Originally posted 2/21/2009.

twenty five, coked out, driving away from my life
with my skewed eyes stuck on the needle
buried at 120 on state road 140  — the snakepath
from the cape to the stubby hills north of Worcester

south of the basalt shadows of New Hampshire
that are full of whatever Lovecraft adored
I strand the Firebird on a leafmold bank
and get out

there’s a puritan darkness under the trees
that still hasn’t lifted
the inbred imp in charge of hating difference
still sits on the bones of the old farm walls

once you get past the liberal mask
and the self-congratulation inside 128
where the Cabots and the Lodges used to play at benevolence
this state’s as redneck as any media slander against the South

there’s a quote from 2 Jeremiah
hanging outside the house across from where I’ve landed
“…your own sword hath devoured your prophets,
like a destroying lion”

some lay ministry of warning
carved with a router into brown stained wood
just like all the
bed and breakfast signs around here

this state looks pretty as hell
in October from inside a minivan
or even from inside a muscle car
at 120 miles an hour

people come and gawk from buses
stay over, buy trinkets and maple sap
go back home to sigh and say
“we love New England in the fall”

but now it’s high summer
and all those not-yet-red leaves
are barely rustling under the moonless sky
shading God and his devil and ancient blood in the soil

where the colonists beheaded algonquin children
brown people still keep to themselves in fear
and when a boy grows up looking like he wants to break away
or maybe wants to deny how good and right the kingdom is

when he gets to a certain age they start to whisper
he’s gonna end up bad
he’s not gonna make it
often he falls from the prophecies

sometimes he gets older
and can’t escape the feeling that he’s lived too long
goes looking for the sword in the trees
offers himself to lions long after he should have settled down

calling out I’m your boy, simba
your snowfaced speeding bullet
stumbling into your face full of misery
give me your sharp tooth and set me free

not too far from where I’ve stalled
is redemption rock
the natives once gave a hostage back there
and got themselves killed for their trouble

who am I tonight?
hostage or hostage taker?
colonist or colonized?
prophecy or prophet?

I bleed at the very thought of me
I bet Lovecraft is thinking
of changing his name from beyond the grave
because I love him

I’m on the side of the road
the car’s idling rough
I kneel in the gravel on the pavement’s fringe
listen as hard as I can for the lion’s roar

bury a needle deep in these woods
and the local ghosts will use it to sew your shroud
you’ll join them in being
just another sword to wave at unbelievers

now I don’t wanna wreck this car
but if there was any light out here tonight
maybe I’d take the snakepath of least resistance
and plant it on a tree

but turning my head back toward where I started
reminds me that every vehicle has a steering wheel
the way out might be in no place you ever imagined
and what the hell — I’ve got a fast car

so I get back in and turn around
thought I saw a sign somewhere back there
for a highway going somewhere not here
somewhere not in massachusetts

I’m gonna bury that needle once again
send horror ravening back into its den
let the rpm scream and turn the high beams on
drive as fast as I can toward bright lights big city anywhere but here

I’ll be up for a while yet and
there’s always two directions
to any road so let’s pick one and ride
let’s see what this baby can do

Originally posted as “Stories From The Deck,” 12/29/2011.

1.
I read the cards myself
but not often these days,
and no longer for anyone else.  

I have to be “in the mood,” and
I’m only in that mood
when I am utterly alone.

2.
You ask, are they parlor trick
or font of wisdom?
Fool, who says one thing can’t be both?

If you hold them one way
they shine, another way
they blind.

The map is not the territory
but now and then the map is where
you have to make camp.

3.
I was taught to read the cards
by a woman who could not read the cards.
It took me one spread to learn this:

staring into the pattern I felt
a mansion rising on the table before me,
my best possibility dwelling within it,

even as my mentor droned on about
paths not taken, choices to be made,
a trip over water I should not take.

4.
It wasn’t long before I was sitting in bars
cold reading for strangers
in exchange for drinks;

sitting in living rooms
cold reading for strangers
in exchange for cash;

sitting in a strange kitchens
hot reading for a stranger,
hoping for sex;

sitting in bedrooms
reading for myself,
imagining myself as a stranger.

5.
If you think, they fail you.
Just go with the story
that comes to you

and follow it
no matter where
it goes. That’s why I’m here.

6.
Nowadays when I play with cards
it’s more often penny-ante poker
in a basement.

I surely miss
the Hermit, the Star,
and the Sun.

When the Jack Of Hearts
shows up in my hand,
I remember how good he used to look.

He used to call himself 
the Knight Of Cups. I remember how good 
it used to feel to see him in my hand.

7.
I’ve been over water a few times in my life.
Once upon a time in a Venice bookstore
I almost bought a new deck

just for old times’s sake, but the woman
muttered something 
and shook her head

when I pointed,
so I walked out before
anything odd could happen,

but I’ve lived
happily ever after anyway,
I guess.

8.
They tell you
your first deck
should be a gift.

Mine was.  I still have it.
All the others were my own choices,
and they’re all gone.

9.
I should end, I suppose, with predictions. So:
two countries will go to war
and one will win.

Two lovers will meet, part, spend their days
recasting what happened
until in retrospect they can say

the signs were clear. An old man
will die, and so will a young one,
and a child and a dog and a tree.

Someone’s going to act a Fool
while being utterly certain and alone
on a path they devote themselves to walking,

and a deck of ratty cards
will be picked up
and rewrapped in silk 

while congratulations
and mystic chatter
echo all around. 

Originally posted in August 2011.

Eventually I do want to get home but for now, 
I’m content to sit here in contemplation of this peach.

It’s a story all its own. The seed within is both past and future 
while the flesh is the present, so wetly present.

It is all I want right now, 
a solitary moment free of nostalgia and anticipation.

This sweet ball of interruption!
I reach for it and let the narrative go.