In Storage
—Photo by D.R. Wagner
FRAGMENT FROM THE HILL
JOURNALS
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
The clouds were dark that
evening.
Seen from the window they
could
Have been thinking,
brooding, but
Eventually the stars
climbed to their
Places and waited once
again for
The cool flame of the
crescent moon
To remind everything its
light touched
That it was the most
powerful beacon
For this time, that
anything the night
Might lack could be had in
her light.
The table was already set
when we came in.
The walk from the villages
had seemed
Inordinately long.
Water had found its way
inside my boots.
Making a squishing sound
as I walked
To the bench in front of
the fire, I removed
Them and began drying my
feet with a soft blue cloth.
‘I am never coming that
way again.
It looks too much like
earth
With its meanness and killing.
I was struck with flying
things more
Than a few times. The houses were
Hovels and one of them,
near the
Cliff edge, looked to be in
a state
Of constant flame but
never
Seemed to burn. Flames out
The door. Those horrible people
Gathered round, all
talking and
Gesticulating. I hate the way they
Talk. It isn’t language and
That horrible stench.
God.’
Ramon poked at the fire.
‘You’ll feel better after
you have
Had something to eat. This is
A safe place. No one has even
Ever heard of these white
caves.’
I knew it was true, that
if we
Had to be anywhere, this
was the
Best of places to be.
‘I did manage to bring two
of the horses
And there is enough food
for a
Couple of weeks in the
packs.’
‘We will send someone else
Next time.’
I rose, walked across the
room
And sat heavily on the
bed.
The next thing I knew, I
was
Waking. She was kissing my lips
And making a little
morning song to me.
‘You worry an awful lot
too,’ she said
‘You tossed and turned all
night.’
‘These wars will be over soon.’
I said, barely believing
myself.
‘I don’t think so,’ she
said.
‘It has been like this as
long as
We have been here. We keep moving
Higher and higher up these
cliffs.’
‘Come here,’ I said, ‘I
will show
You a very special
dance.' I rose
And bowed and began to
move.
The smile on her face was
better than
The dawn all that week
had been.
_______________
A LATE JOURNEY
—D.R. Wagner
We passed the house of the
avenging angel
With its parapets and
ribboned trumpeters,
Purple and red-violet the
color
Of their eyes. It was the hour
When dreams are captured,
sorted
And released to the
children born
To the damned and to those
who
Wander. They are unable to speak,
Dress in cassocks and
flowing
Gowns. They do not take bodies
Often as it is this
dreaming
That gives voices to the
winds.
We can see this in the eyes
Wild animals turn to us
When we encounter them in
the forest,
Unexpected and
interrupting their precision
We like to call behavior.
The stars wound round him,
this lurid angel,
As the singing rose around
us. Lights began
To go out as stars became
the evening.
Buick Riviera
—Photo by D.R. Wagner
“SMILING AT ME AS THOUGH I
MIGHT
BE VERY YOUNG." ....K. Patchen
—D.R. Wagner
I had my own room once.
No, one time, really. I’d
listen
To piano music there and
sometimes
Sleep. I had a special place where
I kept a candle, a tall
one, that
Was as wonderful as a
rainstorm
When it needed to be. Ha.
Ha.
I guess I mean when I
needed it
To be. Like this: ‘There’s
bears making that
Sound outside. They won’t be hurtin’
Us. They just don’t know so much.
They have been walking all
day. If we
Go out there now we can
see them
Leaving the meadow. They were pretty
With that twilight on
their fur.
They almost look purple.
Ever see a purple bear?’
_______________
A POISONED LITTLE ROOM
—D.R. Wagner
The chanting was coming
from somewhere.
It had that lonesome-place
feel
About it that clusters
toward an Orthodox
Byzantine room. The soft gold glow
That time acquires when
the sounds
Have almost
disappeared. They are
Patched together like
years.
A sense of compassion
allowed
Itself into his eyes.
A poisoned little room
Cool with basso profundo
clicks,
The kind vinyl used to
make
When a needle scratched
across
Its circular ruins, each
song
Dreamed again and again.
Thick stalks of perennials
peeled
Back to expose the pith
and
A myriad of insects who
Were required to dwell
there.
Today I would guess it was
a kind
Of cursing rhetoric that
could
Be heard and understood as
a deep
Disappointment in a
mistaken higher power
That lost its name just
before one
Completely blacked out,
To wake up in a morning
full of ditch water
And a kind of exquisite,
misunderstood
Ecstasy John of the Cross
might
Might have tried to
describe.
Or Cervantes, in his study
Watching Quixote re-mount
his horse
And totter toward the
horizon still searching
When it probably only
meant going to sleep
At that particular time so
that he might
Continue writing in the
morning.
But there still was that
damn
Music that constantly
needed explanation.
_______________
BEHIND THE MYTH
—D.R. Wagner
He always seemed to walk
through
Things, never around them
as if the night
Were a huge tangle of
objects
Moving like a glacier
beneath his stride.
And he would crash through
The surface with each step
and
Plunge out of sight,
reappearing
With the same crashing of
steps.
Furthermore, he seemed
headed
Nowhere. Our job was to watch
Him. After all he was our guide.
The old ones called him
‘our prayer’
And bowed to him when he
would
Arrive late to the caves,
cut,
Bleeding more often than
not
And always mumbling about
Something he had seen in
his journey.
We hardly ever spoke to
him
Except to ask common
questions:
Would you like more soup?
Are you bringing wire with
you tonight?
Except for myself. I had decided
To talk to him as if he
were
Not our prayer, but rather
a kind of drunk
Wanderer whose job was
smashing
Underbrush beneath his
feet.
‘What is perfect?’ I asked
him.
‘A lamp atop a three-drawer dresser.’
He answered. There are silhouettes
Of deer, squirrels,
rabbits, foxes
Birds and the forest in
its lamp
Shade. It is perfect,’ he said.
‘It is also only four
inches tall.’
He wept and I could feel
The music of a piano
musing
Well after midnight come
through
His words. ‘What am I feeling?'
I asked, alarmed at this.
‘You’ve never been inside
a poem
Like this before, have you?'
His eyes were suddenly the
only
Light in the room.
‘Touch the walls here very
carefully,
My friend. This thing just ends
And there is no bottom.
Watch what happens when
The words run out.’
_______________
Today's LittleNip:
Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very"; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.
