build this Republic – for us and our children and grandchildren.

Yours, Henri

Note to Readers

What follows is a collection of letters (albeit ostensibly) written by Henri LaFleur – a cobbler in the French army during the Russian campaign of 1812 – to Genevieve Vaschon, his fiance in Paris.

Henri’s fourteen letters offer his observations on the physiology of war, as well as discourse and personal sentiments on love, war, society, politics, and meaning of self. The accompanying landscapes give a sense of his search for solace and release in the surrounding chaos of war.

The letters were sent over an eight-month period beginning in Austria and moving through Prussia, Poland and into Russia.   First with battles in Smolensk and Borodino, then fires and pillaging in Moscow, and finally the well-documented November retreat.

The final letter in the correspondence was sent on retreat near the Berezin Bridge at which location during three days, much of the remaining French army perished into the icy river while attempting crossing of the bridge.  Others were stranded in on the Russian side with the pursuing Cossack troops when the retreating French army destroyed the bridge behind them.

As it were … the collection of letters, along with a variety of sketches and paintings, was found bound and stored in an attic trunk, as per Henri’s written request before leaving Moscow.  There is no further verifiable historical information to confirm Henri’s return home though regional folklore contends that he indeed survived and lived a long life in a small village near the sea with his dear Genevieve.

-Dave Olson
Summer 2004
Lake Cresent, Washington & Manzanita, Oregon

She wears the twisted scarf
muffled like an Audrey Hepburn character
the sweater i miss the times when
i’d worn wool buttoned
and misty windows rainy day slippers

Like the first morn of
the first day of school

the bus driver doesn’t acknowledge my absence
i cough good morning anyhow

Flugelhorn weeps along with wheels on rain
Pennies won’t derail a train
but might cause a bruise
when dropped from the
tallest place you’ve ever seen

1.

Exchanging foreign candies
in a crooked lingo
aboard crowded bus
Excited in the new scene
the Japanese kid
too cool to talk
purple hair reading with
curly glass earrings
the other shaggy haired
and rock and roll leather jacket
and tennis racket
just doesn’t make sense why
Angels recruit in Vancouver

2.

Waiting for a different bus
The Persian woman with an hour-long hairdo
and green skirt suit
hoping for a glance
While friendly fire kills more
the paper mentions in passing
tempting few to wonder why

3.

The key to getting by
is knowing when to move back and when to get off
when the bridge sways on purpose
tethered by twisted cables
driven deep into burning ground
threatens the survival of us
within this toxic time

(For Tristan Colbriere, The End, La Fin)

Oakum planks rowboat
Bohemian seafarers
The current pulls towards easy an stride
Oars pull – locks wobble,
dynamics of hollowness and displacement
Expecting the inclement
seeking a forward curl

You and your seafaring dreams
Do you not know about the fever that levels so many?
Deep, gritty slick bottom appeared
before no gracious host
only grey curious gaze

Or a foreign plot lined with the greyest stones
Shipmates and explorers align aside
only to fade
Nigh seamate, hold fast
seek the cove and savour
The salty bracing air dear shipmate

Ships lean, storms crush, sailors scramble and the orphans walk
Mast arched and stretched against
The grain.
Storms pull fro and ships seek harbor
Grimy oakumed planks stuffed with twine –
tapped with purposeful hammer
The hollow serves no purpose
with naught a shoreman aboard

