Once, a while ago, when the rhythm took me,
(sorry, sorry, sorry,
lo siento, mea culpa;
have you seen all the ways
we learn to apologize
for being alive?)
it was Los Lobos,
and it was Spring,
and I was in the kitchen,
and I was told to stop screwing off.
The next day, I drove past a graveyard.
Most days now,
I’m guilty of screwing off.
(especially where rhythm is concerned)
Lo siento.
Why?
Why does she run,
always out of reach,
twisting halfway
in a leaping dodge through the fresh powder
and over the melting riparian edge
with that sly and challenging smirk,
that furrowed brow?
All day, I thought it
-play-, thought
-pack hierarchy-, thought
-willful child-,
which I accepted, of course.
Leashes are to be used sparingly.
Should I have even been asking?
It only occured to me
after some time had passed-
she was trying to show me the
(secret)
and that I, being only human,
couldn’t follow all the way.
In case you ever again enter
the winter of forgotten things,
listen-
You are of the transcendent.
You are of the wild and hopeful,
of the beautiful and terrifying Light.
You are of the rising storm.
You are of the running herd,
and hawk on the wing,
and fin cutting the waves,
and the pack-howl at night.
You are cloaked in honor,
you are of the ardent-hearted,
and the sword and the plough
and of the green, growing things.
You speak for those who have no voice.
You are worthy, and I am worthy,
and every single thing is worthy,
and it was deemed so
in the forges of fading suns
containing every single atom
of yourself
and myself,
aeons ago.
In case you ever forget-
are you listening?
What can I say about you
that wasn’t already said
by Monet’s brush,
by Gibran’s pen,
by Carter, opening Tutankhamen’s tomb,
by Einstein’s math,
by my mother’s hands,
or by my dog’s tongue?
What can I possibly describe about you
that wasn’t already given to me
in the absolution of the wild,
that wasn’t felt by my sister
on the first horse she mounted,
by my father
the first time he wandered the woods alone?
What on earth
can my heart not say these days
as it pulses fragments of dead stars
to my eyes,
that I might turn them
on the night sky, itself
half-made of dead stars?
What can you show me
that is not in itself
a miracle?
And what can I say to you
that does not come out
“we are here for the space of a breath,
beloved,
and no more”?
I wish I had answers.
I really do.
I wish I had the secret
to a good night’s sleep,
or that I knew what you mean by
“the best hiking trail”;
I wish I knew how
to look the devil in the eye,
how to visit all 100 places the magazine says to
before we leave this world,
how to eject the tape in your head;
or the one in mine;
how to learn the language
of the horse in summer,
or the wolf in winter,
or how to dance
like they do in the movies;
how to exhude the proper passion,
how to fix the brokenness,
or at least clear the wreckage;
and, perhaps,
why folks bring swords to the dinner table.
(There is a reason, you see,
why I’m on one knee
when talking to dogs,
or children.
Do we not all in some way bow
to wisdom and grace?)
So, yes, I wish I knew the secret
of the method
of the madness
of the song
of the soul
of the fire
and the rain;
or that of your your finely-gathered pain,
which is a gift only to be offered.
Ah. Never mind me.
Here.
I found a piece of driftwood
while walking.
It’s yours.
Gnarled,
old knots and curves,
scent of earth in spring;
water and wood at last
consummating their affair.
(How else do I explain that,
to me,
your whisper is thunder?)
She was sitting on the couch,
dying.
Well, not really dying, per se.
She was staring out the window
at the darkness fallen across the land.
“I hate winter.”
She shivered, even with the blanket.
The dog wandered over,
hopped up,
sat down next to her.
Opened its jaws, grinning.
{Hey.}
“What.”
{Know what I like about winter?}
“What’s that.”
{Spring’s just around the corner.}
She sighed.
“I suppose.”
She stared out the window again.
{Hey.}
“Yeah?”
{Let’s go run around and eat snow.}
She raised her eyebrow.
The dog raised one back.
{Please?}
“OK. Come on.”
{Cool. I’ll wait for you at the door.}
She grabbed her coat.
{Oh. My. God.}
“What now?”
