Kerouac sees punks
in his 20th chorus—
all those who would fit
on a page of a breast
pocket notebook. Leftover
ones dancing on the head
of a pin, I’ll get over this
disdain. I’ll listen again
when amphitheaters begin
to accommodate sleeping
drunks. I was one
when the longing for nothing
I knew singed the soles
of my feet. The pain made me
sleepy. Howl that one
at a guitar pick
moon—I dare you.
Three turtles on the back
of a fallen wish bone
branch, I’m looking down
river
again. The chain
of lakes does not captivate.
Without an ocean,
my roots
go thirsting
for a source deep
in the mud. Home
is wherever water carries
forth that voice.
She takes the high road
through fog infested woods.
Nothing visible
but the flight of leaves
as she rounds curves
and moves on. That whoosh is
the voice of vertigo
she leaves behind when it’s time
to make a new noise.
—not a lute. Storms
have passed. Acoustic mass
wraps black
and tangles up inside
the brick wall. Some of it will seep
through. More will remain the ivy
of darkness outside
my window. Alone, I risk
the walk outside at night
toward a museum, fuzzed-out
guitar and drums loop
around a gallery
on an upper floor. Alone, I imagine
I will peer over
a cliff, will listen
for human voices amidst the ocean
roar in Big Sur,
will hope to see an otter,
will hope to hear some small sign
that you’re out there watching
over me without knowing
that’s what you do. I keep
my distance—solitude
is my drug
of choice. There’s nothing left to fear.
She might choose it
if the other ones prove too
paved, or too ragged
without sidewalks. She can’t
be without
sidewalks. Not for very long. He built it—
he can curve around it
and drive in the opposite direction
off the grid. She’s caught
in this dance with the dead
ending. Knows she can find
another way out, take
a look inside that patch
of sycamore. It wouldn’t be
a bad time to take up
tree climbing again.
Always hated fire
works, always
will. I’ll be staying
away. One bad jump
off a life
guard stand into State
Beach sand, a twisted
ankle no amount
of eye candy color
over the ocean
could soothe. Never
mind the explosions. Black
Market or Black Cat brand,
either way a 500-gram cake
of flame tails awaits
on the other side. I’ll not be crossing
the river or state line. I’ll be back
on that beach—super pyro,
invincible, never mind
the explosions.
Just never mind.
Hollow women seek distractions
in you. Numbed
into summer is no way
to look at the moon
each night. That hill won’t hold
all these heavy
limbs and lids. I’ll be the one
to rebel—I don’t want
to be distracted. Let me suck
sustenance from soma goblets
before another civil dawn.
Numb’s the word.
Just past summer
solstice, no rain, muck
blows off
as a dusty burst
of thoughts you may have—but
they will remain trapped
in a cephalic void. The conversation
is over.
I’m not ready.
My jaw aches
from clenching
teeth against the cruelty
of your disease. Look out,
I can’t predict when
or where I’ll bite.
Meet me at the bus stop
where we won’t wait
to see another quarter
moon translate the sky
into a language for pedestrians
without a bridge. We won’t wait
for anything—we’ll be walking across
12 lanes of traffic,
all lights with us, headed for
a destination we shouldn’t have
been so eager to meet.
A straight shooter, she
imagines everything becomes visible
on her face. Imagines she casts
no shadow, is exposed
even when it rains.
But
into those blind spots go
whole narratives unfolding
with characters she didn’t invent
roaming places she’s afraid
to step into—transparencies
crumpled and torn, dark
rooms boarded up.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 