the abbess appears

the old monk sheds his sandals

wades into the mucky ditch

swinging his sickle

mowing thick swamp grass

just ahead of torrential rains

pulling heaps of vetch

stuck in choking muck

rakes, shovels, loads

three heavy barrows full

the water runs free at last

down through the culvert

into the low valley stream

the abbess appears

smiles

offers a dark rich

French press coffee

Ranching

my first job: was on a ranch

creates cowboy visions

of mountains, cold creeks, 

patting the neck of a beautiful horse

oh the romance

more so

shoveling horse shit...the literal kind

flecks of creosote paint

burning my hands

rich girls in clean new jeans

laughing as I wheelbarrow by

Sierra Nevada "1957"

Townes is playing

he's fingerpicking a Martin

under a sequoia tree 

he yells out:  "this one's called red wine blues"

Jack laughs 

hoists up two jugs 

and takes a healthy slug

and passes it to his young wife

more people arrive

walking up the winding path

Gord, Stephen, John, Benjamin...

and many more

some are holding cases of Labbatt 

over their heads

then dumping them into

troughs of ice

Gary wanders down

from his mountain shack

he'd been up there cooking

all afternoon

huge pots of chili

we start to spoon it out

two California girls 

top the bowls

with shredded cheese

everything shimmers...fades

a robin starts to sing out

into the dawn

a crow joins in

a final ethereal glimpse

of Gary smiling

 

On the Road

On the Road 

beautiful Penguin edition

photo of Jack, and Neal

looking out over the library...

(learning commons)

up high yes

just like a fire watch tower

on Desolation Peak

below

students sit

staring into chromebooks

and the occasional Manga

the Kerouac paperback

sits unstamped since 2007

yellowing under 

fluorescent lights

a new song

slow steady climb

up the rocky ridge

scouts used to clear this path

now it is rock strewn

overgrown

blocked by a fallen tree

up over the shattered pine

then down into the small 

creek cut valley

drop my pack

by the door

little camp hatchet 

snaps through dry wood

flint sparks fly

warmth spreads

across the cabin floor

in the corner

an old Fender acoustic sits

six rusty strings hang loose

soon it is fitted up 

with a new heavy gauge set

low lonesome chords ring

up over the mountain top

a new song echoes

four more years

four more years...and 39 days

I'll walk out of here

dropping plaques

and ink wet cards

in my wake

stepping over

deflated yellow balloons

spinning slow

against the stairs

like Lot

like that prisoner

walking out 

that jail in Edmonton

but I won't be breaking

a store window

to get back in

I'll keep walking

out to my 4x4 ride

then drive

into the wild

deep into the wild.

silence

music carries me

up over back country road short cuts

Neil Young and Crazy Horse

blasting hard fast distorted buzz

clicked off in my parking lot spot

a day of unrelenting cacophony

a stream of non-sequitur "facts"

questions and questions 

and questions about questions

head spins

exhausted monk

out to the car

silence

all the way home

just a slight tire hum