Handicapper and the Great American Novel

Maybe the problem has been the pen
so I change, I try felt tip, number five
pencil lead works for a time and then
nothing turned itself inside-out, belief survives

so I change, I try felt tip, number five
at Aqueduct, a mare, to win.
Nothing turned itself inside-out, hope survives;
that degenerate gambler was right again.

At Aqueduct, a mare, to win
Propped in the corner, betting slips pile like leaves
that degenerate gambler was right again
that nagging feeling always leaves unease.

Propped in the corner, betting slips pile like leaves
I jot down ideas, sketch conflict
that nagging feeling always leaves unease--
what's left for the prose addled,

I jot down ideas, scores to settle, convicts
from a Dostoevsky novel
is what's left for the prose addled,
quoting from books I barely know the titles.

From a Dostoevsky novel
about despair and the human condition
still quoting books I barely know the titles.
And I return to my primary mission

reporting despair and the human condition.
Pencil lead works for a time and then 
I return to my primary mission. 
Maybe the problem has been the pen.

Elegant Compactor

Winter started weeks before the December solstice,

the earliest encroachment of any winter, in any year in memory.

Malevolent wind abrades the gorge before it bothers the shingles

like idle, insistent fingertips.

This is the coldest winter I can remember

(as if memories are any more reliable

than anything else).

Memories are elegantly compacted

mechanically reduced,

painful parts extruded and slagged

so that each time is now

the worst, uncalibrated to the cold and blizzards of year's past

with more contained in us than we can recall.

Exercise from LAR Workshop #2

"Hawk became crow"

In bullet time, a moment stretched

over hours.

New pinions bunker oil black and shimmering

out of sharp bladed wing tips as if

an alchemy of viscera from predator to rook.

A spontaneous reincarnation

essential elements recast,

initiation into the murder,

a society of the ominous and the crafty, motto:

"Necessity is the mother of invention"

even when the necessity was unknown

before this moment.

Exercise from LAR Workshop

That first summer we swam in rapids

wind-churned cataracts in fields of winter wheat

running through endless surf, fields larger than the

confluence of the Nile and Amazon

and as real to us

as anything else we knew, little though that was.

I feel the sky, blue as mountain lakes, close

to my self, still. I feel the roundness of

unbroken plains, the dust in the air

I chased after you through the stalks

in shadow-less noon.

you can see

it’s hard to see his eyes but I’d bet they’re closed

guitar neck parallel to the floor

he plays it under his chin sometimes

so you can see his hips swim

ass wrapped in blue denim

painted on so tight, you can see

how much change he’s got in his pocket

his hat pulled down like a bronc buster

in the gate ready for the door to be pulled

you can see the clowns

are just waiting for him to say "ok"

pointy-toed boot moving from 12 to 3

and when the song swings more

his whole foot moves through the range

you can see

in heaven I am Dwight Yoakam

and there he may be me

which is a different ball of wax entirely

our bones and my cicadas

you sitting sidesaddle on my lap,

my chin resting on the shelf your collarbone makes

the words I’m reading rattling in your temples

thin, loose window panes in a thunderstorm

participles transmitted through my mandible

consonants through your clavicle

but lost in between your incus, your stapes

and the tremors in my hands

(dampened by your touch)

turn this book’s pages into cicadas

that eat holes in these pages

we nurtured and grew so many years ago

Driving across Canada, three thousand-odd miles in a light rain

with wet roads in the windshield

the same deep black as a printer's ink

or fried emulsion,

to see if one ocean is so different from another.

Provinces go past

west to east

with our travelogue narrated

by wipers' creak and tires' thrum,

punctuated by truck stops, motels, Tim Hortons

until sun sets, fade to black, start again tomorrow,

until we can see the ocean.

Past Aillik, past the hills.

The distance dampens the waves

like an oil slick

so that only the occasional whitecap breaks through,

drawing attention to itself like a chipped tooth in a smile.

We dip our toes in,

and walk next to the water,

rougher now that we are next to it,

you hold my hand as we mull about how different

this is from that,

and how, when we close our eyes, there's no way to know.