bad guys in tie dyes
wild oats and pigs and goats
blow the coals
in that there hole
gates locked key lost
left in lurch so go to church
and tread the water little farther
kick it in pick it up
faraway slap bang slap dash
go dutch knee high break a bone
bust a gut tear it up
soup and nuts in a cup
marioni marconi macironi
stalemate tailormade
count to ten  there you go
read your bible so you will know
how to vibrate gesculate
emulate authorities won’t agree
cause you smoke the weed ain’t
no good find the quench
sing the birds trees rocks and things
till you ain’t no hungry
never gonna hurt
know you got the rubber
know you got the beat
platy eight maybe ten
never hurt again
oh oh
hoe hoe dee doe
here we go
stand up sit down
in a corner on the wall
in a snit on a wall o.k.
thumbs up pinch hit
in the morning
you are jah person
jah people say
don’t turn them away
don’t take it hard
already
green thumb
big jump
quantum leap missing link
kinda dumb dumb dumb
chewing gum
cakes and ale
lion’s share i don’t care
grease your hair
grease your palm
cross cross your palm hair down
naked truth bet your boots
off the shelf raincheck
sugardaddy kinda crazy
stegasaurus brontasaurus
me a saurus you a saurus
politics were made to bore us
strike a bargain strike a hat
hats off to overalls bowling balls
see the stars stars sky
knee high same song
regular guy walk a rope
light a spark bark bark
trailer park big wheel
paper plates and sewer grates
i’m as mad as that hard times
rip offs seperate ways
sewer man super man mr. sunshine
pow wow show down square off
call the shots
pretty girls love your thighs
got the hots no words
world so good polka dots
love love hand in glove
just like new york robert bork
parts is parts strengh is strengh
less confusion less carousing
glad rags and witty jabs
down at he bottom of the well
where is water is not
i was too afraid
try to frustrate cup is full overfull
got to go
loaves and fish beer and beans
in the belly of the whale
where you send gotta go
all the way to mexico
rampage high jinks suits and ties
and butterflies butterflied
yo -yos yo -yo
screaming meenies
beatnik beenies
hairy chests and skating rinks
whitewashed rednecks
iguanas and lizard kids
red red rose bloom boom
watch it bloom
columbine
cheap box wine
hoe dee doe there you go
–

circa 1988

his ears are stones
his opinions explosions
he doesn’t want to hear
sit and think about it
with distilled inspiration
no one else matters
his mind stares ahead
tells himself he’s happy
as he swallows his damnation

–

circa 1987

Crawl across my foot
my little worm friend.
Together we’ll bake our
wrinkly bodies in the sun.
I’ve nothing else to do all day,
or for an hour, but to
share your sudden life,
sitting, wrinkling.
Just because I want to.
And I can.

I’ll help you pass little worm.
Sweep you in a magic, dizzying way,
back to your island of lichen, moss
and various fungus hidden.
Over rocks, twigs and hills of toes,
for no other reason than none.

But I promise silence
my little friend,
I don’t wish to quake you,
my quietest voice being thunder.

–

ca. 1990

And furthermore, once you are dead,
ground up and rotting for years,
long after your rancid flesh is
devoured by greasy,
double-chinned,
pimply breakfast eaters,
even after two or four more pig
generations have farted, wheezed and belched
through their seasons,
your fat, entrails and miscellaneous gristle,
will still be sitting on a shelf,
in a flourescent store,
in a box that says
LARD
on it.
–

circa  1990

Now that I know you, pretty girl.
Now that I know you better than
any other curious man,
I’d like to be nervous and call you,
and call you your real name
(not Candi, I’ll boldly assume).

I’d like to bring you flowers
or other corny things.
Or we could see a movie
(you said you liked movies).
Maybe then a hockey game.

I could show you my Volkswagen bus,
and I could take you to Moab or Disneyland
or whatever would make you happy.

Then maybe I’d kiss you on the cheek.
–

ca. 1990

The stars were mine,
or should’ve been,
so I named them all.
Mapped and patterned them.
Like someone must of done before,
sometime.
They were pigs, frogs and burritos,
Volkswagens and straight lines.

Then after I named the sun,
I named them again.

–

ca. 1990

I need to know each one,

to taste the rock
and swallow the sand.
To spend a life caressing
each bird and fondling each
weed, with my grimy,
orange palm.

Then stand atop,
Raise my arms,
And be struck by
Lightning.

–
ca. 1990

Pulling to the strait
Finding St. Chrispoth
you’ve freeloading aboard again
steamrollers and stowed
in amongst the shipping crates

under rocks you’ve tugged
at barnacles undersea
your reat to zinc electrolysis
of a magnitude
almost impossible to resist

Before when the desert was flooded
under rings like steppes of ebbing tides
cataclysmic events
indeed water scrapes over the land

the emptiness
dry left behind
is what i suppose is below
look thru the portholes to the absence
of thought dimension
and turmoil

one day
all the secrets just vanished
loosed from your bounds
of splendor and
influence
wielded mercifully from afar

all the secrets vanished
and the emptiness made it clear
your lilly waft-like flowers
in crave like a buccaneer
away from the sea

are a dangerous
rife with rouge waves
and misery/mystery

beguiled by my ignorance
charmed by our incidents
mournful of your restlessness

That first flicker
of luminecense
spark from soggy matches
pouting lips
watched you wait
like a best friend
of a third grade memory

lakefront fireflies
too quick for jars
rocky beach
and proverbial stars

you called me out
to a distant place
i couldn’t recognize
as my own backyard

filled with malcontent
and telepathy

we’ve no secrets
said through forked tongue
try to believe
it’ll make strife easier
when we’ve moved on
from young

