Photos and poems from one hundred nights in a van. 




       Cascade

Funny and futile to throttle forward and back. 
All the while chained to a macabre metronome. 
Beating steady but swift,
I often forget. 

That the day's machinations are
a pixel in a cascade of color.


Haiku

suspension rocked
by speeding souls drowsy with 
anonymity. 


Dovetailing


Pausing for photos 
either framed by me or by strangers blocking the path. 

Snap-snapping. 
Enriching? --- Technically.
But so is tap-tapping 
a salt shaker over a saline sea. 


Diversions in a dovetailed lattice. 


Spot Search
(second stanza by C. Huber) 


Galloping along chunks of road kicked up by bullheaded roots. Rich houses on poor soil. 
Everywhere looks the same if you dig a hundred feet.

Where will you find solace? 
Living flesh, beating within a brick house?
Or as bones, intermingling with worms?


Ladderball Tip

Less whip. 
Try a straighter arm. 
Take it back further. 
Advice that's 
flipped forward and counter-revolved 
end over end. 
Rare to be in line. 
Even when it hits the mark, capriciously accepted.


Northwest Passage

Forthrightness
bottled and packed with dry-ice. 
A subliming incendiary. 
That unnavigable spontaneity.
A Northwest passage
--- two oceans --- 
unlinked. 


Fillet 

Impromptu errands are
charming.
At least I hope so.
Otherwise, I might
be routine.

And scalped tickets 
have a luster of
forgery.
Possibly without any
redeeming quality.
But maybe,
more than bargained for.

Fillet that routinized life!
Run red lights.
Get out the wrong door.
Bump, graze and swipe at 
strings yet attached.


New York

Departure |
Riding four-wide, shoulders fused.  
An awkwardness
Lost on small children. 
But not to adult 
Sensibility. 

"The ocean isn't far." 
"Just an hour."
Quickly Turned like a rattled cart. 
What was an hour twenty years ago?
A pinprick in grown up hands. 

Arrival |
Old hurricane-soaked wood
dried to season.
Chipped white paint --
An enamel battle 
lost. 

Beach |
footfalls peppered onto hot sand,
Tread With A steadier cadence, 
then the stuttered dashes 
of growing-pain legs. 
Searing memories.
awash 
On an Atlantic dune.

Saturated. salt and sand. 
Scooped up, chilled, by
Once frozen 
Arms. 
Afterwards, a garden hose
Shower hisses at the lawn.    

Settlement |
Small differences cause 
A fundamental shift. 
Brownstone Facades.  
Quick glances and forceful strides across 
One way streets. 
You have until the hand is solid red. 
Or maybe until just a little after. 
Buses are underground. Cars for the rich.  
Bikes missing seats and missing decades. 

Cantor dust! Like deleting the infinitesimal links of Antoine's necklace. From vanishing twists and knots -- a new space. 


Airports

I like airports. 
All different sorts pass through. 
Luggage in stride. 
This is all anyone will have,
for awhile. 
Folded shirts and 4 oz 
Beauty products. 

A necessary minimalism for
Reminders of old friends,
Business deals,
Family trips. 
Those things 
Jettisoned from home. 


Monuments

A heat sink. A vapor cloud. 
Simmer on my brow. Stewing my 
Faculties. 
God this heat! And it isn't even the hot time of year.

Monoliths larger than 
My life's ambition.  
God this immensity!
More stifling than
the heat.
Me, a canoe, thrashed by an oceanic history. 

White graves grayish on the shade.
Stonewalled by stone walls. 
I don't feel the gravity.
Everyone is dead. 
Do thousands of graves
Ring thunderous like the billions before them?
To my ears they squeak 
Like metro rats. 

What do others feel when
Visiting? Besides heat?


Right Hand

Will this be a right hand?
Throwing news on my porch.
Or will it be a left jab?
Catching me unaware.

The sum of my ambition
a sailboat on the open ocean.
Will it be a right hand?
Or it will it be the wrong one?

Fishing for my glasses.
Walking to a park bench.
Writing a traveling song.
Faking like I know something.

The sum of my ambition
an actor at a full audition.
Will it be a right hand?
Or it will it be the wrong one?

Ducking under headlights
laying down still and quiet.
All that’s missing.
Is not what I’m missing.

The sum of my ambition
one big long transition.
Will it be a right hand?
Or it will it be the wrong one?


The 4th

Horns bleating with parallax. 
Floating fortunes
slam air on air. 
Silence doused 
by M-80 blasts and 
canon-shot cracks. 
Wakes in no wake zones. 

Smoke wafts from packed gunpowder. 
Meanwhile, pumped into ribs and half salmons. 

My job: enjoy myself.
Do paddleboard splits, 
frigid water dives 
against snorkels stove dips,
talk to twice removed 
strangers. 

This frantic holiday.


Sailing

Gliding the sound. 
Like many times before. 
But it's different.
Usually most of me enjoys it, but part doesn't let go. 
A slow and tense 
filibuster.   

This time a ceaseless thread.
Woven surely, without hurry. 
With no destination 
and no tide to beat. 
No rush to shore 
and no errands. 

Just moorage set against 
Amphitheater bluffs. 
On which, stalwart trees strain their necks.
Vertically. 
Silent spectators of this 
unerring expanse. 


Barista

He's not exactly missing a neck. 
A bulbous chin piked on a
Swelled up trachea. 
Plesiosaured from years of
Stooping. 
There's gruffness in there.  
But it's excused. Even encouraged, maybe. 
Smoke breaks warranted. 


Dragonfly

The body fits, 
but not the rest.

Desperate.
When matchstrike wings
don’t catch
and zig-zag grates
are a green mile walk.


Brinksmanship

I'm laying in this van,
It creaks as the sun hits it. 
Knots of steel groaning as they unwind. 
Uneasily. 
I'm uneasy too,
Baked by heat shards and irked
by gravel-crunch footfalls. 

Laying still but 
not sleeping. 
My fuse shimmering
flash-pan white.
I mean perfectly still. 
A front load head 
On spin-cycle. 
Sudsy with 
prattle. 

Companionless brinksmanship?
Maybe.
Either way,
tripping on painted lines.
One ransacked
wall apart. 



 


























Music Video for Right Hand