Katahdin

(Written between October 16-18; Completed October 20, 2015)

1

Flash by Lowell in the Autumnal dawn

            Pink blear of morning

Rush goes the mighty Merrimac

            In Kerouacian mist of pawtucketville ghosts

            Turn go the leaves
            rough characters at gray full up stations
            waiting on breakfast lines

            In rearview mirrors of the tired mind

Red Massachusetts lonely

Golden in the night

            Like earlier darkness of Philadelphia

North Philly streets

            Shrouded Stranger

            Appear in faraway view

Flows cracks on long ago pound streets

Mystery of flowing cape

Gray gray gray gray

Lurching

Phantom of mindless fear

Great death chasing

            Out of the past

Or hero of wandering fools

Regardless

            A great horror thing

            Lost in break light red

            Big northeast leering eyes

And finally left behind

Become nothing corporal

            Omen harbinger spirit herald

Portent

            Friend—

2

Snow on Katahdin

            False peak faced north

Obscured by foggy gusts of zero degree chill

And somehow this clears at night

            To star filled starry sky

Night night milky night &

            Milky Way rush of constellations

At midnight

Untied boots and thermals

            Standing in clearing

            In dim light years

            Behold! Moonless night

Coal black night diamond forged

And

            Thoreau wrote from Bangor

From foot to wheel to backpack

to Millinocket

To Katahdin to stream

            & where are the primal spirits

Rage over mountain top

Immemorial

            Crag of split rock & kaleidoscopic tree leaves

Of fall’s ebb

            Inimical & endless forests 
of the mind
            laid out

Spread unbroken to Kanady

            To artic to frozen circle

To grim desolate wastes

            Of tundra north

3

And in morning

            White skies

Icy hands

            Warm steam of mouth

Smoke of fire dawn

            Rustle of tents

Acrid scent of flame on my beard

            Ceaseless cascading stream

My dreams

            At 4am

As temperature dropped for snow

            Lift my lost kitten

            To the moon

            He is lost

            I am lost

Oh Night!

Thick on my eyes

Someplace long ago

            Voices telling me

            It was okay to let him go

Drift from summit rock slide

From bone of holy oly peak holy

            I am cradled in the night

            Fetal

            By icy root of tree

4

Root of tree

            Wreathed through wet ground

Bedded with leaves

            Twisting branches overhead

The tent

            Shrouded in its shadow

Final thought

And now morning of the mind

Awaken

Wakefulness

Task

            The first snowfalls on Maine hills

            At edge of trail end

There’ll be 8 inches or more

On mountain paths

            Whooshing waterfalls

Cough cough arctic lung

            Tip tap of large flurries

Weigh trees down

So leaves like windshield wipers

On car windows bend over road

            Baxter through Lovecraft

Lakes mist on lapping water

Pebbled shore

            Stark inky and gloom

            Heart of the northeast

            End of the world

            Millinocket Lake

            Off Blackcat dirt road

Not far from Togue Pond Twin Pines

Log cabin coffee at River Drivers

            Snow falls on

            Cold cold cold Maine

Morning

Lake effect

Swirling flurry winds

Gravel path from window

Fireplace

Katahdin invisible

Opaque whiteness

Great white north—

5

South in the October foliage on 157

            Medley at I-95 back to Bangor trek

The farthest reaches of

            Hi-way gore

To seek the Atlantic now

            Cap’n at the wheel

Light with ginger beer smells

            Old world puritanical spell

Carved wood at the

            Cross stitched lamp of the world

In motel now

            Tents clothes bodies eyes

            Too wet for another elemental night

Dry on the furnace of mankind’s

Innermost Acadia Gateway hotel

Caramel brown ale smell

            Ellsworth Trenton toothpick toothache

            Too true Trenton

Of no this isn’t New Jersey

But gauntlet to Bar Harbor Acadia cliff spill

In the Great North

            In bitter wind

            In winter’s great American shore

Come morning

            A brush across the bluest waves

6

 Blue waves

            Fishing boat fisherman’s life

Wool caps thick beards barrel chest

            Desolate but beloved distance

Beloved lighthouses

            Cut & cold hard

            Icy of heart

New England ah

            Call of gulls

Burn of engine fume

            Rock & mast

Red painted rails

            Cast against heaving sky

Glory sky

            My visions in the cool

            Blackness preceding sleep

            What sunrise would bring

            What next?

