they were reading “the view
from pompey’s head,” ted
williams signed with boston
again, for papa a bowl of nigger
babies and nigger toes were on
the dining room table. the ides
of march was clear and cold, no
snow on the ground. on the
yankton reservation twins were
born. a satisfied sister, and bohemian
boy guilty of curiosity crimes. he
found his meaning in a blade of
grass. three years later he watched
the president of the united states
get his brain blown away. two
years later it was “like a rolling stone”
on a south dakota farm. every heart
was filled with war. a 56 ford got
them to nebraska. a small town of
small people with smaller heads.
he fell in love and cried real tears.
chased twisters on the edge of town
and learned to dance. the catholic
nun liked his poetry of pluvius and
the epithet of the hyades. he took
long greyhound rides out of the
closet, then back again. love took
the boy from the streets of omaha
to the end of a fishing pole. with a
kiss and a joint came years of obscure
seasons. from in and out, top to
bottom, an arizona dream came true.
he ran naked with wild horses
and skipped through saguaro
cactus flowers. he was released
in san francisco to be whoever
he wanted to be. he married in
palm springs, after a thirty-year
courtship. buddha joined the
conversation. people died, cats
and dogs died, many times over.
sadness captured the soul.
monsoons brought appalachian
aspirations. reality was collapsing.
he drove the east bound highways
to nowhere. a better place to be.
he wrote his name in an empty sky.
the bucks followed his does through
the forest. the future has not
been revealed. the past is nothing
more than a shadow in the dark.