The sugar refinery
seems to operate
yet i’ve never witnessed an act
of refining
or manufacturing
yet the trains go in and out
just before
New Brighton
and slightly east of the drive

Is the sugar squeezed
from beets?
but certainly not
sugar cane
tasty when thrashed pulled through ringers
dripping sticky on humid day

refined not created
sugar from the ground
or canes sprouted from Hawaii
half a globe around

Mtn lake
deep and pure
devious me
and cerulean you

Arching racers of
barracuda
coming round the reef
silver fast in unison
chasing each other first

he speared a fish
with parrot beak
enameled azure blue
dappled like a sunset
these swimmers never see

Giant clams are hermaphrodite
and win at scrabble every time
snapping jaws slow at first
faster when breaks the air

Aye Carpaethia
sublime vision of grace
you came alongside
my listing hull

Grabbed the briney rope
and you pulled me towards
the sheltered cove

Flotilla of flotsam
bounding with the swell
my heart aching
wondering where to pull

Inhibitions and accolades
rescue me to pier
when the wreckage split
me in blinding fear
i yearned for your
uncommon gaze
thoughtful twine
and restive ways

curled in a quilt
handmade by
a mysterious soul
my disaster
now averted
despite impending gale

forced winds
and the ends
of existence
as it’s told
by fore-bearers and liars
who nearly took stroll
long slowly
glancing only once behind
changing lines sometimes
exceeded what you’ve been told

Your Letter Came
as clouds rolled in
message left
with blinking light

don’t push me over
though you know you are able
i fall too quick and
likely bruise my knees

despite your
circumspect intentions
selective memories
are clearer yet
of distant trips

When the letter dropped
in basket like an easter egg
the envelope crisp
the stamps foreign
the writing i knew
instantly it’s you

Despite my zen demeanor
i confess to waiting
everyday for a note
for my own jealous reasons

Reading your note
the bitterness fades
Finally i can say,
that i just pleased
to have played a part
in your intrepid life

All day walking
in 1950’s Kitsilano
from my clapboard porch
i see the Lions

Leaving in
Starched shirt
battered hat
in absense on snow

Streetcar ride
near Dunsmuir
near the laundry mart
the store on Georgia
where i work
is expanding
past the brick facade

–

for Alice Munro

Sky blue trepidation
low as bricks
soft as flakes

My brother called
something about
quitting jobs
remembering jobs
remembering summertimes
building log houses
muggy days
broke by coral seas
sanddunes stretch
past the yellow cedars
jump again into sento
soaking hot
feeling low
straggling past
the circumstance

Sadie often I told you
don’t break two laws at once
Sadie don’t wanna scold you
but i won’t bail you out
more than twice

You’ve been taking
candy from strangers
since you were a kid
now you’re craving
the impending danger
your habits bring

Sadie Superstar
I believe that you’ll be
even better
than any of us are

I’m not sure
how to explain
but your twinkle
and your poetics
make you sublime

There are just a few things
that i know about the sulphur pile

first, is that i am not sure it is actually sulphur
second, the pile is not harmed by rain
next, the (assumed) sulphur is used for something
somehwere else
trains bring it here, ships take it somewhere beyond

and the pile never changes in size

glowing like Van Gogh’s pool table
under cafe lamps

Thorvald sets sail
to follow his brother’s trail
unsure of expectations
but comfortable sure of direction

headed towards vinland
where scraelings abound
he’s windy and heady
and leaves nothing behind

Feel like a twenty bill
Stony drunk and built to spill
Out on the roadway
Like i feel

Got a few of bucks for gas
Spent the rest on rest
and Roll it up to
Keep it real

Stowed away on slow ships
Left behind on roadtrips
Trains lost somewhere
Seeking a meal

Haggard memories of embrace
My boots in your suitcase
and Somehow is comes back
back to your smile

