Onto Sedona

"Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the Persians hold the sea holy?" – Melville, from Moby Dick









Day 2


Toil of the traveler begins near first light, a few stretches as warm up, then out a strange
   door, as if a new ship to sea
and out along the backroads of Oak Village, the other side of the auditoriumnal ring
   of red rocks that make Sedona;
city, as always, no matter how far you get into the breast of this country, sea shore, or desert,
   will always play out by roads;
the thoroughfare that slices through the heart of the shopping malls, big trucks, wheels
   as high as my own hips,
straddle the roundabouts needing to get to some country roads with far more fervor
   than the driver of Prius;
into the backwaters of the city, long dry buildings as senior centers and held by clean
   clipped lawns, a cafe and Tarot shop
as every other side channel city.  You pass slowly at a traveler's pace. The red rock cliffs
    stand as if a wall of perfect bricks.
The city inside of you is the boy trapped inside the classroom, looking out a barricade
    of windows imagining departing ships.

One Blade of Grass

"Oh! for a refreshing glimpse of one blade of grass–for a snuff at the fragrance of the loamy earth! Is there nothing fresh around us? Is there nothing green to be seen?" – Melville, from Typee











Day 1


City block, lodged here adjacent to more water than earth, along the man-cut river,
    which flows from lake to lake.
Here where the water had been impounded, shut-in, and the shores rose to disable
    the hundred old houses and sunk beaches.
Even in winter I walk along the very dry shores of the sidewalks, chalky now by cold,
    but not by snow yet
And wonder if these lines of houses are not but a stationary ships' windows overlooking
    these cold and separated lives
In which each holds the paraphanalia of a life without the growth of beautiful green:
    the white dog lying along register
A kitchen stocked by one-day old oranges, cords like thin white snakes at every surface,
    stairs and bathrooms erect
Bound to these strange and chained permanence, landlocked, still, as that part of the sea
    you pass forever without wind;
I want the foundations to lift up and heave, if comfortably, set off to a Polynesia,
    find a woman there, a blade of grass, relief.

But on the Earth

"At this hour I remember everything and everyone,
vigorously, sunkenly in
the regions that–sound and feather–
striking a little, exist
beyond the earth, but on the earth. Today
a new winter begins" – Neruda, from "Madrid (1937)








I read Abbey again and want nothing more than to be driving along a dusty trail passing the wind carved arches and wondering, there, could I get beyond my fears?

I read a Merton journal entry. Of January. It is cold at the Abbey. He observes men cutting wood and considers his mortality that morning as he sees new creases under his eyes, and suggests "a new hollowness" forming. He is tired of war and words.

I read something of eco criticism. Of post-humanism. What will we love as nature loses all of its facades. The arches have. The eye of the prophet has. I see the arches as woman? Can I?

Neruda's poem is a splash of language, dripping along the contours of Madrid, '37, much death to come, as Orwell said, a fresh militiaman, an odd new shadow had formed over the people of the city.

The first day we arrived in Sedona, jet-lagged, my eyes tight, lungs full of wrong air, we began walking over the mammoth lobes of Bell Rock outside of the village of Oak Creek. Ghosts upon ghosts, we walked over the clay colored rock, a dusting of sand over every crack. Parades of little cairns like still fires lined along the trail, or what we interpreted as such. We bent down to our knees in order to propel up onto the mantle of the rising rock. A new blue fire formed at the cracks of the split rock. The lobes had been planted below every perch had disappeared this high up. We looked over the highest crack. Nothing below. Stomach disappeared, as though it had dropped down through the body and onto the ground.

One desert jay in the distance
a flood of blue
beyond fear

This is Only Our Survival

"My nice voice is reserved for meetings with a view, my palm
outstretched saying here. Are our problems. Legacies rolling out like multicolored marbles. Don't focus so much on the 'doom and gloom' they keep saying. We don't want to depress. Everyone. This is only our survival." – Kathy Jetnil-Klijner, from "Nice Voice"









Forget to Smile

Some days spent in the Arizonan red rocks will do this to you. Those red cakes, from a distance, luxurious, 'decorated up well,' a tour guide tells us. As though planted, sculpted, and of course they were both. It doesn't take much to wish for those hands. Fight it back, not supposed to be religious, just spiritual, is that correct? These would have been invisible, my hands. Straight up from a sodden sand I suspect, fingertips pulled accurately along the edges of the eruption, soft enough to contour to the liking. Of it. Of what. Clipped finally at the top, flat and nearly predictable, something that they eyes of ours latch onto, all eyes, from the scorpion on up to the native, all wisdom, you can't kill wisdom. Those days spent walking hungrily along the provided lobes flat enough to survive your step. Little gradual steps, similar to how we might come to love, but forget. Red heart, yes, pulsing we climb, as we lose our own, a world arrives again. People in the city sleep behind everything.

