A Poetry Cycle Composed en route from Salinas to Los Angeles California, February 23, 2012
Late for the Train
I was late for the train,
though I was ten minutes early,
that I one point thought
I would never catch.
A foot of snow
covered all of Seattle
and I waited for half an hour
on Broadway for a bus to come.
The bus driver acted as though
she were a savior
and we were falling losers
she nobly could catch.
She drove in a beret
and behaved as one
who'd once experienced the end of the world
and could be our guide.
She connected me to the 2
that I was able to take
to the train station
in the nick of time.
The woman at the counter
advised that I hurry
but that in the station
I was not to run.
I speedwalked to Door 1
And offered my driver's licence.
The tickettaker joked that
it was not I who was to drive the train.
As advised I went to car 15
and there found the notebook of my seat
where I would rest
the pen of my consciousness.
from the Coast Starlight Route Guide:
American pop culture refers to its western seaboard as the left coast. Seen from the right train, the Coast Starlight, we experience 1,377 mi. of sheer magnificence, both left and right, from Seattle, Washington, to Los Angeles, California.
Along the route, we traverse steep mountain ranges, explore rolling, gentle valleys and skirt along the dynamically beautiful shady shores of the Pacific Ocean. The scenery is breathtaking, the cities are unique, and the history is fascinating.
[The name Coast Starlight is derived from the former Southern Pacific Coast Daylight, the premier daytime train; the Starlight was an overnight all-coach train between San Francisco and Los Angeles. Before Amtrak assumed passenger service in 1971, one had to travel on trains operated by two railroads between Los Angeles and Seattle. Southern Pacific operated numerous trains between Los Angeles and Portland, but a change of trains at San Francisco/Oakland was necessary. Between Portland and Seattle, one chose the trains of the Union Pacific, Great Northern or Northern Pacific. With Amtrak's creation and startup on May 1, 1971, through train service between Los Angeles and Seattle was initiated.]
So sit back and relax to enjoy this most entertaining and enjoyable of railroad routes in the world on the Coast Starlight.
Revenge of the Lawn
for RB
Richard brought, again,
an experience of tying
a literary consciousness
with the appreciation
of window views.
Richard brought, again,
the narrative of
a Tacoma childhood,
with the window view understanding
of the town by the train.
Richard brought, again,
the understanding of our
commonly grasped sensibility,
our shared lack of pretension.
Richard brought, again,
the deconstruction
of state boundary between
California (northern), Oregon
and Washington.
Richard brought, again,
a nostalgia for the Old West,
the shadows of cowboys,
railroads, fishing.
I bought, again, Revenge of the Lawn
short stories of Richard Brautigan,
and Richard-broughted them
on the train.
It all felt like it had happened before.
Heading South from Tacoma
In the hazy snow-flurry atmosphere
I can only see a short distance off
and mostly all I can see
is white
with snow
as though everything put on a sweater to fight the cold.
As we leave Tacoma,
the "City of Destiny" according to the Coast Starlight Route Guide,
the water appears oil black in the dim light
in contrast to the perfect white of the snow
against which it laps.
Really it is more of a dark emerald green, when considered independently.
Benches line the waterfront
beckoning the crazy to shiver and contemplate the void.
A large boat is anchored
and reminds me of a Soviet battleship in a black and white famous film,
another floats further, off the coast,
barely visible,
its crew's location unknown, its cargo a mystery.
Further on, past the behemoth twins of early Soviet cinema,
a massive bridge,
the pride of industrial empire,
crosses the sound, still in black and white,
hundreds of feet in the air.
What beyond the snow-covered trees is on the other side?
I have been on this train in rain
and I have taken it in sunshine;
but this train I have never been on.
The proprietor of the Sightseer lounge Café
has invited us all to a snack, hot coffee,
or, if feeling adventurous this summer [sic] morning,
an Absolut vodka cranberry or wine or beer,
or conversation under the sole condition
that it not be about the weather.
On the observation deck of the Sightseer Lounge car
On the observation deck of the lounge car
I sat and read with a certain difficulty.
A few seats over
a self-described libertarian
sat like a backward fly trap
whose goal was not to undo annoyance
but to perpetuate it.
One gets stuck in the trap that is him!
He is going to San Jose because
he is a philosophy major at San Jose State, he says.
How can people be so stupid, he queries.
Liberals simply desire to expand a wasteful government,
as though it were an involuntary action.
In this analogy (mine) they think more about breathing.
