of prophets and pick-up trucks

truck rolled up
window rolling down

"hey monk
...the Apocalypse has started
   it is happening now
   for some people
   the ones out on the edge
   seems like slow motion to us friend,
   but it is on God's time, yes God's time
   ...anyway just thought you'd wanna know."

truck peels out
laying a muddy rut
all the way up the shoulder
one last honk and a wave,
as the prophet turns the corner.

retreat

somewhere in Montana cabin
a full three miles past the last power post
tucked up on the tree edge
beside cool rocky creek water
rough hewn timber and stone
invisible from down the mountain

inside a bed, a table, a bookshelf
1972 edition of playboy
yellowed Kurt Vonnegut novels
 a Holy Bible
polaroids fall to the floor
pics from a party
moonshine jars and guitars
mugging it up for the camera

 - down in the town I was told some "movie type"
    used to own this cabin

later a nighttime fireside read
sleeping dog's rest disturbed
by mountain goat scuffles
candles flicker n'fade
running red wax down
the Mateus bottle

glimpses

it's those glimpses
the ones that show you
"the way it's supposed to be"
 the eternal
the ones that overwhelm
induce tears
  then fade again into
the tugging sadness

Easter Sunday

shuffling through
morning prayers
coffee brewing
temple dog walks

down the street
 distant in the dark
  a lady
rolling down
into then out
of our deep ditches

tossing Busch, and Bud cans
into her cart
singing softly
 hallelujah
   hallelujah
    hallelujah

guitar face

Whatcha playing?
What's that song?

i don't know
it's the one...
that makes me beat
out the time
banging it out
all along the floor boards
scaring the temple dogs

i don't know
it's the one...
with hammers, n'pulls
big e-string rumbles
the one i get lost in

you know
the one that brings
on the guitar face

type

i)

whatcha got there?

this here is
   a semi-automatic typewriter

yah need a license fer that?

   not yet


ii)

a old remnant pulled outta
deep basement corner
a bit dusty
but surges to life
ready for words


the tired monk

salt

monk robes hang
below shrugged on parka
tattered hem soaked heavy
in clinging ice

bare monk feet
wellington warm
ploughing through crusted snow
temple dog runs back up the trail
at the next gusty cold wind blast

---

mitts on vents
sweaters over chairs
robe dries slowly by the kitchen fire
remnant snow boot puddles disappear
leaving only a few salt rings