{A small piece of bacon on the floor.
See! Like I told you
when I woke you this morning!
Best day ever!}
Have you seen the mud
streaked across
the hardwood floor?
Or, wait-
Did you watch the cat
sleeping in the barn?
I see.
Surely, then,
you’ve been tucked in
by the night sky?
You’ve seen the thunderheads
crying and spitting lightning
so they could wash the face of the earth?
Well, maybe you’ve met
the white-haired woman
I spoke with in the shop-
who told me of classrooms
and busses full of protesters,
and of her husband, long-gone,
she who outlived
her mother, father, brothers, sisters?
The one who looked at me, smiling,
who stared then out the window
with a face like a child’s,
and said,
“I swear,
life
is just…
amazing!”
?
Alright, then.
(He waves the pamphlet in the air.
The world is ending.
“Do you believe?!?”
“I do,” I say,
“yesterday I took my dog to the park,
and stared into the eyes of God,
and was licked by the Buddha’s tongue.”)
“Battling your demons,”
they call it.
Fighting the monsters.
Taming the beast.
Or, perhaps,
rebuking the Devil.
You must cleanse yourself.
You must take this pill.
You must do yoga.
You must read this book.
You must.
I suppose I can’t lie;
shedding the past is good.
However…
do you remember?
Think back.
Before you were told what to fear.
Before you were told what to hate.
Before you were told what was wrong with you.
Before you were told who to be.
I’ll tell you true,
cross my heart, hope to die-
’cause I seem to recall a boy,
whose demons brought him food,
whose monsters came out from under the bed
and gathered ’round for story time,
whose beasts ran with him
past the high school lockers,
and who walked the prairies and woods
with Lucifer and Jesus both;
we shared Canadian whiskey,
Dominican cigars,
and harmed not ourselves
nor any soul,
traipsing the beat
in the heart of creation.
The meeting-place beckoned up ahead, the setting sun embracing the giant tree in the coming twilight.
Finally.
Small eddies of dust and cottonwood puffs danced in the rays.
The ground and the grass smelled lush, full of memory. The scent invaded him, goaded him, kissed him.
Finally.
His blood continued to drip onto the dirt as his boots scuffed along the road.
In front of the word ‘dead’ is a decent place to put the word ‘almost’, he thought.
The lacerations would heal in time. The defeat, at the very least, could be learned from.
His vision blurred as the tree got closer.
No!
He slowed his pace, slowed his breath. Vision returned. Mostly.
The tree waved its arms in worship of the sinking sun.
Finally.
His breath caught.
There was a note tacked to the tree.
He steadied himself against the trunk and pulled the note off, wiping the sweat from his eyes with his forearm.
He looked around, and saw the desolate peace of nature staring back. Nothing else.
He read the note.
>Cordell-
>
>Take care of yourself.
>You need to heal.
>
>XO
He looked up, nodding at nothing in particular.
She hadn’t bothered to sign it. No need.
“Mmhmm. Yep.”
He spat into the dust with force, and almost crumpled the note before creasing it delicately and sliding it into the only pocket that wasn’t spattered with a mixture of bloods.
He slept there until sunrise, bandaged himself as best he could, and continued on the western road.
Having the rug pulled out from under your feet is one thing.
Waiting in a place such as this, he reckoned, amounted to suicide, which is another thing entirely. If the bandits didn’t blow your face off, the echoes and whispers from the path behind would surely drown you.
Cordell walked.
The cottonwood waved in the wind, and bid him farewell.
And so I gaze
into the caverns of the night.
I open to the eons
and the windward side.
I praise the Sun,
and run with the storms.
I leap and fly
above the harriers of this age.
I smash my bottles on the brick walls,
taking note of what escapes.
I kiss deeply and longingly,
and make an offering
at the shrine of the heart.
And I clean my kill,
giving thanks
in front of the fire.
And I am wounded before the altar,
and am drinking deep the blood.
And I unfurl my banners also,
laughing in triumph
at the marching armies.
But most of all,
I embrace you, and say goodbye,
until again we meet,
and hope we may both find
the table set for us
in the clearing next time.
Litany_of_the_Lost 