Light Pattern
—Photo by D.R. Wagner
ROAD REFUSING TO END
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
At a certain point the
roads give out,
And the music could be
anything but is not.
It is Telemann squealing
through transverse flutes
Into a rivulet of strings
that carry
Anything given to it with
the joy
Fairies from Celtic tales
might enjoy,
Hearing their stories told
again around
A fire to children while
they hide
In the shadows at the edge
of the light,
Listening as well, making
sure the facts
Are correct and comparing
every
Detail to the same tales
told them
In their misty youth. Even the
Insects and amphibians are
listening.
Yes, like that
exactly. The road
Stopping, Quixote
dismounting and
Laying down on the tall
grass next
To his horse. Somehow he could
Hear the music as well and
began
To whistle into the
afternoon.
It is hard to tell the
next part.
It is full of the workings
of clocks,
Old steel engravings and
spilled
Boxes of ancient
type. These things
Remain like an insomnia
composed
Of disassociated day
parts, evenings
Going to dark only because
There is no place else to
go.
Mornings seen through eyes
that have
Not rested for days. Everything
Shuffled together by
chance and
A collection of images
that have
Become completely
exhausted. MacBeth staring
At his hands full of
blood, not understanding
Anything but the rhythm of
the language.
There is little we can do
here.
We are time unimaginable,
songs
Filled with pleasure that
have burned down
Long ago, all lost now to
the final
Power of a road that
refuses to stop.
We regain our weapons,
unwind ourselves
From any mind that thinks
other and continue,
So close to forever we can
read its name
Shifting in the clouds.
___________________
OUTSIDE
—D.R. Wagner
Almost four hundred days.
It looks like the day is
fighting
Against the evening. The air
Filled with the blood of a
twilight
Long hidden from memory
but
Fixated on the idea of
parting
As something final,
something
Unfamiliar with the
cyclical spin
Time has caught in its
fingers.
I was afraid to open any
book.
I knew the images I would
find
There. That they would not leave
Me alone and come back,
while
I slept and become black
gardens
Full of agendas I would
know little about,
Holding objects that
revealed indistinct,
Faded mirrors that would
push against
My sleep, cause me to gasp
for breath,
Glow in my dreaming as
dying in prison
Might possess one at the
hands of such beasts.
So I ran, full of anguish,
toward other
Lights I thought more
certain. Lights
That would allow me retain
my name
As a river retains its
name through time.
But rivers, finally, are
nameless. All
Gray children of the
fourth element.
There is no gesture, no
touching, just
A blue of distant fire for
these many days.
________________
MAKING DEALS WITH THE
ELEMENTS
—D.R. Wagner
We were reminded that
light was on the move.
It was only a flesh wound.
Whatever it was, it
brought blood
To the foreground of any
gathering.
It had opened its box and
taken out all
The best knives. A rosary of scalpels
Daggers, stilettos ready
to open
The channels, still all
sensation
In a need to separate each
ray
Of light into something
else,
A tributary manipulated to
force
Entire civilizations into
greater and greater
Conglomerates of power.
Notice:
We want to curve the light
so that
When it bounces off an
object it
Will have a voice, be able
to tell
Us something about the
nature of the universe,
Where it came from, what
it has,
And do this whenever we
look
At anything.
‘Yes, certainly you want
this
Thing,’ came a voice from
the
Back parlor. ‘I see it my children.
I will change everything
you know
Of anything into soft
white and
Gray ash you can digest.
My name is fire. Come into my arms.’
Before the Drought
—Photo by D.R. Wagner
THE HOUSE OF MANY ROOMS
—D.R. Wagner
He was deep within the
house
When he realized he had
probably
Come too far. The light seemed
Crippled and he could not
discern
How it had entered the
place.
There were sounds of a
loud gathering
Somewhere in the building
but they
Were too far away to
account for anything.
There were only
doorways. As far
As he could see, doorways.
He began to try them.
They were not locked.
Sand stretched endlessly
behind the
Door. No life whatsoever, just a
Constant wind looking for
a language,
Any language.
Four men sat on chairs
behind desks
In the next room. They looked up
But they had no faces.
Angel-like beings with
heads of flame
And an absence of feet
clustered
Near him but they too did
not speak.
A soft light that came
from the
Farthest distance met him
in the next room.
He could hear a soft
breathing that could
Even have been his, but
was not.
A steep hill and the moon
was out and
Nearing full. A pack of wolves
Began to gather on the top
of the hill.
Their eyes never left him.
There was a mother, two
boys and
Two young girls all
praying with their
Backs to him. They were on their
Knees asking God for something. God
Could not hear them but
pretended to listen.
Stairwells, joining,
diverging, up, over
Across the space. Nothing moved
In the room but it had
wonder
As if made of something
real, like a life.
There were people cutting
beautiful
Bolts of cloth, heavy with
Brocade that had
embroidered
Silk decorating them.
A room dark but for a fury
Of insect wings rising and
falling
Like a great tide that had
a dry
Sound to it. One could pretend
It to be a sea.
The most beautiful of
villages
Sitting under a quiet
winter moon
Full of silences and
lightly falling
Snow. Light twinkling as if he
Were in a high place,
looking down.
A lone man in a chair
playing
Viola with great emotion,
his
Eyes closed.
These rooms continued
forever.
He was barely able to
record any
Of them before sleep came
to him
And took all things away.
________________
ABOUT THE KNIGHT
—D.R. Wagner
The knight has no business
being here.
This is the now that
exists only in books.
He does not exist outside
this destination.
But these words look so
real. The
Smell of the wood fire,
the deep
Glint of your sword
lifted.
You continue past those
places where you
Will work to flesh their
dreams
With what their soul might
demand.
Oblivion holds the
reins. You will
Never see me here except
by chance.
What is one small light by
the side of the road?
“Believe that others are
just, or will be,
And if it proves untrue,
it is not your
Fault.” I will not try to imagine you.
I will continue through
the forest
Tenacious as it is.
Perhaps a daring
The mind enjoys, a
perception, a remembrance.
When I look at my hands,
they are covered
With blood gathered from
the pulsing
Of nightmares. The knight has disappeared.
I am in a state of grace
now, even
As he was as he became
part of yet another
World. I let everything
surround me once again.
__________________
FINDING THE COSTUMES
(a
fragment from a journal)
—D.R. Wagner
We have discovered where
the costumes
Are kept. The room was hidden behind
A panel on the second
floor of the compound.
Now we understand how they
could look
Like huge birds. Vicious beaks and dark
Wings lined the
walls. The weapons
Were shined and sharp and
there were
Many of them.
Fish costumes with
breathing apparatus
Attached to them filled a
great bin.
We had long wondered how
they had
The ability to look like
so many different
Animals. Now this was revealed.
We doused the whole room
with lamp
Oil and put flame to it.
We had to leave
quickly. If we were
Discovered we would be put
to death.
I rode the chestnut roan
that day.
It was fast. Very fast. We got clean
Away.
We would not be terrorized
again
By the soldiers at the
fens.
We had our own gods to
call upon.
They have answered us and
now
The long rains have begun
again.
___________________
—Medusa
D.R. Wagner will be reading with John Dorsey at Luna's Cafe in Sacramento on Thursday, August 23, 8pm.
Auburn Fire Station
—Photo by D.R. Wagner
