~

colin isn't going to do anything with these 

but let them moulder in a drawer,

maybe that's where they belong, he seems to think so

i think they need air, that's all

~

Huck

Everyone thinks of me as trash, and I reckon I am,

or pitiful, neglected, in need of lye soap, a Bible,

and probably a Bible-thumpin'. I don't care about all that.

I've lived with it long enough. I reckon I judge them

about as hard as they judge me. It's Becky I'm thinkin' on.

She can't, or won't, look beyond what her eyes see.

She can't, or won't, see the man. I'm a good man.

Someday I'll prove it. For now, Tom has her. He don't know

what he has, he don't appreciate her. He takes a lot for granted,

and pokes fun, and has fun. He's had a few knocks, but nothin' hard.

I'm a-leavin', but I'll be back. I'll be back for Becky.

I hope she grows up by then, I hope she becomes

the woman I think she'll become. I hope she learns the difference

between a man and a boy. I hope she knows I'm the man,

and Tom—Tom will be a boy until the day he dies.

~

Hurstwood

"Left me!"

~ Theodore Dreiser, "Sister Carrie"

Damned, he rocks

alone in a boarding house room

suffering ignominy, poverty, criminality

all for an unrequited love

while she is celebrated

enjoying the finest amenities of society

having put behind her

a calculated ascension to the top.

~

Never had Nothing

He sold the place 

near the old home place 

he bought after moving 

back from California 

(went out there with 

nothing but two dollars) 

and moved to town 

he missed his cows 

his daughter lives 

too far away his son 

drank himself to death 

just drank himself to death 

his wife has the cancer 

and he apologizes for crying.

~

On Miller’s Pond

Hawthorne, old Emerson, Henry and I 

Spent last Sunday, after church, skating,

Taking the air, stretching our limbs.

Thoreau, being the sport that he is, showed off 

His skill—pirouetting and leaping, long arms 

Windmilling. Waldo, bent at the waist, 

Cut a fine figure, but cautious, befitting his age, 

While Nathaniel and I circled the pond 

In pleasant repartee. A flask set by a convenient 

Snowbank comforted us from the chill, 

A bit of spirit spreads a satisfactory glow 

Throughout the bones and down to the toes. 

Melville came late, the young pup, eager to please, 

And with little white puffs from his pipe 

Joined in the fun. A handsome group, we, 

I’ll allow, on the clear ice, in the midst of the hills, 

In the lee of the pines, low sun cutting shadows, 

A nip in the air—and the conversation was good. 

~

Sad to Lose a Friend

Ahab lived close to my own childhood home.

We grew up as friends, as good friends, 

Frequenting the wharves, oh, it sounds unlikely,

I know. That our paths led to the sea

Was determined by our heritage, by our locale,

By our inclinations, by hard bitten necessity.

Ahab's captaincy was hard won, familial

Influence marginal. He worked, as I did, his way

From before the mast to the quarter deck 

In slow and difficult steps. Once there

He stood proudly, and what was to befall him

Was not even a moonraker on the horizon. 

I married and sired. I gave up the sea. 

I took to crops, damn fool that I am.

When I heard of Moby Dick and the wraith

And wreck that Ahab had become, I mourned,

Mourned for a lost friend, for he was gone.

His obsession is well documented, no need

To repeat what is known. There is only this 

To say—he was loved. He was loved as a child,

As a friend, as a husband and father, and briefly,

As a captain. That spermaceti and oil brought his death,

And the death of a crew who bid his will,

Seems unfair trade, yet, there was nothing unique

In his death, only his passion for seeking it out.

~

Sidd Finch

He came. He went—a meteor, 

tall and spare, idiosyncratic, 

beyond the scope of . . . us.

He came. He showed that 

the impossible was possible, 

and he did so without words. 

He came, he took off his shoe, 

he picked up the ball, 

and then . . . he threw it. 

He came, and now he is gone. 

It is April, the game is on. 

Let us remember the man.

~

Starbuck

On the quarterdeck, the barest of swells, 

The whirling stars above, the question 

Begs asking—where lies my loyalty? 

To the owners, whose contract I signed, 

To the Captain whose quest is surely mad, 

To the crew who are innocent, to myself? 

Above us the firmament makes even

The sea look small. On deck the helmsman

And the watch keep their own council, as I keep mine.

Below deck, dreams and nightmares, a swelling

Timber groans. In all, a sail luffs then fills,

The ship moves forward, a hint of hiss

From the bow. My loyalty isn't the question,

But the why of it. I obey. I will obey.

~

The Alchemist

An extremely lost and displaced,

in more ways than one, 

John Clare, finds himself at gas station

in West Texas 

staring at something, at a lot of things,

he’s never seen before

primarily the plains, that is, flat land.

Being John Clare, 

being lost, one way or another, is nothing new.

He absorbs the images,

does not struggle to make sense of them,

but begins the process of alchemy—

images to words,

because this is what he does.

~

The Lonesome Cowboy

Listening to KJBY 

Because that's all there is, 

In the truck, alone, 

Driving country roads. 

Here comes that Ricky Nelson song 

For the hundredth goddamn time—

Something about a garden party 

He attends with regret. 

—

I am, without a doubt, 

The loneliest goddamn cowboy 

In the state of Colorado.

~

The Weaver

(Silas Marner)

Until that moment I didn't explore motives.

I had no immunity, no defense, was left stunned,

Unable to cope or even respond. Nothing 

Within me allowed me to fight, to right the wrong,

I simply took it. Then I left. I left shaking my head,

Not comprehending what happened, or why, 

Or that such a thing could happen. Found guilty

Without committing the crime. No, I had no

Recourse but to leave. I was, up until then, innocent,

Utterly, and trusting, even loved. Betrayal

Was a concept I had no need to consider, so I hadn't.

Now, after so many years have passed, the

Evidence has come in, innocent, but what I have

Gained by my exile has proven to be immeasurable,

No better outcome could be conceived. I have

Gold and gold, I am rich, I am the richest poor man.

~

Macbeth!

I see a field of clotted blood. 

This is my postmortem:

Carts hauling off the dead, 

The wounded, ears roaring

With silence but for moans. 

Victory upon my shoulders 

In all its freshly hewn fetidness. 

Entrails of horse and man entwined. 

This is my victory, my honor? 

"Banquo, what? Say it!"

'The day is ours!" 

"Ours? What is it we have, Banquo,

But fate, and tomorrow?"

~

The Christening

There are no children named November.

None, at least, that I know.

Are sunny days so pallid, chill, and few

That not a one can bear the name?

Does the notion of impending winter

Dispel the possibility of a namesake?

Does the word itself spell something cold

About the heart, frost about the soul?

I know one whose name was bestowed

Too lightly, too generously with hope, 

Ill suited to its nature. I renounce 

My name, and wish to be more true

To what I know. Like Ishmael I choose 

A name to suit myself. Call me November. 

~