So paint me up in Crayola hues
Aquamarine and rusted patina blue
If i could be someone else
I’d choose
Coeur du bois or you

the first flicker
of luminescence
soggy matches
and pouting lips

watched you wait
like my best friend
from third grade classroom
swingset memory

lakefront fireflies
proving too quick for jars
rocky beach and the
proverbial stars

you called me out
to a distant place
i couldn’t even recognize
that it’s my backyard

libra vox bravada
close in seeking treasure
the news box on pender proclaims
“zoo faces charges of cruelty to hippo”
just not something you read everyday

the buses bring touists,
flower hats blocking sidewalks
commuters struggle by
couching earnest glares

resisting urge to interfere
instruct
counsel
the nervous pleated pants, clip-on tie namebadge

busy time afoot
stained tile wallks
manage reflect sideways
amidst the grime

17th to 41st & Oak
a single coin is often,
indeed standardly,
exchanged for variations of
sustenence &/or convenience

The ferry changes tack
to let the seaplanes land
tilts gamely from
the wake left behind

dragonflys were
the first to migrate
flying miles in just a day
discovered by someone younger
studying ambered fossil chunks
and specific DNA

cruisers berthed in harbour
barges haul the ore
trains railing sulphur,
prairie wheat and coal

ships robust laden
steaming to a horn
lonely crewman leans past jericho
leaving gastown cobbles behind

Edwin wake up!
His father shook the boy
the journey begins this moment
before us long roads
and open seas

but poppa i’m tired he cried
and missing ma so much
do we have to go now
tell me why we must

Yes child
i believe you
hard and drawn
cobble paths and study oars
lead to distant shores and homes

but we’ll leave our home
and the greenest shore
grey rocky bluffs
that we’ll see no more

myths we follow
to a westfaced coast
somewhere vacant
with peaceful straits

stony walls
upturned hulls
protect us now
from the wolves

edwin let’s tread
come boy you’re strong
adventure awaits us
lit by late summer sun

Dramatic times
drastic crimes
commited every hour

killing words
from overlords
hoarding stolen power

Except for us
it’s all a bust
why bother even trying

i’ll tell you why
if i can figure
which are the lies
and when i’m fibbing

it’s something ’bout
knowing the way to lead
and kickin’ the reasons spinning

ride along and smile twice
and i’ll always see you later
if you need a chance
remember to to ask
me when i get a clue

Sweetzer Rd is
admittedly devoid
just wandering cows
and rattlesnakes

when you stop here
in roadside shade
there’s no chance
that you’ll miss the town

Pondering the origins of tapioca
is it a gelatin or does it come from
uhhh a tree or something?

“It’s gelatin,” she says
so they can make it any size they want.

I am a bit confused
but I nod along
don’t have a guess
so either way
i’m wrong

Juniper road
Umitilla highlands
the pass heads straight down
to the straight road
into Pendleton

High as radio waves
past towers, o’er canals
Burley in the distance
moon just shy of half
just enough though
to light the stars

He pondered the question
for over a day
he could have died without answering

finally, calling me close, hoarsely

“make a hundred million then cut and run”

the smallest town possible
Sublett Idaho
(or Utah?)
no matter
i’ve been there twice

Ashen sunken
eyes awake slowly
from morphine haze
“it relieves the anxiety to breath”

from time to time
he screams “i can’t breathe”
and i say “you’re breathing now”

he remembers his father, “a financial genius” he says
he is the kindly man with the pipe in the painting
“it hangs above my bed”
each word slow
he was always good to me and he is calling me home

come wuickly he said
i won’t last long
don’t leave yet
you’ll have to wait

he said,
i am just too tired
i am just too tired
i am ready to go
i am scared

head drops
struggles to move
i am ready to go

V1
Ranch exit Oh de Oh
O’er the pass we gonna roll
‘nigh services up ahead
just us and trucks
rounding the bend

C
Dropping in and shiftng down
half past Snoville by 10 oh 5
would stop for pie
if the town were open
but shuttered down
so we keep on rolling

V2
Ranch Exit Hi di hoh
mother trucker swerving solo
slow on down ya great big loader
bail out lane is
right there for ya

V3
Ranch Exit Low de doh
diggin the starshine show
riding green and rolling low
past the flying J
dark in idaho

B
Ursa Major pointing us ahead
wellsville rising far behind
as we are northward bound
idaho’s road are bumpy
utah beer is swill
oregon holds the gas pump and
washington is greener still

One way these track run
into the elevator
and onto Mt Hood

Turning east
stopped by wooden fence
dam the beyond
columbia daunted
but stil roils

stunted but strong
regressed to measure and
potential
water spreads
thinner than gold
every fiefdom wants a piece so they
bridge it
dam and tame it

rocks and monuments
observe the folly
silt builds up behind
water cool ahead
moving beyond memories
of drowned villages and
uncovered artifacts
entombed, enshrined
only the tugboats
come close

barge drifting
silos wait
trains slip past
and columbia rolls

I’ve held the globe
thread for vapor trails
of journeys
each color a route
pinned from Greece to Kenya
or St John’s Bay
is that Israel or Syria?