Then descend back into the city, it's own arid hush. Snow had done something nice for us. Animated the grisled yards tortured by freeze and dehydration. First white powder down must have been religious for all the rest of them. Call it castles if you must. Crystals I shovel. Ear buds in. New to touch. I sculpt lines along the sidewalk, clear the driveway to an open mouth, place little piles of snow down like a potter with shovel. Might melt in an hour. I use it as a tool. The sun itself. A tool. Cars that pass are quieter. Most everyone inside buildings along the corridors of business disappear into the sky, alive, eyes burning up white, climb, friends.


for tomorrow
you will forget
to smile

Unquiet Stones

"In the wave-strike over unquiet stones
the brightness bursts and bears the rose
and the ring of water contracts to a cluster
to one drop of azure brine that falls."
– Neruda, from "In the Wave-Strike Over Unquiet Stones"









The silent mouths of rocks no longer.
I have seen her, the paintress, who watches
out of her own window at the turret
of her studio how the crest of coffee pot mountain
stands at the distance
under the spectre of sunshine drench
and turn those canyons to tongues.
She walks shyly back to her canvas
and considers the permanence of the rose
splattered hues, the cork splattered
wash of the sandstone, decibels and wonders,
how to pluck the cord of color to music.
Somewhere out there the desert jay breaks
for its own wonders under the pinyon tree
crouched down into a crease of the peach lobes
and her mind turns to the love of stone
and her fingers fly from one swollen dash
to another and thought strikes
that no one has ever known or will know again
here is where the river of the soul resides
as stone and bird and tongue.
We live inside a dream of our original eruption.
A cosmos vibrates. An eye never dies.
The stone will always sing.

Mirror of Flesh

"Crude dove, clay piggy bank,
on your grieving back a sign, something
that barely deciphers you. My people,
how–shouldering your sorrows,
beaten and subdued – how did you manage
to accumulate naked science?"
– Neruda, from "Pottery Shop"







The last of the lonely eagles–
silhouette of brown fire erupts
from the corner of the window so close
as to fill its squared artificiality,
a frame of such thin space between the eye
and the lofty corpuscles of flight,
and I follow by binocular lens as I can
up into invisible thermals that that lift of the brown back,
that fold of perfectly dabbled
feather by a flight that is as much magic
as it is circling tension.
Alone now to the top of the peak of the river cotton wood
alone now for the night
as the pewter dust of sunset
settles to the surface of the bay,
the eagle watches, surfeited,
hungry, veins pulsing by a new torsion of blood,
heart as thin as the air
or a pane of glass between
the love march of the ages
and two eyes that cast forever
these mirrors of our own flesh.

The Bluebird Diaries

"Trolling the coho fly twenty feet behind the boat,
under moonlight, when the huge salmon hit it!
And lunged clear of the water. Stood, it seemed,
on its tail. Then fell back and was gone."
– Raymond Carver, from "Cutlery"









Same old haunts of beauty.
There are days that I feel I live by the promise of prairies.
It doesn't matter the weather –
some will complain of ninety degrees
and muggy by August,
when, these days, it rains for a month at a time.
Others, by winter, too cold,
how could you go out hiking on ice!
I see prairies in my mind all the time.
Bald spots left on the earth,
so few left, as some man sitting
behind some desk somewhere considers
options to buy, sell, at least encroach.
I see them there as something like shining relics.
Archeologists in Chile have found
the largest thigh bone of any dinosaur,
having sat there right under the surface
for thousands of years, now blown
by the wind and surfaced.
I imagine walking along a slender trail
used by the Incas and seeing
the nub of a bone the size of my fist
only for it to reveal an object larger than myself.
The mind scans back over years as best
as it can, places in details, thinks of evolution,
how the skies have fluctuated,
strange gasses risen and the birds
learned to navigate swirling conditions.
That is the same as prairie.
Those old settlers saw it as gold.
Scythed away at it. Built fences, drug horses,
in one day perhaps dug
out a large band of lead plant, prairie smoke,
milkweed drenched for the love of monarchs.
Could it matter? Unlike the Incas
they were new to the place.
In my mind I stand in the middle of a rising
hillock somewhere in the middle
a prairie which here holds two oak.
This isn't me anymore.
They eye sees the circling of the hawk,
like a silhouette of flagging ash
up through the rising creeks of those oak limbs.
That isn't me anymore.
I stand still as can be and block out the highway
traffic which passes the man's
new development.
A breeze passes through me.
and lands like words on a page.