Ghost motels and alien burgers

Ghost motels and secret weapons; Nevada:

the tumbled ruins of pony express stations

wild mustangs and burros graze the sagebrush,

the ones that haven't been lassoed in the roundups.

The booms and bursting optimism,

gold and silver mines, slot machines and brothels

then the fading away, the greying wood,

the cemeteries, abandoned schools,

double-wide mobile homes, bleached and pale

ringed with necklaces of dead Fords and Chevrolets,

a clump of cottonwoods where someone's dream

rode high then died and left a dusty skeleton.

Mysteries: a gravel road that stretches up a valley

marked by a small sign that names some settlement,

some human place in the emptiness,

twelve or thirty miles beyond the horizon.

Basin and range, basin and range,

rock, juniper, and sage,

is this the Shell Range? or the Snake?

the Ruby Mountains? or just names on the map.

the Nevada Department of Transportation

has dubbed one of the roads

"the Extra Terrestrial Highway".

it fits -the asphalt skirts the notorious Area 51,

home of stealth bombers and secret military test sites.

The A'Le' Inn restaurant next to the mobile home hamlet

named after someone named Rachel, population 48,

has a tow truck parked out front beside the highway.

has a small flying saucer dangling from the hook.

The inn sells coffee mugs and t-shirts, refrigerator magnets

decorated with green-skinned big-eyed space creatures 

You can even get an alien burger with fries and a coke.

Every fifty miles or so, there's something that used to be:

the guts of a dead motel spilling out into the sand,

waffle irons and coffee pots, broken mirrors and cash registers

a chair. a lawn mower.

A winter naked tree draped

with a couple thousand pairs of shoes,

the laces tied together and tossed

high into the branches by random travelers.

At a steady eighty miles per hour,

you can see where you're going to be

twenty minutes later:

across another valley to another juniper

and pinyon-dotted mountain range

whose name is somewhere on the map

if you can figure out

which one belongs to which.

Class Photo

Glossy tints of grey
and white, a photograph,
the kindergarten class picture
at Brisbane Elementary,
nineteen fifty-eight.

Twenty girls in pinafores and chiffon

saddle shoes and Mary Janes,

jumpers, Peter Pan collars, gingham,

pigtails tied with ribbons,

bangs. barrettes.

Six boys in striped or printed shirts,

tucked, belted, one with a bow tie,

one with suspenders, and one,

with faded jeans, scuffed Buster Browns

and a dark tee shirt, me.

Our shadows pool at our feet

our eyes squint against

the glare of noon, lined up

in three rows, on the steps

outside our classroom.

Our teacher looks faintly beatnik in her

black dress and black-framed glasses,

those pointy cat-eyed ones.

pale short-cropped hair,

long beaded necklace.

Does she go to smoky north beach coffee houses?

Sip red wine poured from reed-wrapped jugs

while some goateed guy in a beret

reads poems in counterpoint

with bongos?

I stand with dangling arms

and a trout-mouthed gape,

a puzzled forehead.

is there some trouble

I’ve forgotten? I don't remember

There is no grass to play on

just asphalt marked

for dodgeball and foursquare

where we run and shriek

and give each other cooties.

We trade wax lips and fangs at Halloween,

and suck on orange pan pipe flutes filled

with sugar water and red dye #2,

preen and pose like grownups

with candy cigarettes.

Was I impatient for the bell to clamor?

Itching to roam the hills and look for lizards,

pull off sprigs of wild anise to smell the licorice

or taste the burst of nectar from

the trumpets of monkey flower blossoms.

I don't know,

I see my open mouth

in that creased photograph

half a question frozen on my face

or was it just a breath?

Coyote

There were no other campers
at the lava beds park in late September.
The heat of the day began to ebb.

Then a she coyote walked calmly

into our campsite and jumped up on the table.

Silent, regal, but she looked at me expectantly.

I fetched a package of hamburger out of the cooler

that was beginning to smell suspicious.

Put it on the table in front of her.

She took a few bites then carried the rest

to the foot of a juniper and buried it.

A cache for later? Or perhaps an opinion

about the quality of the meat.

In the morning it was gone.

Atoms

Saw a wren in a rose bush.

Descended from dinosaurs.

Every atom in the bloom,

the thorns, her body, and ours

has been here since the birth

of the universe. They just

-move around.

Cry of the hawk

Cry, cry, cry, keens

the Red-shouldered hawk

as she lands on the cross bar

of the utility pole on the corner

with a small snake dangling

from her talons. She tears

off delicate bites.