A blue loop with stops at
20 pins circumnavigates
a memory of connections
meals with colleagues
strangers and stewardesses

Red thread of elongated triangles
crosses over itself
making obtuse angles o’er Pacific
Tinain, Hawaii, Japan, Guam
a green line returns to Perth

Pins cover provinces and states
organized pushed with vigor and precision
Prague before velvet divorce
Cuba pre-Castro

Misnamed Indies several times
around Belize, Venezuala, Colombia, Paraguay
Paraguay why?
Was it a holiday steamer
or a recruiting mission?

Heavy machinery to militants, airplanes to diplomats or typewriters to rogues
a letter carried from a mexican ambassador from a round of golf decades before -
carried not as a prize but a pocket card, not an ace but a jack at least,
“This is to introduce my friend, please provide any due consideration.”

Outside the machines dig holes for bricks
disguising the drip and hum of appratus
chest heaves so shallow,
mouth gapes, head askew,
hands, arms, fingers flush with fluid
ruddy, worn and odd
a man who worked with head and heart,
but little by his hands

journeys waylayed
undertaken – tossed
fields of weakness
past trestle stretch
long past
the hazel field

storage sheds
of secrets
cul de sacs
dead end
in empty fields

glassy roofs volcano top
early whiskey with ginger-ale
intrepidly past
railyards of enterprise
waiting on a signal
to leave only one

hard fought coincidence
leaving me on time
you’ve won the anecdotes
and left me the prize

double loaded
dump truck grey blue
against the green
spring fast jaded
as though an accident
mistaken incident of mine

like fresh grass growing
burst past the
blackened mold
hay bale
cut for winter
first browned – forgotten and
settled to waste

alongst hidden railway yard
seen flashing past
noticed by someone
who might live there
or just be passing past

not a stranger
just someone who doesn’t make it by
except when the train leaves or
when cherry blossoms occur
just to confuse the birds

V.1
He raises his
arms in triumph
celebrating nothing
but mirth and mischief

V.2
youth gone-astray
by indifference
must grab the reins
of resistance

C.1
the Time is now
to take a stand
not by force but by
by circumstance

B.1
go prove yourself
able to handle (hang)
with the worthy praise
of the generations
victory is ours
for taking
if we don’t buy into the
crap they are slinging

C.2-3
The Time is now
take a stand
be yourself
not a brand-
new anecdote
or target eyes
separate yourself and
take a stand
and don’t believe their lies

V.3
Generations
spiraling down
think cheesin out
is not allowed

V.4
Storied chants
you’re standing tall
complacency thwarted
after all

I’ve finally
slept all night
and sort of
feeling right

i thought
i’d feel sad
but you’re gone
and i’m feeling nothing but glad

i’d decided
that it might
be better
to give up the fight

but then you
and me split
and well at first
i’ll admit that it sucked a bit

but now your split
and i’m perplexed
got time to think
when i’m not wrecked

told myself
i’m better off
without the hassle
and all of the strife

##

you left
i stayed
in this house that
me built

you split
i remained
but i’m convinced
and i’m not ashamed

you said
you’ll move on
unconcerned
by the befuddlement
you left behind

V.1
I’ve heard that pretty girls
don’t rides on buses
but here you’re here in curls
and glasses like ordered

V.2
You seem to recognize
that i’m already considering
roman holidays in cafes
and train rides to switzerland

B.1
You and me it’s agreed
got a history already
set-up in fast forward speed
old photos in albums
like a future unspoken
just give in sooner
before my i need a new token

C.1
Already i call you
perfect Vanessa of B-line
Before my stop on davie
somehow gotta make time

V.3
Looking so smart
but I’m too shy to stare
Vanessa in glasses
ponytailed, reading Baudelaire

V.4
Alive in that bus seat
Vanessa you might be
that cool chick inFouevlougs
riding down Cambie

B.1
I’ll wear bow-ties and
serve on faculty
furry eyebrows intact
while you save the world
at ribbon cutting some photo-op