Silence

            Thunder

Tinder

            Silence

Churn

            Frush & rush

And undertow and all

Blear blast black port

Great hulking rocking bestial ships

            Silent aw silent

Mad—

7

Answer at sun-up

            Brings blue sky clouds vanish

Route 3 south

            Onto Mt. Desert Isle

Bar Harbor

            How it got it’s name

Who know? Who?

            Rocky beachhead

Shimmer under sunshine

            Without warmth

No time tho but to race around

            Start those tires roll engine roar

Chariot headed south

            Congested traffic hell of ole New York

            To bar our way

First a swing on 9 from 95 from 1

            Lobster rolls at Dock Square

End of Lanigan Bridge

Kennebunkport

And every town has a sister in Maine

Slapped port on the end

West Westport Northport Searsport Portland

            Slapped mayo or butter or both

            Grilled bread 1lbs Lobster shelled

Last day of the season

            Cold gray water

            Thick with coming winter

Scent of lemon salt water fishy scent

            Little shore towns

            Hidden from time

            All along bottomless

            US-1

8

From there now gone

            From here now going home

Day falling fast to our left

            On rushes the night 515 miles away

            Our mason Dixon mid-atlantic line

Rivers Delaware Susquehanna Anacostia Potomac

States MA Rhode Isle Connecticut New York

New Jersey PA Delaware MD

Pitch black is October night shift

            5am of morning slow crunch of time

Last days fresh

Fresh like the recent dead

Hint of decay

Memory fade

            Slide in the rearview

Alone now at destination point

Last dead drop my own

Each goodbye one less body of the whole

Of the host six souls one car one mountain

Whole of Maine

            Six directions they go

            Gabow V Tommy Joe Chase myself

I go mine

I go it alone but not alone

            Really

Toward what future may come

This is spring this is summer this is fall’s truest end

            Faced in directions south face north east west

To roam loam roam roam home roll flat burnt leaves

Vibrate soul soil soul legs hands heart wheel engine

Ancient stone forged trail in gray-like dreams

            Go Go North a vision a god a martyr Go

            Ka-Tah-Din    

            Ever always standing
            Shrouded

            Watching
Indomitable

Remember

behind a logging truck on 120
     headed west.

Steep elevation drop, two-lane road, black oak, ponderosa pine,
     cedar, fir lined.

riding up right on its ass, wood chips, bark scatter,
     snap on car hood, window, ease off, man
                                                            there's no reason to hurry.

the coast will be there and in the end,
     the ocean.

relax, watch the tree line, cavern curve,
     take in some blue sky.

Like at Home

I-8
nothing in Pine Valley
nothing on Boulevard
not a thing in Jacumba
or Ocitillo, plaster city,
nor dixieland,

hug tight to the border
9 miles south,
El Centro, California
old home of
Kumeyaay Tipai-Ipai,

90 degrees is
morning cool,

washed out windows
decaying signs,
homes are all trailers
no grass, no trees,

quick oasis of
american corporatism
hardy's del taco mcdonalds
at highway nexus
last stand before
plunge to Mexicali Mexico,

breakfast
hidden in tight
corners between
squat buildings,
abandoned, cracked
 and melted lots,
aguas frescas
melon, pineapple,
orange, fresh tortilla
scent, respite from
long dead miles,

this IS America, man!

this stretch of miles
this flat brown land
this world dropped out of time
this unforgiving glare

these people all different,

these people all the same.

Roswell

The girls in Roswell,
small one street sunset strip
busy street no cars on any other
road but Main St. US-two-eight-five/
NM 13 south, scream for long hair
on boys come all this way
from back east for look at
alien store fronts and UFO
museum draws, turn corners
before they can respond and
go on into desert lights,
ranch fields, mystery radio
serials, invasion dreams of
1947 radio serials, dark starry
nights of no return.

Never bring the book from the writer of a town you're going to see

strike through that valley
like five flashes of lightning,
like one,
in a car you've never seen,
down from the bottom,
south through the top,
past those old smokey
mountains, hidden towns, &
golden diners, by the sun's
rise, those ancient rays,
hit the tail of georgia
the sulking, brooding south,
in the appalachian hills,
leave a man behind, to walk
2,300 miles home, we'll be in
Maine come september, we'll be
welcoming home.

