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Three Selections from the manuscript
When The Crow Flies Home to Purgatory County
"that's how i am, drunk, sad by nature, a mad & lunar
guitarist. a poet & an ordinary man lost in dreams-searching
constantly for god among the mists"-antonio machado
I
when the crow flies home
maybe the skies will darken
with possibility
whether it's spiritual tongue wagging
a chemically induced rambling
or an unsatisfied
with limitations of language
surrealist esperanto
the results
will always be debatable
sometimes it's mumbling
with a mouthful of uncertainties
other times an amphetamine babble
at the speed of fear
but it's all prayer
deep down
where i can't reach
& pull out that
which is completely comprehensible
sometimes the words spill out
smooth as top shelf
with an almost arrogant confidence
other times it sounds like
a sputtering clunker
trying to pull an appalachian hill
sometimes the words i recognize least
have the most power
so i follow them
they seem to have more promise
a better chance of taking me
further away
from myself
whether it's an ox-cart, an olds 88
or broken down arthritic step & half
when that wide open space
between what i've thought
& what i've done
offers me
just enough room for error
& a chance to transcend prior designations
i have to grab it
if i don't know where i'm going
i'll take it as a good sign
that i haven't been cursed
with seeing it all
if the road is muddy
i'll speak in tongues
if the road is paved
i'll sleep awhile
if the road is crooked
i'll think twice
if the road is straight
i'll narrow down my choices
II
i'm an uneducated, unshaven, nearly unraveled
step-n-fetchit mule
who's either going through the motions
or completely lost
in my own gestures
dressed the same for last twenty years
white t-shirt (now more a dingy grey)
& overalls stained with industrial chemicals
that form an indecypherable mandala
that won't wash out
i fight with obsolete machinery
with calloused hands, worn out disks
arthritic back & other uncooperative parts
& with my own apathy
navigating endless rows of tiles
through hallways lit
in teeth-gritting fluorescence
kitschy hillbilly murals line the walls
i try to avoid mean-spirited gossip
& inane small talk of disillusioned field hands
& ignore condescending conversation
with arrogant, racist, bourgeois house servants
my mumbling, no matter how dummied down
seems to be construed as strange
borderline creepy
anything close to smoozing
would be ineffective, laughable
i smuggle in whitehead, wittgenstein
sufi texts & huang po
in plastic wal-mart bags
pretending its lunch
not wanting to draw any suspicious looks
blow my cover
when i punch the clock
is when i'm most certain
that chronological order is a hoax
when i seem most coherent & steady
is actually when i'm closest
to spinning out of control
when given a choice between pen & plow
i scratch my answer in the dirt
though i'm aware that most people
can't be bothered with fine print
let alone kneel on the ground
to read it
when asked if i'd prefer to rise
with the sun or moon
i fall headfirst
into old habits
not because i believe
that's where the living is easy
or that's where the money lies
but on the slight chance
that's where i left my duende
when bouncing back & forth
between blue monday & black friday
i scatter ashes
along the way
never sure when it might be more
than a death rehearsal
i watch the sun rise
over the housing projects
& watch it set on the old schoolyard
imagining that somewhere in between
is everything i've forgotten
i wonder if the blues
are a legitimate act of worship
& if too much of a good thing
is mistaken for absolutely essential
all the things
i could have said
are loaded dice & unearthed bones
all the things
i should have said
are ink & identity crisis
III
when i do my three a.m. rounds
under crisp, starry
sickle-mooned sky
hopped on caffeine, pain tablet or two
& existential wonder
i feel like a cross
between old testament ezekial
& wild bill blake
with a need to scribble it down
on scrap paper
though by morning
i'll have difficulty deciphering them
undecided on their relevance
most of the words seem ambiguous
either illuminating or misleading
with not much middle ground
sometimes a process of disorientation
needs to be followed
to paradoxically become unfocused
enough to see
because we can become
so conscious of ourself
we're no longer able to act on impulse
that sense of wonder we once had
settles into self-satisfied smugness
we no longer see beyond
practical applications
we churn out assembly line self portraits
& chain letters to ourself
that spook us nonetheless
how can everything look & feel
so familiar & comfortable one minute
then foreign & foreboding the next
crumbling buildings house nothing
but unfashionable remnants
from better times
& red brick smokestacks
make me think of cervantes giants
looming overhead
obstructing view
of anywhere but here
endless rolling hills are laid out
like long rows of punchlines
the river is a constant reminder
i should be moving
i try to remember
what's on the other side
i have a silver dollar
& odds it gets there
before i do
regardless of what's been said
about the river opening for the righteous
is there a place
where towhead play
stretches beyond winning
or losing
where an old upright with no middle c
bangs out ayler-like marches
while strays scratch percussive
at the screen door
where five chinese brothers
strut their stuff
& bazooka joe breaks into
a beatific grin
where resurrection is small enough
to stuff into back pocket
where there's no need
for vicarious thrills
or expensive spills
that leave you paying to flinch
©2004 Mark Hartenbach
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