Poem 53 Revised

All the history I know

Is the way the dust blows

Sanding the surface to shine.

A west so wild the night howled

At its own shadow and slept

Belt-buckle out to witness Sirius.

The metal on the tip of his boots

An oasis of light, with chinking stroll

He stole the summer and planted

His tumble-weed seeds in Mojave, with love.

Pan wanderer, look away, from this city

Lawned in suburbia. I remember the desert.

I remember the heat. The heartbeat

Of the sun on the valley

when we wrote in ropes the west wild.

—ECW

Poem 53 EditedPoem 53 Original

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Poem 53

no matter where i go, nevada will always be home

 

All the history I know

is the way the dust blows

cutting at the face of the earth.

Conflict-construct deducts

from the sand-sculptors I find

to capture filthy the free—

Send off didactic calligraphy—

the lights seem to me brighter in my wisdom.

Boyhood and summer becomes them; I am

not a boy… I can’t appreciate this moment:

westward-boot leather-toe, like you can.

Wrinkled furrows of manifest, resent not

only the meager syllabic meanderings of verse

or worse, the sounds of unraveling

minds. mines. Mine. We don’t speak

of the syrup we pulled from the Rockies—

Instead revel in man’s triumphant sun-bulbs

blushing dry meadows with life. Nothing survives

but we—ay sayers—dehydrated sipping on silver.
–ECW