stuck his neck out
(for joe and charlie)
i love this photo of ed dorn
a ghost before he died
his neck so thin
his tie seemed
just
his neck
continuing
outside his shirt
as if
he were neck
clear to his belly button
what i mean is thousands
should have filled streets
the day of his funeral
if we were truly greeks
real democrats
smashing limousine windows
in his honour, banks in flames
he should have been taken by train
back to idaho
by way of gloucester
and kent state and lawrence
and san francisco
and the skagit valley
ed dorn is the poet chaplin
always hoped to be
the poet john adams cried out for
the poet with the six foot ear
the last time i saw ed
over salmon and corn
in bob and mary's backyard
ed caught me assuming
all the world knew and thought highly of
Charles Olson and William Carlos Williams
"billy," he said,
"who even heard of these people?"
Hornby Island by Goh Poh Seng (for Billy Little, who shared loved spots and fond friends)
Here on the headland by Downe's Point
we case dreams to rise
synchronous with eagles and gulls,
all make-believe, egocentric,
near to fanatical,
else aim true to roam deep
with Leviathan in the ocean's mind,
free from perplexities and profundities
such as bind the scheduled self
Here is the arbutus grove
whose trunks and branches tighten
like nerves, twisted witnesses,
victims of shapely winds
which blow in always unseen,
sweet from the south
or coming cold from the north,
from every direction
the prevailing force of nature
Wish I could emulate the arbutus
slough off my thin skin as easily
as these natives trees their bark
from abrasion, disdain or design,
unveiling the bare beauty
of strong, hard wood beneath
Over on Fossil Bay
the rot of herring roe
strewn amongst broken clam shells, dead crabs
on dirty grey sand, exposed bedrock,
thickened the morning air,
but gave no cause for bereavement:
these millions of botched birthings!
And none also for the Salish,
no open lamentation for a race
almost obliterated without trace
from their native habitat
save a few totems, some evidences of middens,
a score of petroglyphs of their guardian spirits
carved a thousand years ago
on smooth flat rock by the shore,
of killer whales, Leviathans again,
to guide their hunts,
the destiny of their tribe.
Having retraced them
gently with finger tips,
they now guide mine.
Halo by Patrick Herron (for Billy Little)
half of love
plus half of half
is halo and I
don't believe
in angels, no.
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