He gets so fucking angry sometimes!
He elaborates on physical violence
he desires to inflict on those
who don't think about things, like he does.
The fly states that he is an interesting young man.
I walk two cars back to my seat.
Though, in this moment and moments like it,
I feel I am walking in a certain direction
when in reality I am moving much faster
in the other direction
and the spot on the tracks
that is directly below
the self-described libertarian
is moments later below me.
Again!
And so on.
A haiku
The Coast Starlight is
italicized as it is
a great work of art.
Untitled poem composed just north of San Luis Obispo
I wake up to fine, green hills
rolling with oak trees
pushing the memory of redwoods
into the more dreamlike past.
Is this the same mug I took to Seattle at my feet?
This the same notebook?
Above my head the same suitcase?
And me, the same unity
of comprehension and consumption?
Yes and no.
Transitions
In Santa Barbara I got off
the Amtrak bus
and on
the Amtrak train:
the Surfliner.
A transition not unlike
the crossing of the Columbia river into Portland.
The train station is the river,
the nexus of comings of going,
the different means of travel.
I alerted a close friend
with whom I once lived in Portland
that I was passing through
with a text message.
I stepped out of the train at Portland
just as I would have when I smoked cigarettes,
except that I did not smoke a cigarette,
and, instead, I inspected my memories
inhaled and exhaled them,
examined their contours.
I reboarded and further, more objectively,
looked at my memories through
the lens of the window—the buildings,
bridges and people—
and it began to rain as we passed through my old neighborhood.
Why did not you stop
was the reply of my literarily-inclined friend.
Are you in a hurry?
Why did not I stop? Was I in such a hurry?
It would have been 20 dollars more
for a day over
in my old favorite city, with my old best friend.
Why did not I stop? Why was I in such a hurry?
The track of my heart clicked over and sent my emotions
rushing down a parallel track.
I composed two capacity text messages
the rain pouring now onto the observation car
myself fully exposed by window
my watering eyes mirrors to the massive wet convex lens surrounding me.
It is OK. She texted back.
The oppressive straight track
of the railroad operates in
exactly the opposite manner
as both time and love.
The Dining Car
I have an 8 o'clock dinner reservation
in the Dining Car.
I get there on time and am sat at
a booth for four
by myself.
A mother and her son join me.
The son sits across from me by the window—
nothing is visible outside but darkness—
and she sits across from the empty space next to me.
They are going to Chico to visit family.
They have come from Corvalis—
college town to college town.
He is missing school for
what she considers a more enriching experience:
visiting the grandparents.
(As I write this I am passing by Avila Beach
where once, at about the same age as this young man,
my mother took me out of school
for what she considered a more enriching experience.)
We all order pasta with winter vegetables.
I offer the young man the other half
of my plastic packet of balsamic vinaigrette
as it was more than both of us wanted.
A young Australian lawyer joins us,
coming from the other direction.
The dining car joins
the sleeper cars toward the engine,
where he came from,
with the coach cars toward the back,
where we came from.
He is business handsome
wearing one of those shirts
that is not white yet has a white collar.
He has come from Vancouver, British Columbia
and Seattle, Washington
and is going to Yosemite.
He was disappointed that
while in San Francisco
he could not find
one of those happening beat jazz clubs
that the place is known for.
He used both his fork and knife to eat
in, what I imagine to be, the proper manner.
When I awoke just Southwest of Sacramento
When I awoke just Southwest of Sacramento
the sky to the Southeast
was like a freeze frame fireworks show
a dream flurry of cloud whisps
orange streaks
pink reflections
change at its most dramatic
its most quintessential,
yet static.
I quickly went back to sleep
satisfied by my waking dream
witness to something
to be comprehended by nobody.
When I awoke
in Oakland
everything seemed
much more rational
and I got up
to get the day's
first cup of coffee.
Those Cascadian slopes
O, how far I am from those Cascadian slopes
and their evergreens rebelling against gravity,
those coats and sweaters and heavy pants
and clouds and weather and flannel,
here among the palms, in the palms
where the sun always shines
and blondes, europeans, wear shorts that redefine "short,"
participating in a reality found on TV
and the waves of the ocean only attempt
what those trees achieve before crashing down on the beach
providing the rhythm to the movement outside my window.
Should I have worn sunscreen? In February?
So many unattractive shirtless men in public:
are they wearing sunscreen?
How far I am from those Cascadian slopes,
O, how far a train may take one.