V.5
On the back of my ticket
I’ll pass you a note
off at waterfront station?
i’ll invite you to toke

Refrain
Vanessa act quick now
we’re almost passed the street
i’ll too nervous to tell you
that i think you are
sweet vanessa of the the b-line …

meaning stuck to ceremony
with duct tape
and question marks

tired books thinking
how you should be
otherwise it’s all right
as long as everything is justified
by candle wax and gilded framed

it’s suppose it to be
the hand me down coincidence
that clouds the fact that
3 or 4 or right or read
isn’t the truth
it’s just 5 and wrong

life clipping by
at 33 and one third speed

stand here hugging nothing
count dusty nickels
start looking what road signs say

there are many things i don’t have
tickets, dollars
ways and means

sunday providence
grey like last week
with my bargain matinee cough syrup nod
candy coated hold onto my thick head
next wave goes to mars
next even further
watch the clothes spin
in their fluff and dried
nebulae

i’ve tried it all on bended knees
but i’ll just think here and sit about
lost months and misplaced friends
haggard days and ice cream cones

i’ll stand here
holding nothing
try to think
how i got here
then figure where i am

i’ll stand a shady place
counting nickels

and happenstance
empty out my pockets
on the ground
you can’t trade lint for bread and cheese

it’s cloudier now than
its been for years

i’ve spent daze moving quickly
years dreaming loosely
and hours watching patiently
and weeks muddling and fidgeting

i can’t cross into new york city
across the george washington bridge without
thinking about all the letters i meant to write to people filled faces hid behind

through bronx filled places and streets with places
as indifferent as you and me
finding beauty in dirty brick, sweaty shows and musty shit
the world still spinning fast
story in behind those bars
broken worlds and kalidescope glass

But we’ve jumped the hedges
with nothing on the other side
and we’ve sat on ledges
watching from high above the tide
going somewhere
we could’nt’ve been before

and we’ve watched the airplanes
going to someplace far
seen then from the dirt going somewhere low
while they take the people
i’ve never seen

and we’ve stumbled sidewalks
tripped them in our boots
stayed out of the drain grates and
ended up where we weren’t

so tired but sometimes
so inspired bewildered
and in love with something
we’ve never met
and history yet unseen

that diesel smells always
reminds me of being exactly here right about now

these neon lights and cheap motels
styrofoam coffee and sleeping bags

~
but i am going elsewhere
not here but maybe it’ll look like here
i have no way to know
i just hope not

feeling like a 20 bill
stoney drunk
and dressed to spill
onto the roadway
looking like should i feel

the collective sigh
of the worlds sleeping and
sheppards keeping frogs
their head out my roadway way
byways otherwise
i haven’t felt this way
since this time last night
since something exactly like this happened
right on random coincidence standard time

V 1
I get three fifty k
to just show up and play
been three weeks since i lst scored
and yet i still don’t ask for more

V2
I don’t give a shit
if i even get a hit
cause my agent called me again today
and told the check clears either way

Chorus
Hot dogs and vodka
Wash it down with beer
smokies and caesers
i’ve never been so clear

Hot dogs and vodka
half dozen before each game
gimlets with hoagies
maybe thats why i’m so lame

V3
Sometimes I’ll admit
that i’ve done some crimes
stole a smokie from the cart
at granville street and vine …

Bridge 1
In fact, i’ve thiefed em
a couple dozen times
they hard it over
it just ain’t that hard
i load it with relish
and they ask for my two-nie
and by then and eating my napkin and my lord i am running
i’m running, running, running …

Bridge 2
Now here i toil
broke, sad and turmoiled
thinking of all the kids i let down
i sweep up your mess
and you can’t hardly guess
that i use to skate on that ice

V4
But it really don’t matter
if i get any fatter
i can still sweep the wreckage
from the coliseum aisles

V5
When they came out to scout me
they should’ve looked more closely
and discovered my true ambition
ahh the beers, … they steal all my affection

Coastal starlight
rolling alright
through the moonlight
Past the cedar trees

Puget sound
in the distance
beaches covered with
weathered dreams

Sammamish crescent
Chuckanut parkway
bottle of klickitat red

one long toke now
on the back bench
as we pull through
the darkened hill

drifting nicely
and watching closely
white volcanos
up ahead

i’ve read about
all these mountains
in books by snyder,
old smoke blanchard
and poor dead jean

