A Drifting in the Heart

From the Train

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

A SADNESS



A great sadness passes over me.


I can see vast distances for moments


At a time.  There is no breeze.


Sheets of heat undulate in the air.


There is no wind.  Speech is impossible.


So much has happened that no one 


Here can remember anything.  It is 


A great amnesia that seems to exclude


Love.  People are going around


Killing one another.  Wars are started


Over bad manners and bad changes of direction.



They are playing our favorite song.


They play it over and over.


You know all of the lyrics perfectly.


They go with your outfit.  The one


You will wear tonight.  There will


Be a party.  Everyone will be there.



In the distance we can see


A man walking through the wasteland


Very slowly.  He seems to want to tell us


Something.  We don’t know what it could be


But we know it is important.


We run toward him.


We begin receiving signals.




BLANKET



A drifting in the heart.  Long 


Sounds that find no solace.  No matter


Where they go they remain wanderers.



We will find them on the shores of the lake


After storms that rip the lining of the night


Easily from its darling moon.



Someone must have seen where the careful


Touch has gone, where the sandals cut


The crust of the morning away from the bread


And no hand, oh pretty creatures they are,


Could move as brutally, tearing the stars


Down from the black lion of night,


All kindness gone, its blue cart tipped


On its side in the crowded streets.



No one wonders any longer.


Dammit all anyway.  All they ever


Wanted were blankets to keep warm


And just a touch of a hand,


Someone to say, “Do not be afraid at all.”

BREAKING THE MONTH OPEN



The month had emptied


Itself out.  Everything it had


Contained was spilled in front


Of it like it had been


Too much to hold and, in the


Middle of October, had


Twisted around a corner


And spilled its guts 


Into the street.



“Try not to walk in any of that


Stuff, man,” a slightly familiar 


Voice said.  “My cousin died


Last weekend.  I know 


He’s in there somewhere.


He was 26 years old.”

_________________________


SHORT STORY



And she says, “What’s that supposed


To be?”  And I tell her it’s my


Life and that it looks like this


Because I’ve been living for 


A long time and there has been


Some damage to some part of it.


“You can say that again,” she says.



So I do.


PLAYING OVER THE SLASH CHORDS



The sky was charring.


The dark trumpet eyes


Of the evening fell upon


Us in a memory of bison

Herds and great raptor


Birds searching for souls.



For a kind of emptiness


Not found in the quiet


Things of this world.



They need that swelling


Found in fine jazz


That is never spoken, but pulled


From strings and brassy 


Horns, from reeds and the hurried


Footsteps of time long ago.



Sweeping memory from the sky,


Not peeling it away from itself.


Trying to form a simple


Circle of any given day



As we undress ourselves,


Knowing we will once again


Be ruled by the most


Profound sleep imagined.

 At Les' Home

SOLIDARITY



How far will we come into any universe,


Making our sad procession, before we discover


That we are indeed the door to the heavens.



At times the stars look like armies surrounding


Temples of compassion.  These were recognized


By tribes long before we came to perform here.



Again and again we forget that death always


Ends every parade and career, showing its folly


Beneath that white mouth speaking 


Above all cities. 


We only see these stars when darkness 


Consumes all that we admire.



Be still, the centuries of the spirit.


Empty the ragged halls filled with seasons


That move like islands of dream while we lie


Down next to forever and play with its body.



Continue to stand over against the sun


As the rain becomes darker and darker.


This is not a music but a “door standing open


On horror.”  We must be of life.  All words of life.


An embrace of a life without guilt as we were


When children.  “Look, look,” we can shout,


“The sun.”  Each of us as dazzling.



*



We are multitudes that no longer


Fear death, for it too lives.


Hold everything dear, children.


Embrace everything.  We shall


Never leave. 


Answer me.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A TINY FIRE



Turquoise fire


And if rubies could burn


That color, of blood


Near the heart.

_____________________

Our thanks to D.R. Wagner for this morning’s fine fare, and a reminder that he will be reading in Locke today (Saturday, Oct. 17) with Al Winans and Cassandra Dallett in Danger! at the Moon (Cafe Gallery), Main Street, Locke, 5pm. Info: moonartcafe on Facebook or 916-776-1780. Small donations requested at the door.

—Medusa