Hierophany

I

Over this side
And steel.
Most moisture
We’ve seen in months.
Rusted linoleum;
Tractors cowed
By the slender whim of God.
Banks?
There are no “banks.”


II

This is why you don’t wait.
People gonna make mistakes, sure.  But
This is p’cisely why you never wait.
Waitin’ for rain, for the aqueduct.
Waitin’ for the war to end;
For interest rates to move.
Nobody in this family waitin’ for a goddam thing.


III

Well, sure we dropped a well.
And dropped it,
And dropped it.
We found that, ah, cone of depression —
Some bottles of dirty water.
Our poor Mother, ya know.
She gave us udders of water,
Buried deep down in her soul, like.
Sandstone-lined.  All she had.
We was just children then.


IV

So
We gone back to readin’ the clouds.
They’re beautiful it seems.
Cirrus curling into nothing
Way up there.  Just ice crystals
Casting down white light.
There ain’t s’pose ta be no such thing as white light.
But I tell ya: I seen it.


V

I’m going on record with this
Because I’m in terrible need of an elegy.
Sawbones gave me, oh, a few months I guess.
Don’t matter much.
I came from this land
And I’m going back to it.
Now I’m tellin’ you:
I want a Vikin’s funeral.
If you can find ‘em, throw a thousand husks
Of corn onto my pyre.
Take fish from the hole I leave in th’ice.
Despite everything I’ve said.
Regardless of whether there’s snow on the ground,
Whether the crops rise,
Whether anyone’ left to see me go.

This entry posted by J Rand : 09:48

Third cup.
Jazz.
A man is talking with Ray the barista.
Hum of refrigerator.
Coins. Tip money dropped in a glass jar.
Coffee maker — frothy release of steam, metal stirring along metal.
Drums. Piano. Saxophone.
Fridge door closes; cushioning.
Ray greets a customer, “How’s it going?”
She orders a latte mocha triple shot.
Talk of parking, a popular topic this morn.
Coins again.
Ray laughs.
Air ducts rattling.
“Whip cream?”
“Please.”
Banging sound, a gathering into a bottom.
Frothy whirring.
More banging.
Two men looking, talking, wearing hard hats.
Demonic frothy whirring.
Shuffling, paper crumpling.
Karen arrives, reads Steppenwolf.
Karen shifts to my table though I am wary at first.
Ray, Karen, and I talk about compost heaps of all things.
Spontaneous combustion comes up as a topic.
The shop closes at noon.
Lynn, the owner, gives me and Karen each a clutch of old bananas.
“For banana bread,” she says.
Karen and I walk out together.
They’re re-tarring the streets.
I drive home; it’s bright out. Sunday. I put on sunglasses.

This entry posted by J Rand : 22:16