James C. Baloian

when we had come as far as the road would go
a fence stretched from side to side
pine chutes growing between
broken tar,
upturned roots elbowed into fists

the closing passage more and more
in darkness
a wild stream
blooming down over rocks
loosening itself from snow

for the edge of the sea

For Lisa

it is the stain
of blood in her eye

her missing hands
robbed in the night
by wolves

at the castle’s entrance
her sheep are sold
the butcher’s knife
beckons them
as grass does
in the high plains

as the stomach’s
of the rich
pounding like hearts
in dark rooms

To my father

I enter the mouth of dream
between the ticking of the clock
Something invisible falls to the floor
without hesitation like a star
while the world sleeps

He has left the warm body of his wife
to rise for work with closed eyes
through rooms of empty furniture
The fragments of his face
sit before a bowl of cold cereal
with obedience few would understand
while his childhood wanders
barefoot and unreachable
into the music of another world

A dim candle at the window
watches the wind dig into him
like a dull knife
head tucked deep in a jacket
and cold curling him into a leaf

as dark blurs into dawn

all those alive
the open hands
offer all journeys

fields of animals
digging the graves
of other animals
stretched from
kelso, Washington

all those alive
gums and jaws
black-eyed
they close
the rooms
for morning
for the sleepy eyed driver
for the waking children
for the wet gleam of chrome

they leave no mark
or name

to John Stewart

I hear him clicking
in the open spaces of windows and doors

White-capped rivers push
canoes into the darkness

of his fingers
His black body
a sky of shouting stars–
a village of nations
in an endless sentence
that leave no mark or name

John John
My
Brother John

Fastened to our seats
like fish on land

Snow gathering on windows
like shattered stars
Denver a jewel
glittering tears
watching the moon dive
into cold eastern sky

I’ve never been that big
the old man said
with each footstep
a morsel of faith
the crossfire of moon and trees
having driven his shadow

deeper into the heartland

Between the ticking of the clock
a small body realizing it has grown
tries to close into a fist

He has left the warm body of his wife
to rise for work with closed eyes
through rooms of empty furniture
The fragments of his face
sit before a bowl of cold cereal
with obedience few would understand
while his childhood wanders
barefoot and unreachable
into the music of another world

At the window
I watch the wind like a dull knife
curl him into a leaf

as dark blurs into dawn

The old men use their bones
in ceremonies
lasting all night

What uselessness
fastening the bones
to the young
to make fit
their dying

For Panzo

even the table will surely break
or find its fat legs
swimming in quicksand
garbling for a loose rope
drives down

the red dressing over green leaves
the red pouch
of rib glistening
its blood
tempting teeth
hearts
and a hard prick

dance zuchinni
I kiss the tempting bulb
of green onion
tiptoe in the valleys
of casaba

and now before the king
rest
this table like a wet maiden
hair full and open

Look at the whitehead buffalo
said Teddy
the bear in the wood
the city in the tax
face my stick at sunup
or get out of town

The last summer
and in Ohio and Indiana
the green coming autumn
and McKinley dead stone
this progress that is
the short hand of the clock

There is a time
Teddy would tell
when he woke
and thundering the sky

The “electric theatre”
with all the fury
of the stars
in one shocking
bolt of explosion

fuck
and it was done
so fast the story

runs into a laugh

Autumn flush and cool winds
no snow
the lake slides like a snail
grits teeth to the very bottom
and looks for the lost eyes
it drinks with

Tango of streetlights
morning breath circles
the bottle
its green kingdom
waves in the heat
the jailor washes
he’s got two teeth
half a beard
and good notions
about life and making money
all day he salutes with
loud jerks of his tongue
the petitions
the laws
of nature

and to the moon
his dreams
of being
king

1/

At Harper’s Bend
the sky breathes
hunger’s scent like the bear.

Moose nose the ice for water plant
only to find their shadows.

Caribou, hair thick with snow,
move in twos their tongues
tied together like a compass/

There are no seasons, here,
only ice holding the landscape captive.

2/

Foot beats on the path
from the forest the mad river’s laugh
His shadow climbs
from the throats of gullies
to consider the end of day.
Hooking seal meat to twine
he lowers it into to the lake and waits.

Below, eyes wait
gulping their breaths
like the flames of a lantern.

what an unlucky key
I carry
no black cats
only a white-eye doe
through snow
and always the moon
Electrifying the branches

the door of the coast
must be closing
the fish must be angry
that they dance so still

maybe I’ll keep the key
like a lock of hair
a cloud, and the magic of rain

tomorrow I will come to the door
look at the field
in early dawn
burn deliver
and fold the silver sky
back

Down and into the blood
drowning
into our
red-faced babies
eyes
We give them
that much light
and lie about
the darkness

Taking all the phones
In his hands, he told
Them he wouldn’t be
available for questioning.
He knew he could
Shut the windows,
And no one would come to his door.
He even
Bought a gun,
Insisting that the only
Noises he could hear
Were the naked feet
Of Indians, coal black and hunched,
Circling the edge
Of his burning field.

Taking all the phones
In his hands, he told
Them he wouldn’t be
Available foe questioning.
He knew he could
Shut the windows
And no one would come to his door.
He even
Bought a gun,
Insisting that the only
Noises he could hear
Were the naked feet
Of Indians, coal black and hunched,
Circling the edge
Of his burning field.

In Los Angeles
The triple threat of California
Threw the first ball
And the season began.

II
The priest nodded
And took his seat
Inside the guards
Almost metal-like, smiled
Then took their seats.
Everybody has got their seats!

III
At twelve minutes after ten,
One witness pronounced
him dead
and it was over.
“It should be on television,
every execution should be
open to public eyes,”
he said,
and that was all.

IV
He thought he was half way
between San Francisco
and Sacramento
somewhere he thought

His hands ached
from the cold

At the opening
of the road
the sky was opening and closing
like a lung
His nerves stiffened
like dried roots
He fell at the base
where the leaves were falling
like birds
one
by
one

And he crawling
belly down
the dried leaves
sucking
and sobbing
at his mouth
thick with scent
their veins stretching
almost child-like
crying
I am Jesus Christ

Outside Colorado, he stops
his fists locked
around the steering wheel.
I watch the small nerve
above his cheek twitch
like a neon sign:
“All the way from St. Louis…”
Mountains slip from the sky
with last night’s snow
circled round the tops
of their peaks.
Lanzo tells me that he can hear
the Pacific,
that it echoes in his ear
like a sea shell.
Around us the great desert
of Utah;
we are far from the sea.
Lanzo moves like an ancient turtle,
picking his way
through an ocean of sand.

Telephone wires stiffen
their messages in a wind
blinded by altitude and snow.
Off the road I watch
the pulse of sleep
hang from his lip like an ode.
I pull away his eyes,
his two-hundred and thirty pounds,
skin that smells of bear,
and find the heart of a child
whispering into the wings of birds.
He’s asleep now,

and the Rockies are glad.

We slept in the grass
too tired to move
or clean the ground
of branches
Dirt still wet
with the dark
My mouth filled
with the grass of your body
Underneath roots push
like streams
to the sea
I want to stick
my whole head
in
and follow

Old women pull
at their skins
call bees
to feed the blossom

tomorrow is a stone
a sun that comes late
and the stiff eye of a child
who kicks walls
tissues of blood,

and emerges
sucking black smoke