Out Cimarron Way

Through the abyss of infinite 

time and space, 

through the fields of joyless 

amber grain, 

through tumult, turmoil, and tension, 

hands waving above 

white cap undertows, 

waiting for deliverance and a chance 

to fill lungs to bursting capacity. 

Open up and say, “Nah.” 

Open up and drink to the lees. 

Touch toes and bend knees; 

open up and drink to the lees. 

Unloose the pets from leash and cage, 

unloose the cage from foundations 

of free-fall galactic mortar. 

And the mortars fall on No-Man’s Land. 

And the mortars fall on the DMZ. 

And the mortars fall to crater Kiev, Gaza, 

The Cimarron Strip.

In the Oklahoma panhandle, 

lawlessness abounds. 

In the Oklahoma panhandle, 

ten-gallon hats watch sunsets 

over Taos and over The Petrified Forrest. 

The ten-gallon hats 

are themselves petrified. 

They are themselves scared to death. 

They hide in darkened basements 

awaiting the boogeyman. 

They disguise themselves as top hats 

and let long dead presidents wear them 

to see Our American Cousin 

at the Ford Theatre. 

In the Oklahoma panhandle, 

the ten-gallon hats drive Fords and Chevys 

and rope them doggies 

and bust them broncos. 

The Cimarron Strip, No-Man’s Land, 

home of the brave, land that time forgot. 

Home of the sauroposeiden 

and the tenontosaurus. 

And the masked man 

on his snow-white steed sings, 

“Tenontosaurus, you go to town.” 

“Tenontosaurus, stay here 

and watch the camp tonight.” 

And Tenonto responds, 

“Sure, Kemosabe, 

but who will watch out for me? 

Who will stand by my side 

when the oceans rise, 

when the meteorites fall, 

when the lowly mammals rise 

to rule the world? 

Who will go to town then, 

Kemosabe?” 

And Tenonto asks, 

“Who will watch 

through the abyss 

of time and space?”

River Fugue in A♭

Sometimes when the sun 

is rising and the dew 

has fallen on the world, 

sometimes when I sit 

and wonder, 

sometimes when the Earth 

is spinning and the tunes 

are lost to time, 

we watch ice storms 

down the oaks, 

we watch the oaks crash 

to the icy Huron, frigid Erie, 

the St. Lawrence and 

the North Atlantic. 

The fallen oak drags its 

amber leaves in rushing currents. 

The fallen oak, like chamber music 

in chambers of the heart, 

is washed by the pump 

of receding glaciers. 

And we all fall down, 

and we all clear those hurdles. 

And we watch as coffee spoons 

swirl and twirl and squirrel 

away their ever-loving song.

Sometimes in the wake 

of winter when the winds 

of the plains blow back, 

sometimes when I stand 

and stumble, when the moon 

eclipses every star 

and the flames of tomorrow 

burn bright, 

it’s unclear what we want. 

We want the empty matter 

of life, the universe, 

the empty matter 

of everything. 

And like worms after the storm, 

we wallow in muck and gloom. 

Like the worms after a storm, 

we are stranded. 

We want a hero 

with cape and cowl. 

Shazam of the first degree. 

And we all fall down, 

and we all clear those hurdles. 

And we all watch as coffee spoons 

swirl and twirl and squirrel 

away their ever-loving song.

Sometimes it’s muddled 

when the howling sleet 

hits the windows, 

the storefronts, the country 

churchyard. Sometimes the cry 

of night is deafening. 

And who can tell? 

The fallen oak relaxes in the river. 

The fallen oak collects 

the refuse of the rainfall. 

The fallen oak drags 

if white branches through 

the pancreatic waters 

of uncertain times. 

And uncertain times climb 

out to the tips of those 

white branches, 

the lifeless branches sagging 

into the cold rush of water. 

Into the frigid rush to the open sea. 

And we all fall down, 

and we all clear those hurdles. 

And we all watch as coffee spoons 

swirl and twirl and squirrel away 

their ever-loving song.