ONE

I am from the bow that split the waves of the Atlantic
the force of human will beyond ancient Valhalla—
they pilgrimaged across those waves
for a new God, a new country.

And that note which preceded me,
that sea salt tone that faded, remains as harmony
to the sound of gravel alongside the desert freeway
—for that is where I truly come from:
the taste and smell of dust and tire rubber,
the powder of desert, like sun-bleached soot…
and I am from the faint scent
that draws the wolves
down from the mountain.

Also, I am from the note that rang out
when they struck that final spike, that golden spike
into the first transcontinental railroad track;
my mother described it so proudly at the
station museum, “they say it could have been
miles off, but it wasn’t—it met right on center,”
she beamed, with perfectly permed hair and
smelling of chemical roses.
American method.

And so, silently, I am also from
the camps of the Chinese rail workers,
the tendons as they strain
the fingernails as they claw
through the Sierras
—relentless, relentless—
the bones beneath the tracks
the bones that guide those rails to their perfect center…

Railways. Freeways.
And I am from the true natives here
in that I am an immigrant who has shed the skin of history;
my ancestry dries out on a desert rock while
a rattlesnake—reborn—slithers into the sand,
the sun-bleached dust of the current moment,
the caking dirt of now and California.

TWO

I am from the forgotten tune, half-remembered across silent lips

I am from the dread of an empty strip-mall at midnight

I am from a clean, well-lighted place

I am from hours spent in front of a screen, playing SimCity

I am from leather that flutters against brass—saxophone keypads

I am from the high-pitched staccato of a dot matrix printer

I am from graphite against smooth pulp, inside a Trapper Keeper

I am from the pack of stray dogs, the dogs who could find no other pack

I am from hashish daydreams that sprawl along the Pacific shoreline

I am from the motion of palm fronds that sway to the wind’s half forgotten song

But finally

Finally

I am from the Leviathan—the great beast
slouching across the Atlantic,
across the Mason-Dixon,
across the Louisiana Purchase,
across the lost Northern lands of Mexico,
here already
—already born.

Note: This is a revision of the poem found here.

Note: This is an earlier draft of the poem found here.

ONE

I am from the bow that split the waves of the Atlantic
the force of human will beyond ancient Valhalla—
they came across those waves
for a new God, a new country.

But that was just the note proceeding me,
the tone that faded, that remains only as harmony
to the sound of gravel alongside the desert freeway
—for that is where I truly come from:
the taste and smell of dust and tire rubber,
the powder of desert, like sun-bleached soot…
and I am from the faint scent
that draws the wolves
down from the mountain.

Somehow, also,
I am from the note that rang out
when they struck that final spike, that golden spike
into the first transcontinental railroad track;
my mother described it so proudly at the
station museum, “they say it could have been
miles off, but it wasn’t—it met right on center,”
she exclaimed.
American method.

And so also, silently, I am from
the camps of the Chinese rail workers,
the tendons as they strain
the fingernails as they claw
through the Rockies
—relentless, relentless—
the bones beneath the tracks
the bones that guide those rails to their perfect center…

Oceans. Deserts.
And I am from the true natives here
in that I am an immigrant who has shed the skin of history;
my ancestry dries out on a desert rock while
a rattlesnake—reborn—slithers into the sand,
the sun-bleached dust of the current moment,
the caking dirt of now and California.

TWO

I am from the forgotten tune, half-remembered across silent lips

I am from the nada who art in nada—

I am from a clean, well-lighted place

I am from hours spent in front of a screen, playing Sim City

I am from leather that flutters against brass—saxaphone keypads

I am from the high-pitched staccato of a dot matrix printer

I am from graphite against smooth pulp

I am from the pack of stray dogs, made up of dogs who could find no other pack

I am from the proud warriors of the Warring States period; this is my first reincarnation since the Qin Dynasty (I am very confused)

I am from the phoenix dragon as he clutches his hoard to his chest

I am from hashish daydreams that sprawl along the Pacific shoreline

I am from the motion of palm fronds as they sway to the wind’s half forgotten song

But finally

Finally

I am from the Leviathan—the great beast
slouching across the Atlantic
to California
to be born…

[Note: A newer, and better, version of this poem can be found here.]

They say there was an ancient
Kung Fu Master who, as he grew older,
developed a secret technique to compensate
for his waning strength. Then, they say, one day
during a fight, he discovered perfection:
in one punch he transmuted into pure force—
his body dissolved into air, never dying…

1.
So I wanted to write a poem about living,
what it is, what it’s made from. To begin,
windows and mirrors are the obvious poems
except, I guess, for windows at night;
then a shadow-ghost mirror projects a reflection
over the scene behind the glass.
Life is like that—not a mirror, not
a clear window—a gradient of essence
that bleeds into the scene, the blur of place.

2.
So there, then. I have my perfect poem:
the half-transparent window; it seems so simple
—I must be forgetting something…
…something…
…time.

Then let me gaze out from a dashboard
window; that rounded slanted rectangle
that means ever-changing, never-ceasing,
ever-living (at least until rust,
I guess, at least until then).

So—
life is the road as it rises to meet me,
and is the angle of sunlight that reveals
maybe my face, maybe the dash,
in a faint echo against
the hum of the headlights’ glow, as the
light clangs against the approaching night.

3.
How like a turtle shell, like a glove
is a car! The owner’s approach to life
—timid or reckless or serious or drunk—
imprints itself upon the very engine,
the chrome poem of motion that dances
across its destinations…

Rilke told me what remains after death
is the pure impression of life
stamped against leathery time—
no glove, no hand, just duration…

So I pray to the patron saint
of the impression, of the intangible;
what ghostly ledger would contain
the stories, like prayers murmured at midnight,
of all desperate action, silent presence, or
blood-suckle desire?

4.
I am not alone in praying.
I am not even the most desperate.
The very same saint also attends
the mother who outlives her son,
the junky nodding out to a daydream,
and—yes, Rilke, I know—
the love of lovers unfulfilled,
love wasted like a swan song sung
out to an empty lake at dawn.
And maybe that is what life is, and
somehow the song sounds the most,
most beautiful from within the mind
alone. Even then, we all can’t even know
the beauty of the notes, being too busy to
feel the glove yielding…

5.
Of course, we all really know
just exactly what life is really like;
each of us noticed when very young
—probably just before realizing
that boys and girls are different—
noticed something so obvious
as to have long been forgotten,
abandoned with couch-cushion kingdoms
and closet-dwelling monsters.

We all know that, as it rises up to meet us,
life is as sure and clear as
the arc of the sun across the day;
it’s your hand just as you reach to grasp,
it’s the ever-empty bowl
always already about to be full,
and it’s the trace in sand of waves about to arrive.
But above all, it’s the pull, the force of the river-God
time that draws you to an eternity of having-once-been…