“The guitar’s a-started
Playing by itself.”
—Jack Kerouac, from the 50th Chorus to “San Francisco Blues” (Book of Blues)
Hot wind and time
to be
alone converge
at an intersection
I won’t remember
tomorrow morning
when light breaks open
that hill behind me.
The spillage will be automatic,
will startle longing
in shades of red.
Don’t ask
how I know. These are the split
movements beyond control.
A pair of roof prism
binoculars to spy on
the ivy-covered brick
across the alley, a scoop
back black
dress she might buy for one
night of swooning
over the Pacific, she’s not looking
to rekindle
any illusions
that sparks did fly
high above the liars pit,
not mailing that letter
with too many
stamps to start a bonfire
on the site
where a round building
came down. (Was it
because of the architect,
Sandy?) She’s just adjusting
the tiny barrels
to get a closer look
at the way those leaves press
against a wall.
Hours the color of quarry
beds, a walk that gets extended because of a need to stitch
the river
to her breath, she calculates how long
it will take
for the fragrance of rose
water to reach the bottom. She wishes it would stay longer
on her skin—might as well get
the dive over with.
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 