Friday, September 23, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #336

The Condor Club, San Francisco, 1970
(Wikipedia photo... by Michael Holley)


Hawk Season Notebook #336

Poison mushrooms. That kind of 1971 wariness. You stand belly-ill in front of a Chinatown window, stare at wood slat cages of mallard ducks. It is a touristy night. Your girlfriend is behind you, holding you, holding a good camera. North Beach is filled with orange and yellow lights, blues and hot-pinks. There is a wreck at Broadway and Columbus... two identical Ford Mavericks. A bloody-brow woman in a fur coat is at the sidewalk curb by the Condor Club... moaning. Your girlfriend has a basement apartment in the Marina where you sometimes sleep. She keeps a small garden. She likes paper lanterns. She asks, Want duck next Friday... without mushrooms? Two tow trucks pull up. The Condor Club's neon, outlining a famous stripper, blinks; Carol Doda, you say to your girlfriend, I met her before she got silicone. You will soon break up, so you stroll your girlfriend back into Chinatown and buy, to be romantic, another paper lantern... a space filler.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #335



Hawk Season Notebook #335

Dead winter beach.  Driftwood and a salt-wind. Someone is holding your hand; you remember this much. A vase of schoolteacher flowers. You are costumed for a photo studio... handed a teddy bear you could love. You're quite little and cannot draw breath. Someone lifts  you onto a stainless steel gurney; you remember this much... and a rubbery, vibrating odor of ether. Anxiety comes back in dreams. You claw off the bed, land on the floor next to the Wolfhound... and Peaches says, You're not on your own. Back on the bed, awake for hours, you listen to your wife breathe. Outside, wheeling over big sagebrush, huge-winged dark birds speak to one another of keeping and of giving away.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #326



Hawk Season Notebook # 326

Comic Relief

What shall we do in Heaven?

Heaven?

Sing... watch horror movies... practice ballet?

We won't exist... not in this meat-manner.

Heaven doesn't exist?

The place we will find ourselves...

Yes?

... will be that hot, dry plateau where knowledge is... volcanic dust... in a whirl of wind.

Monday, September 19, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #324

Red Shuttleworth


Hawk Season Notebook #324

An old man on a Greyhound (over fifty years ago), gnarled hands, strummed a two-strings-missing guitar, sang a Hank kind of song, creaky and high. He called it Locomotive Moon. You were fourteen or fifteen, alone for 3,000 miles of holiday season. Soda pop bottles rolled on the bus from from Des Moines westward... all night. The guitar man wore a striped horse blanket over his shoulders when he left the bus in Wendover. Up near the driver, two grandma women, pigeon-colored wool coats and church hats, laughed softly, played cards on a thin suitcase stretched across the aisle. In Reno it was a marquee-blue night. Thick, wet snow was falling. At a cafe near the bus station, you ordered chicken fried steak... hot cocoa with whipped cream. Your handmade Ensenada cowboy boots were separating at the soles. The cocoa was weak. Your feet were wet... cold. You looked at your mirror-self in the cafe window... wondered if the guitar man had family he was returning to.

Sunday, September 18, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #321


Hawk Season Notebook #321

A man traveling... driving between short-grass fields and into forests and around ponderous mountains. A man craggy-old and edgy-alone. He parks his rattling seventies GMC pickup at a way-stop. A bluish autumn storm rolls through... some hail. He closes his eyes and listens: distant thunder and more hail on the roof of his truck's cab. He wakes up... realizes he has slept some gone-hours. Outside there is a three-legged coyote... paused on the other side of the two-lane road. It is getting dark. The man uses a buckaroo neck rag to wipe the inside of the windshield. He opens the truck's rust-pop driver side door, holds down his Resistol against the wind, squints, looks across the road. The coyote has vanished. God only donates a certain number of years... days... hours. The man wakes up. He has slept in the cab of his truck and it is dark. Now he cannot find the truck's key. He turns his pockets inside out. No luck. He steps from the truck, gets down on all fours, feels around in the gravel. No luck. Several distant coyotes are laughing... ululating. There is an old Scott Brown saddle under a tarp in the truck bed, but there's no horse trailer, much less a horse.


Saturday, September 17, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #309



Hawk Season Notebook #309

Forever lost 1962 photo booth strip of K.E. Taken a week before she and her mother drove cross-country to Spartanburg. In memory there are brown chemical specks on the four pictures of her on your lap. Holding hands, waiting for the strip to slide out of the machine, she said, Want to do it again? No quarter for the machine. We'll just sit... share something. Pretty soon: a zippy-happy note on Rock Springs motel stationery, I like driving... window down. Silence for a period. Later: Jesu Bone Pastor. A sorority at a college in North Carolina for water coloring biblical deserts. Silence followed. Decades and decades and a windstorm one day and to the south there are brown chemical specks on dust clouds where a freeway is being closed for driver safety. 

Friday, September 16, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #307





Hawk Season Notebook #307

A bowl of ripe yellow pears was on the table.  It was morning. Someone served the small group jasmine tea in miniature cups. The man had been adopted by a wealthy childless couple. The father ignored him. I was my mother's favorite acquired object, the man said. He was old and famous. A camera crew from a TV station was expected. A graduate student came along to brush the man's hair back. You showed the man what you thought was a lyric monologue. He picked up one of the pears, turned it over, lightly rubbed a brown spot with his thumb, See... it is bruised underneath.