The language of hawks

seems to be universal;

we heard the same cries

in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

There were no actual hawks present,

it was a recording triggered by pigeons

landing on a monument honoring

Senator Auguste Scheurer-Kestner,

defender of Captain Dreyfus.

He stood and shouted in the Senate,

“The truth always wins in the end.”

But in the meantime, the very mean time,

the Jew-haters rioted in the streets and

Dreyfus spent five years on Devil’s Island

before his sentence was annulled.

And Auguste Scheurer-Kestner

was dying from throat cancer

but he followed the news of the case,

L’affair Dreyfus, from his sick room

until the day that the pardon

of Captain Dreyfus was signed.

Then he died.

Truth, truth, truth, cried the hawk

and the pigeons flew off the statue.

The labyrinth at Chartres cathedral

This limestone,
follow the dark stone.
The path trod by a million,
a billion, feet before me?

The labyrinth is a path
for prayer and meditation.
Each step, each turning,
each thought. Each word,
each memory.

I read on social media a message

from the children of a friend I found
after half a century lost: Kate.
She died, suddenly, unexpectedly,

peacefully, at home.

You were planning to be there
at our wedding. And now there’ll  be
no toast, no dance, no reminiscing.
I’ll raise a glass to you dear friend,
I know you’ll see it from on high.
L'chaim.

This path, this labyrinth
in this ancient cathedral.
The cool stone beneath
my feet. Is it warmed by
those who walk before me?

It feels like a body, skin smooth.

We are here, the living,
connecting with those who’ve
come before us, grace flowing
through the soles of our feet.
Can we look up at the arch

of the ceiling so high above us

without losing our way?

The unrestored walls of Chartres
are dark, blackened by centuries
of candle smoke and incense.
The path of the labyrinth though,
is polished by the feet of the faithful.
And those we carry in our heart.

A youngish dude with a man bun
finally reaches the center of the labyrinth.
Sits down in a kinda sorta yoga position
for a spell then sprawls onto his back
bent knees pointed at the ceiling
twelve stories above him.

As if he owns the space. 
More than the two dozen other pilgrims 
walking the labyrinth. I resent him
for a moment, then realize that
of course he owns it. We all do.
Are you smiling, Kate? L'chaim.

A little later

-Does this thing have a brain?

-The bed? not exactly. More like a personality.

-Yeah, very friendly, telepathic even.

Bionic or I don’t know, it seemed to anticipate

what we were doing and then respond.

You made this? How did you do it?

-I’m a materials science engineer.

Did you think I was just some kind

of hippie weaver?

-Well no, but this is amazing.

-A bit more advanced than memory foam, eh?

-Yeah. So you invented this? Is this the only one?

-No. I’ve made them for anyone around here

who wants one. Not everyone does.

-Do you sell them?

-No. I’m not into marketing. That’s why

I chose to live here, in Harmony.

-Yes. I’m beginning to see why you

all like it here, the sense of community.

-How about you?

-I think I’m kinda glad that my bike had a flat.

-Serendipity, eh?

-I guess so. I put my stuff into storage

before I started on this ride. Maybe I could

stick around for a while, see if I fit in?

-Oh you could. You’ll know pretty quickly

I think. About fitting in. I bet you will.

-Yeah. I have some savings. I could buy a place

to fix up. Figure out what I can do to contribute.

-What did you do before? Like your or job

or profession or whatever?

-I was a logistics manager. For industry.

-Yeah? Well actually you might be able to

do something with that. We are mostly self sustaining,

but there are somethings we need from outside.

Some of the materials in this bed for instance.

-Really? Well I would be really happy to

contribute to that! Spreading joy in the bedrooms

of Harmony. Speaking of which, want to spread

a little more joy in this bed?

-Oh, I think that’s an excellent suggestion.

The web

Her place around the corner
looks like it's never stopped

celebrating Halloween.

It’s a sprawling Valley bungalow

with deep porches which appear

to have been screened and draped

by a giant spider or some kind of

....conceptual artist.

-Told you I was a weaver,

what do you think?

-I don’t know! what is that?

-Lots of things, lots of stuff.

Cotton bolls I scavenged from what

gets left on the ground by the machines

at industrial farms. Scraps of marine

fishing nets. Rotting clothesline. Rags.

Anything made from fibers that I can

tease apart and reuse.

-Ok, I don’t mean to be rude

or ignorant but what is it for?

-Just something I like to do.

Art, I guess? Do you like it?

-Well, actually……..yeah.

It’s kind of different,

kinda spooky. More that I look

at it, the more I like it.

