Helpless

It was as if

I lived in a canyon.

I dreamt of Morgantown and the milk trucks.

I miss home;

the trees and valleys

and the blue- grass'd Appalachian foothills.

I remember the summers 

where the lawns would        

hiss in steaming heat

and drown in late

afternoon- humidity.

I was alone

and I was always

                         traveling 

 traveling 

             traveling;

I wanted to be alone,

I wanted to

call out and hear nothing except

silence broken by crickets chirping. 

It didn't snow; I always wanted the snow.

I wanted to skate away on a river

that led to some deserted desert

where Coyotes sang ballads

to Ophelia.

No Regrets, Coyote,

but have you gone

to Mexico?

Did you ever need a reason to move?

                        ***

I rode in a car out east.

We crashed somewhere on route 66.

I borrowed a coat

that belonged to James Dean 

and thought about my father,

who had died weeks earlier.

                        ***

I was in Savannah and it was spring 

and I saw a bench and took a seat. 

The number 9 passed me by

and I thought of the irony. 

Two blocks later, searching for a heart of gold,

I mined my way to a bar 

and ordered a drink.

It was warm,

I didn't mind; 

I was running behind.

Outside, I met a man; 

Virgil Caine was his name.

We both worked the land; 

I was 24.

            ***

In the distance, 

I hear mountain music

and the Tennessee river isn't far away.

I see an old man at the stream. I’m a lot

Like him. 

The wind blows

and I cross and walk roads:

How much longer must I walk?

Can't I just ride the river?

Will it take me as I am? 

There's no snow.

I can't skate away.

A big yellow taxi pulls alongside

and in the sky

I see Amelia's Model 10 

and think

It may have been a false alarm.

The Simonds Variation Draft 1

It was love, but the slow kind, I had to wait for you in jellyfish time.
My confidence has been shaken, like waves that crash 
and know not the hurricane, whose strength is but a crime 

from which the embattled embryo stirs and cries. 
The evening light which glows bright, seeps unto ash;
It was love, but the slow kind, I had to wait for you in jellyfish time. 

An age of wisdom, an age of sorrow,
mime together like Selleck’s mustache.
They know not the hurricane, whose strength is but a crime 

felted and fed like dying of the sublime. 
From all years that cave in together, like a flash; 
It was love, but the slow kind, I had to wait for you in jellyfish time. 

Before the breeze, when the sky was scattered lime 
hung together by memory cache; 
We knew not the hurricane, whose strength is but a crime 

that molds and builds lives, thru, rhyme.
My mother said that everything is balderdash, 
and that poetry is repetitious, like an enzyme.
It was love, but the slow kind, I had to wait for you in jellyfish time.