not Outside

Dusted rose tenderly traps tectonic

plates borne of Her arousal,

near breakfast time the sentinel sleeps silently missing

breath languishing from parted lips

lingering longingly,

two Magpies maneuver molasses skies

framing the Alaskan Range.

Sea shale succumbs to titan tidewaters

tantalizing toes.

Sentinels watch here, hovering, waiting, immortal to all but wind,

water and time. Dying like us

eventually. We live though through time, traveling tempestuously

toward that which we seek. Sometimes found,

sometimes not.

Beholding the bruin bounding beyond bowers,

fear rushes silently inside, moments hang immortal,

Turning, turning, turning.

Lichen weeps anxiously atop the dome the bruin roams.

Hearts hearken to one another—we both fear.

Away, away, away!

Breath bellows because, I love.

Black pearls gleam through me, mid-morn sun stolen by looking glasses,

entrancing, the muse reminds, she demands attention.

Warming to allow the Copper’s rage, always coming–

Coming, always coming, break-up brings boons– but too slovenly,

so I wait, withering, wonderful, wistful. Wanderlust wakes

like the sunlight always coming,

always waiting.

Mea Culpa

Okay, for those of you who care, and for those of you who do not, I beg forgiveness. My three month abandonment is over. Grad school caught, drawed, and quartered (semestered?) me. Good thing a strand of DNA was left behind. Onward with reanimation.

Irony

I lay awake at night worrying all my words

will not get out, for lack of trying and commitment,

I sometimes write them, speak them less, and wonder,

Acedia, the monk’s temptation might explain it

would be worn like a battle scar of courage

with more purchase than sheer sloth

like the lazy rain falling this spring between

bouts of late fall temperatures assaulting tomatoes,

tomatillos,  and tarragon waiting for the hot

water canner bath that precedes— plink, plink, plink.

What is not written but said between the lines?

This cold slate Minnesota summer stays

sealed like July jams and September salsas

like words that should be spoken.

Signs: A favor of communication or a slow acid burn of place?

         Place is one of life’s grounding aspects that provides a shared experience between locals regardless of class, religion, sexuality, color, or creed. Intimate sense of place only comes through invested time and sharing the experience of living there with others. Residents are in on the joke. They own cherished knowledge like the discerning smile passed between two lovers as they pass the multi-carved Ash tree, or the quickened pace of two young girls pedaling past Crazy Aunt Nanny’s dilapidated stick built house, or the not so hidden, but elusive, sand bar known to teenagers living on the Iron Range of  Minnesota . These places can be stolen. A handful of soil, a stadium seat at a closing ballpark, or the thousands upon thousands of square miles sequestered by the Louisiana Purchase are physical examples, but, more importantly, there is intimate loss when place is marked.

           In December of 2001 I moved to Valdez, Alaska. I explored every inch of town and the surrounding countryside to begin my connection to place. Determined to immerse myself in the local scene I resisted being the average Alaskan transient. I did not want to be that guy who visits Denali, takes a Stan Stephen’s Cruise to see Prince William Sound, or watches the 1964 earthquake video at the local community college to steal knowledge of place. I sated a bit of my hunger with backpacking trips into the bush, fishing the Prince William Sound on a re-fitted trawler, and pouring over old maps tucked into a barrel in a Prince William Sound Community College back room, but it was searching for the old town site of Valdez that provided me with a gem.

            Many old roads and narrow trails crisscross the landscape between the Richardson Highway and the Valdez Arm as one heads east out of Valdez. I happened upon an interesting place during my first trip looking for the Old Valdez. It was not marked, and judging from the overgrowth and lack of litter there was little trace of human use. A grassy path led me toward a small iron fence set in a rectangular pattern with rusty gates hanging askance from its hinges. Devil’s Club and tall grasses protected the view but curiosity beckoned me forward. Realization soon took hold— a grave. I looked deeper into the dense Alaskan flora and noticed more of these forlorn iron borders standing like sentinels against time. My nape hair stood telling me to leave. Chills crept along my spine until the Silverado was well on its way back to Valdez.

            “Oh, you were at the Chinese Graveyard”, a colleague told me the next afternoon. I was thrilled. The information was authentic, not from a guidebook or the City of Valdez website, but straight from the mouth of a true Alaskan Sourdough. I felt intimacy with place for the first time since arriving to Valdez. I was finally in on the joke.

             Fast forward a few years later— driving home from work after a long day working at Prince William Sound Community College.  It was the same drive, but it never was dull because there was always something new to see in the Chugach Mountain Range. The idyllic drive and living in the moment with no radio, Zeppelin CD, or cell phone call to distract me from the inspiring peaks soon gave way to a mild sadness. Plastered on an immense brown Alaska Department of Transportation historical road sign was the following: Chinese Graveyard Next Right. Now everyone will know, I cussed, as I made a hard right into the sight. All those tourists rolling into town for the June Pink Salmon run will take their two ton rented recreational vehicles down the muddy road to see and sully this “new” sight.

             Naming, framing, and elevating this small graveyard had a profound effect on my quest to become local. From behemoths like Denali Park and Mount McKinley to something as small as the Valdez Chinese Graveyard, Alaska is riddled with sights elevated and made sacred. I hope Alaska will never get there but she is slowly giving away its status as the Last Frontier.

            When will there be nothing left to find? Will everything be one big sight to see? What have you lost to a sign? Look around, wherever you are, and you will find that the soul of your place is gone.