-That’s good. Wait’ll you

see what’s inside.

The porch has furniture

made with the same aesthetic

as the webs enveloping the exterior,

improvised metal frames like reimagined

mid-20th Century butterfly chairs.

With multi-fibered, rags, cords,

and fabric scraps, instead of canvas

for the seats. Several hammocks

in the same fashion. A hanging

chair in the form of an African

weaver bird nest.

-Yes, you are a weaver!

My God! This is amazing.

-Thank you. Let’s go inside,

it’s cooler.

It is much cooler inside the house. Dim.

Shanice leaves her shoes at threshold.

Mack does the same. The hardwood

floors are smooth and cool on their feet.

-Feels nice doesn’t it?

-Yeah.

-Thirsty? I have water, sun tea,

or would you like something stronger?

Have you had any of the Harmony Spirits yet?

-Yes, I have. Really interesting,

but water sounds good to me.

-Me too. Come on in, takes a moment

for your eyes to adjust to the light,

but I like to keep it like this. Be right

back. I’ll get the water.

One side of the room has a large

carpet, patterned in the antique

style of Central Asia or Persia.

The other side has bins overflowing

with various fabrics, fibers, chicken wire.

Long slender willow branches. Rags.

Coils of rope, wire, tangles of heavy

nylon fishing line dangle from

hooks attached to the wall.

A loom stands facing the curtained

front window.

Shanice returns with the water.

-That’s where I do my small stuff,

There’s a skylight and I can open the curtains.

The light's really nice in the morning.

Are you a morning person? Or afternoon?

-I like the morning, especially now that

the world is this hot. Sometimes I get up

hours before dawn. It’s the quietest time

and I like that.

-Yes! I like that too. I like to go out

back before the sun comes up.

Look at the stars. Naked.

C’mon I want to show you

the rest of my place.

They go through an arched doorway

into an even dimmer room. At the far

side, is a oval frame about two feet

above the floor covered with a tight

mesh of multi-colored strands.

-It’s a bed try it.

Mack sits on the edge and bounces

lightly. -It’s kind of like a trampoline.

-Yeah, it has some action. Go ahead.

Mack rolls onto the center,

tries a bounce or two. Says,

-Not really for big stunts is it? More

like a really comfortable hammock.

-That depends on what you mean by stunts.

I could show you some. Wanna fool around?

Like right now...?

-Said the spider to the fly…..

-Yes, I’m a widow and a web spinner

but I promise not to bite your head off.

-I see. Yeah, show me some of your tricks.

I’ll show you some of mine.

Weavers

 A couple dozen pairs

of eyes keep painting

Mack and Red

with curious glances.

Some frank, some timid.

Shanise, the team leader

from the deconstruction crew

saunters over to their table.

Sits down on the bench and

slides up close to Mack.

Doffs her straw bonnet

and shakes loose a mane

of butterscotch and chocolate curls.

Mack notices that she has unbuttoned

the top two buttons on her overalls.

She fans what's now exposed,

the top of her breasts, with the bonnet. 

Notices Mack noticing. Smiles.

-Pretty hot, ain’t it?

Red watches the two of them, says

-Hi Shanise, care to join us?

- Don’t mind if I do.

Shanise takes one of the crab cakes

off Mack’s plate. Inspects it

for a moment then takes a slow

deliberate bite and puts the rest

back on Mack’s plate.

Picks a crumb off the corner

of her mouth and licks it

off the tip of a long, red-polished nail.

-mmm, I just love these crabcakes,

what do you think, Mack? tasty?

-Yeah, very nice. tasty, yeah.

Red cocks her head to one side

arches an eyebrow at Shanise.

Shanise says, -It’s siesta time,

why don’t you finish the tour

later, Red? Mack can do siesta

with me, my place is right around

the corner. Carol was asking about

you this morning, something about

last night was supposed to be date night?

She left the job site early…

-mmm. I don’t know, maybe.

I’ll check in on her. You don’t

mind Mack? Catch you later?

-uh, sure, catch you later.

Shanise gently squeezes his leg.

-Cool, honey, you can rest awhile

and then I’ll show you some

of my weavings, I’m a weaver.

Red says, Yes, she’s quite the

……. weaver. See you later.

Red leaves the cafe,

waves a back-handed good bye

without looking back.

-Shall we go? Would you like

to take a bath? I have a big

old fashioned clawfoot tub.

-What about the water?

-Oh don’t worry about that,

we’re gonna share it, right?

and then I’ll use it in my garden.

-Ok.