ON A PARTICULAR TUESDAY MORNING IN THE KEYS

Posted by | On the water, Poetry, The road | 7 Comments
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Horizonwe push forward unable to tell the difference between what is below & what is above the impossible horizon other than our trajectory & the languid floating existence of the mangroves & blushed clouds but we push because it gives us what we need with every slow rise & fall the skiff’s bow makes into its distance everything & everything more becoming apparent the unknown & unpredictable only so until we ride on-plane across a dozen jade & cobalt miles of cuts channels lakes potholes shoals white sand skinny water turtle grass & loose sargassum saying the names of each under my breath into the wind in my face internalizing each moment with every leaning wide sweep around the lee side of an island eventually settling into an incoming outgoing slack high slack low tide & posting up on the outside for the inevitable & inevitably unpredictable sight of tarpon shadowing the capricious topography sun higher & higher waxing moon persistent till noon a rookery croaking to life in the growing post-engine silence as our wake settles on shore the world giant & close simpler & simpler this life the more we chance to be in it

THE DISTANCE BETWEEN

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They’re like clockwork against the far bank. Two browns holding down the midge-buffet line. Rise…rise. Count three. Rise…rise. I know how big they are. With every lazy porpoise exposing the immense distance between snout and dorsal, dorsal and tail-tip, they’re telling on themselves. My first cast of this thick southeast Oregon sage and high desert canyon morning slips quietly through the air, closing the gap between their clockwork and the inevitable sound of my reel in retreat.
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Straight from the buffet line

I’m grateful to Marshall Cutchin at Midcurrent for running a piece I wrote (and fantastic image shot by Brett Seng) as a feature this week. The Distance Between.

Have a great weekend, all.
I’m getting on the water.

WELCOME TO TEXAS

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Brass on brown paper

juxtaposed with an unlikely six hour jazz session on a straining static and likely below-the-radar bible-belt FM station             and the featureless August midnight blacktop and black backdrop beyond my headlights on route 30 outside of Jonesborough          it’s a lonely straight-through stretch from Little Rock to the Texas border just southwest of Hope

even lonely (maybe because of) the jazz stuck in some recess                 names escape me             quiet incessant soft saxbasspianocornettrumpetsnare lowing               their mellow walk in my mind’s corner             flutter flow flight figure follow satisfied to play and wait             sit-in and play to the empty bar save for the one man in the suit and loose tie           eyes closed and harmonizing with his thin rocks glass and the sad woman in the midnight blue strapless             slow turn and sway and wish             heels on the empty dance floor

the jazz stuck as most all things do           and the road kept on             sunrise caught me somewhere between Hope and the border             I read the sign in its lone star largess                jazz and dawn aching through

the crazy riff of sage and red-eyed 80 miles per hour