the telemarker

it was your head.
cocked glasses, aquarian smile
bag dropped casual-like on a desk, too old for the skater look
you were affected but smart and god i loved it
the boy with the arab strap comes on now
and instantly i’m there
11pm, 2004, october something. we took apart
and rebuilt
an old VCR on the wood slat floor
of your house on…
, oh,
what was the name of the street
and how funny i can still smell you
feel your mouth on mine
in the pagosa springs
, but was it hazeldine road or linda vista?
where i left you, no you left me.
where you dressed as the crocodile hunter
jumped off your roof on tequila and who knows what.
where you let me sleep over and then bought breakfast
while your girlfriend was in denmark.

you are still a fire in my throat
but i can’t recognise your old house
on street view
anymore.

i wanted to fix you
with skiing and a steve earle soundtrack
we huddled close on a stranger’s couch in
a new-build adobe santa fe house.
a stroll around the plaza, the bull ring
i let you smoke
and the smell of red wine linger next to me
we went to bed separately that night
and i think now i was good at being confusing back then.

you needed space
and you went to taos and this was before smartphones
and texting and the constant on.
it was a three-hour drive.
i was thinking of your crow’s feet all the way up the rio grande gorge
past velarde, embudo station, the turn off to truchas.
we drank barley wine
on high bar stools at eske’s – conveniently
tiny enough for three pints of arm-brush butterflies –
and drunk-drove to the strokes,
windows down
rocky mountain nightwind
swirling us round for one last nite.

years later, an awkward dinner at chama river
you tell me about your new wife
new kid
and i smile and i am happy for you
and we drink beer again, not the same,
and pretend
we were not a thing
back then.

Advertisements

poem of highway 14

it bucketed
the day i gifted
the bishop’s passing.
a talisman of wishes,
sueños where i see badlands through ocean rain.
the soundtrack?
feast of wire: dulcet painting, desert noir
that we would lay down to,
find orion.
i put us in a pickup bed
somewhere south of socorro
dusty nostrils, crimson clouds
no…pink! no, azure.
then, squinting, the pleiades –
seven sisters all of a tremble.
we’d drive
the turquoise trail, to where it meets the gold mines in madrid
pastures full of cane cholla, buds about to be may fuchsia
dirt between tufts of galleta and tall feathergrass
brown like your skin
after a summer in wild basins.
this rainless landscape
was always so perfect to me.
but nothing is clear now until a downpour of you.

IMG_9699

poem about ten to midnight 2016

a poem i wrote on this night last year. 

i wanted to write a poem
about 2016
for awhile, but then nothing came.
i waited, watched deathly hollows two,
felt the weight of severus’ death this year
and all the others
and the coming one so and too soon,
then took myself to twitter
to expel the need for some kind of
resolution.

spent the year
swirling around in mysteries
the enigmas of san lorenzo
and his ancient street
and his bratwurst mile

and so it begins again, all at sea,
with more questions than answers,
a weight
prequel to the one to come.

sure, i’m not a poet
and despite this year of lyrics
the twelve month’s best words –
and the only ones i’ve written worth
uttering on a cold rooftop, or a serviced apartment
with the aircon on at new year’s –

were always about you.

poem on UFOs over galisteo

 

100_0327_2

it’s the instants.

melting butter in a pan
a swirl of soy sauce
stirring chopsticks –
that lift grief to my throat.

i was fine just now,
but then

once more, i’ll tell a stranger
how we saw UFOs that night
darting like summer flies
over the Ortizes.

another Dos Equis
desert vespers
thick ice clunking
in mason jars of well water.

you’re everywhere now.
above the Sandias
the pho joints of south London
feathers on trails i walk.

your instructions always were:

…see the world
don’t come back…

and you meant that.

poem from a hurricane

november and our star
sinking pink along the edges
of an island.
east of the desert
this tumbledown town
minds my heart.

i will live out some existence
looking for sunsets
that glow corners
where you dallied
in record stores
digging for comics.
you’re a nocturn
trying to poach day
without light.

we wandered a lane, lost in the mystic
years ago
i showed my face, you your quietest places of heat
and hysterics
we huddled for awhile, fingering this found treasure

carpet store’s aflame
the street’s blushed
lamps come on
and you – somewhere north
– tucking our wealth into a jewel box.

still, the world en rose
lavender
a royal hurricane.

poem about the perseids

supposed to be writing about stargazing. instead, a poem, written a time ago, on the same subject.

a shiver
and wait, neck craned, for a spark
of some comet’s con trail
to blaze far-offly through an upward gaze.
pour another drop of wine
brain firing on syntax backwards
like everything to do with us.
the heart is a vicious machine,
at least in the verse and melody
of the school of spies.
and in this crisp weather,
when autumn feels imminent,
the love of a great name
gives such pause to
those who must scare each other –
deep down –
with the things never said aloud
but felt.

poem from the train to bukhara

dusty, dry, golden
the fan mountains silhouette
a line of white chevys,
blue soviet trucks

a level crossing
then dushanbe, and
afghanistan after.

vestiges of trade routes that criss-crossed
this land like vines
creeping up trellises, along shanty
warehouses, next to a
dwindling river
carving a ribbon of
jade through the
desert.

in some other universe

there is a caravan
packing your heart
next to mine.

7 september 2017