Remington 666

typewriter hasn't been opened
since we lugged that black box
3,500 miles to the coast and
then back
                and that was all some
time ago and still it sits there
ink drying on ribbon, keys silent
decaying imperceptibly,
                                   doesn't
have the weight or ability to call
out and end it's atrophy and mine,

something flickered like a victory as
it sat under kansas gray sky beside
that old green van, head gasket melted
night before on I-70 going west,
                                               scares
me now, it's seeming omnipotence, it's
visible and screaming existence as a
symbol in my mind, as a last tangible
link to that drive for the coast,
                                             a last
remaining symbol of our faded past.

The Blue Line

watch blue line
on map move like
marker 'cross
cuts and daggers
ridges of stone,

tan/yellow/green
moves around
gray/red/blue
impassable objects,

line swings down
and takes in the
grand old mysterious
south, foggy in our
child's eye,

oh, those places we
haven't been!

that golden sun
bakes the earth
that dark, dark night
of my dreams,

what's out there, hey?

what's there left to find?

where the wheels go next
my body follows

down
down

ah, great abyss,

falling
falling

Supplication; The Road III

Stirring in my
gut, in memory
in visions of past
and what's coming,
I see long gray
roads bleeding out
into the great distance
ahead, straight as a
Gad damn arrow at the
heart of eternity
and so real, real,
that I can't shake it,
knowing a new season
is coming--a new race to
the coast--my body
picking up speed
going 70-80-90 mph
hitting hell and storms
blue waves and endless
oceans, I can't remain
still, I can't! I tell myself
again and again,
I can't!

Last Para.

A car I recognized
pulled up
to a house I recognized
on a street I
knew from long ago.

I opened the door,
tossed my
bag on the passenger side
floor and got in.

I closed the door behind me.

List (so far)

two pairs of pants
red flannel shirt
ten pairs of underwear
equal amount of socks
plus one pair wool socks
hiking boots
two notebooks
a pen
pocket knife
utility tool
messkit
coffee can

what else?

2 backpacks (one small, one large)

my hands
my mind
my thoughts
myself

and...

we'll
see
what else
can
fit.

Thought about this on the subway today

Remember the desert
outside Las vagas
everything dusted
dusty brown, burnt umber
orange, looking sculpted
from the sand,
gas station at corner
selling ice, drinks
gas, only things
you truly need out
there where the city
just plain ends and
sand begins,
Remember filling the car up,
smashing the 8 lbs ice
bags on the pavement,
the caffeine candies
Gabow shoved in everyone's
face,
Remember where were were
headed and how far we had
gone, remember the blue
sky without clouds
and the heat, remember
that fucking heat.

Mapped out

I've got the map
down in my head
memorized the blue line
on the screen page, the red
marker hand drawn state/provin-
cial lines, boston (skipping NYC)
borderline, montreal, ottawa
toronto 24 hour drive along
great lakes thunderbay winnipeg
moose jaw medicine hat dinosaur
bones calgary kickin'horse pass
over rockies vancouver and the pacific sea
north pacific down back into old U-S-A
desolation peak 7 thousand feet up
over ross lake, seattle portland once
again seaside and the sea crater lake
the great big empty yellowstone
and ole montanny butte cross the state
north dakota minnesota milwaukee
on great lakes again chicago heading home
over familiar paths and western PA
part I don't wanna get to
part of line obscured
rather live on that first
half that western bent
this is the hard ink path
we've chosen
this is the goal we've set.