Riprap pathways
Adams gleaming
in distant
haze up’head

Junipers and scrub oak
give way to spruce
and river camps
where explorers lay

Ahh Cascadian byways
Coastal starlight
With bottle of beside me
of Klickatat red

I’ve watched the junipers
give way to cedars
and seen the volcanos
fade away

If there no mudslides
or strange derailments
soon i’ll be
back home in bed

I stopped in Portland
for the Crystal Ballroom
and in Centralia
for some beer

Left Olympia
far behind me
and Fairhaven’s
just getting near

I’ll trust that
you’ll be waiting
at the grey station
terminal at main

Engine running
three in th’morning
take me home
i won’t complain

terminal city
gets a bit sketchy
and i’d rather
not get robbed

i am worn now
but feeling happy
waiting in stations
and railing lines

i’ve not forgotten
the columbia gorge
at those moments
just a’fore sunset time

Right on
That’s cool
A good Canadian kid

Hey yeah
Not too bad
Proud of what he did

They named his Ray
born in Thunder bay
back when still called
something else

Tired hard in school
Not that he was a fool
He just didn’t
care that much

but he won 2nd place
In science class
His volcano
was the best

Played Junior A
But couldn’t go all the way
Just glad he
saved his teeth

He hitchhiked east
half-way at least
almost made it
to Labrador

though he dug the times
left the Celts behind
and took the
rails back west

With a coffee mug
and pawned guitar
he rarely
missed a feast

Crossed the prairies fast
and hit rockies at last
and kept on
rolling to the coast

Grew some grass for friends
and than had to make amends
when the poe-leece
shook him down

after 3 months rest
in suburban house
he was ready
to make a stand

he sat in front of trucks
and sat some more in courts
all for bearing witness
as trees fall to th’ground

now in these older days
almost twice as wise
and he learned the tools
to change the world
he gots to build a life
to prove it can be done

sharp enough to know
to hang out with the flow
and think how he’s gotta
turn to make life fun

he doesn’t forget
that to make it great
you can’t leave
your clan behind

ya gotta be nice to others
help them from time
to time i guess

Down the by-way
Pacific coast highway
It’s my driveway
Since we left
On Boxing day

We left on yesterday
and took the slow way
past manzanita
through to redway

Drove to Phillipsville
into the redwoods
Ate ceviche
at the haunted roadhouse

Headed north
on New years day
took the hard way
o’er siskyou hills

Took turns
driving the curves
rain clouds settle
watch sequoias
grow an inch a day

across the bridges
rolling southway
to pacifica
we’ll sleep well there
til the new day

Couldn’t be greener
onto mendicino
and the open ocean
drop off the sides

On the byway
Pacific coast hi-way
It’s my drive way
all day today

left on boxing day
took the slow day
past manzanita
to redwoods today

then on news years day
take the hard way
heading northwards
o’er icy hills

An irish pub
a dirty couch
all day drives
and wretched nights

grinding hard
and moving fast
competing less
if there’s no test

you know the scene
from my notes
just now find out
for yourself

C:
Just say something
that sounds like yes
and we’ll disappear
into somewhere else

When we find out
Where we are
we’ll enjoy it even more
just as long as we are there

I can write my name
in Japanese
and in gramma’s garden
i can name all the weeds

But i din’t mean much
when it all sucks
cause you are gone all summer

the other girls
they don’t thrill me
i’m a wreck
since you went
to your gramma’s house
all holiday

since that night at the fireworks
i’ve of you mostly
but i must admit
if your not back quick
i’m gonna find another

when your back, we’ll have a blast
we’ll have a blast
I’ve a trick to teach you

All those times
at the bus stop
copping kisses
stealing feels

I want more now
& I’ve grown impatient
you’ve got to ride the greyhound

Run away from summer
got on heading this way
i’ve got two weeks left
to getta know you

we’ll never be this new again
so don’t tease me so dammit now
just hop the hound and
make it here before the snow

Beyond the aspens
three of us
together fast

Please let me go now
the tension is just
a bit too much
to last

No no she says now
let me go he goes
just wander
into trees

There you say now
go on together
twos easier
than we three

Into the aspens
disappeared
white birch maple
and mystery

The three of us
not too soon
she sang again
riding free

Swerved around right
can’t bump the road
on the empty cold
desert night

Chorus

Windy days
and beach front fires
lighthouses calling
you away

I don’t mind
suppose it’s better
i’ll keep a mind
to remember
nights together in the aspen grove
before foothill evening
turned into today