Saturday, October 22, 2016
Gold Rock Notebook #16
Middle-East human body headlines, forgotten passwords, the way an aged dog sprawls on a bearskin rug in front of your mother's tossed-off 1987 blue leather-bound Hotel Ritz Diary.... The avant-garde left you behind to mop out sunrise bars. Raspy magpies, highway skunk-scream, the moon saying, I'm only a little bit afraid. You shuffle old issues of True West magazine, pause at back page ads for custom made bogus Doc Holliday hats for those who like to play dress-up. When they shot a film in the old days, Frankie Laine or Tex Ritter sang the theme song. So it is that moonlight justifies itself on pools of blood.
Friday, October 21, 2016
Gold Rock Notebook #13
Fog-detained sagebrush. Not an iPhone within miles. You are hoping to see or hear a crow. The flag of history is elsewhere. Dawn silence. Rust-burgundy weeds. Last night's coyotes are back in their dens, sleepy, dozing off to dreams of dopey rabbits. You step, listen to the soft crunch of volcanic soil. Even that which old age shuts down.... Yes, you want unreasonable hope.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Gold Rock Notebook #11
How many jobs were you asked to resign from as you stalled-out, drank from paper-bagged cheap bourbon pints, as you daydreamed nineteenth century cattle drives, saloons, robbing trains with Frank 'n Jesse James? Then, in an effort to correct and sophisticate yourself, you were reading Auden at work, some poem about a cat and paint-peeling row house doors. The women at that place spoke of outlook, complexity-of-feeling, and they traded stories about crash pads and cigarette-stench weekly rates motels. The one called K.H., peasant blouse and long thin-fabric skirt, took you to lunch afterward, said she was trying a progression-based life. Though you had no potential for comprehension, you nodded, desperado-grinned, said, Yep, in a Gabby Hayes voice. She asked if you received any benefit from being sort of dumb.
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Gold Rock Notebook #7
Gravel Pit Autumn
Pig-snout gravel baron ghosts on huge yellow machines....
* * *
Dennis Hopper, time-warp gunslinger, wanders bewildered through tall dry grass, tumbleweeds, stumble-drunk, or stoned, kicks through row upon row of broken, tilted gravestones.
* * *
The ground, scraped to hell, turns the last weeks of October barren-burgundy, graphite-gray, a soiled maple peg white.... Outrider, with gentle rolling hills all around the pit, you pause as if qualified to adjudicate and restore.
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Gold Rock Notebook #6
Baked Mojave dust, 1975... the morning road from Vegas after the Ali-Lyle fight. Driving with the rising sun behind you... and seeing that desert and hungover-thinking, How it shimmers. Listening to Bakersfield radio, Buck Owens and Merle Haggard. You have AAA road maps all the way to a grizzly-clawed trailer southwest of MacKenzie, B.C., but everything ahead is uncharted.
* * *
Yellow Great Basin 2001 sky... you pull over. North of Gerlach? The other side of Jackpot? Bullet holes through the walls of an abandoned northern Nevada motel.
* * *
Black linen. Moon and your shadow. Nights of no moon. Kansas: Squirrel Tooth Alice, Ned Buntline, Mysterious Dave Mather. An earlier century... carried off... by October moths.
* * *
Your son's grown, moved-on. Some ghost says, Get a rawhide grip. In the back of his dusty spider web closet, a 3rd or 4th hand 1980's bareback riggin'.
Monday, October 17, 2016
Gold Rock Notebook #1
Marina Abramovic... Homage
Silence comes boxed,
forgotten forest trophy.
Marina is public-somewhere.
aluminum arm of a street light.
This is black tea, this sugar,
this deadpan-naked as foreground...
without foreplay... so curvilinear.