If I don't get out there soon, I'll die II

You know she's calling to me,
great siren of the west,
yellow flower, desert rose,
mountain girl, and I'm
looking for those pacific blue
eyes, those endless cerulean swells,
I'm ready to answer the call,
I need my foot on that pedal,
that white-lined road,

You know I'm calling to her,
golden haired beauty,
pioneers dream, snow
white dress, and she's
looking for me to make it,
singing her song,
blearing that blue sky to heaven oh,

you know,
you know--

If I don't get out there soon, I'll die--

City Sketch

hard-hatted mexican workers
return to work in the cool
shadows cast by squat buildings
walking in line, dressed in
fluorescent orange yellow green
vests, soiled white pants,
they pass on other side of newspaper
stand bypassing groups of
office smoke breakers, talking inhaling
exhaling talking, the air smells like
spring slight tinge of burnt rubber
idling car engines, one of those days
with winter shadows and spring
sun warmth, men with sleeves
rolled up, women in skirts, not sure
if it's still jacket weather or not,
lunch crowds swarming
outdoor patio seats full and waiters
skipping between tables, taking
orders bringing food, cleaning up,
everything above blue and crisp
and new, birds returning chirping
harbinger of march april may
I hear them counting down
pulling me away and toward--what's to
come--something like a great adventure
and maybe get my pen moving again--
like legs and wheels and--lunch truck smells
lines haphazard waiting--did you order, yet?
no. yes yes okay? no, go ahead--feet on
pavement, honking horns washington dc in
the afternoon same as afternoons everywhere
stuffed into a box and shaken up and turned
upsidedown--I catch a glimpse of it
choking--a great wall of text written underneath
a promise somehwere a sigil planted deep
deep beneath the void--calls me to step over
the pot holes--listen as it explands--hissing
from the future--winter ends spring ends
summer all over again--someplace new someplace
grand part the great sea america--shuttle to the coast
3,200 miles away I know where I'm going
I know how I'll get there.

I'm ready

It's becoming real again,
sinking in,
my body moving forward again,
my mind yearning again
     for the drive
     for the wheel
     for long stretches
     for tundras, hills, mountains
     for the Great North
     for snow & hell
I'll take whatever
     I've gotta move or die
     I've gotta see it
                             again
                          live again
Give me those sleepless hours
                             talk
                           laughter
                       understanding
give me those Junction city boys
                       & their road.

Five Lines Prayer

Eat, Sleep & Drink my Darling
East travel the wind
       west of my heart
               North to my home
                         South to America's soul

Now I am here

emerald stones
washed smooth
dim in some cupboard
tucked away
far from the west
of their birth,

I am where you cannot find me

I have found the edge

sediment slowly settles

to bottom of jar

pink sand and memory 

collide, forgetting past lives

figuring on the soul,

I am where you cannot find me

I have found the edge

Van and motor are gone now

crushed in some junkyard hell,

tides drift slowly, back in back 

and forth, back and overtake the

land, there is more sea then 

you'll ever know, ever experience,

ever see,

I was where you would not find me

now I am here.

JC

Can't help but think of
Kansas on dreary gray days
like this, like the morning
we woke to cloudy Junction City,
van dead, trip in peril,
tow truck man (no 24 hour) taxi
man black holes of
Earth & all was well, this
was the road we walked
silently, in pairs, in threes,
in fives, to Stacey's & the
weeks ahead.

When we hit it

when we hit Cali
I'll wear a Panama hat
Hawaiian shirt & khaki shorts,
because it's Spring
ride that look the rest a' the way
'cross rainbow desert expanse
sky painted ghost towns
knowing old forests
foggy ancient mountain ranges
those great & mysterious American rivers--

I'll christen myself
old man of the road
the fading spirit infinity--
                        forever wandering
                                                   soul
going
bitterly achingly to death
     one heavy mile--one golden
                                               bridge--
                              one earthly abyss--
at a time.

If I don't get out there soon I'll die

Close as many roads as you like
I imagine one straight golden line
leading out to the coast through
leaning wheat stacked plains and closed
snow covered mountain passes,
trees taller than the buildings
sent to suffocate and teach me
to keep my head down, teach ya to ignore
the sky, walk on walk on walk on
searching aging dying calling
out into the sweet dark American night
that still smells sometimes like that
greasy sweat we used to know
and weren't afraid enough to ignore, labor
sweat and poet's sweat and jazz-man sweat that'd seeped into
the life blood of the continent unnoticed--
before it was paved and potted with
new factory blend soil and re-branded
old, meaningless, bygone and tired,
meant to be looked at out the periphery
of embarrassed eyes and dry throats--

if ya let it, it'll spill its secrets,
its true self unadorned
I'll walk into the night for the rivers
and sounds unheard,
I'll get out there and find you--
god knows I'll try