Noah on First and Commercial

A weathered man sits on his ankles.

One good eye looks sideways

at traffic upstream, the other is

clouded over with cataract.

The cigarette is a fragment, a remnant

plucked-up from concrete, saved

from trampling feet. Under

a dripping awning he waits

for the 20: filled with character, unreliable;

an accordion ark that rolls down the safe,

but damp Drive to Hastings. Above

the crows return unburdened.

Fall Colors

Like Gatorade—unnatural

aqua water surrounded autumn

yellows and reds scattered

up powder sugar-coated

mountains cuddling a shy glacier.

A small fish struggles on its side

at the surface—youth displayed:

vertical diamonds, iridescent spots

twinkle in the diffused sun trickling

down. Round and round. Then

revived. Into the depths, invisible for a moment.

Then white belly drifting to the clouds. Bearing

witness means clumsy theology applied like

toddler's experiment: how do star blocks fit

triangle holes? Mysteries: rapture or fall?

Is this Normal?

My new GoreTex jacket

hangs in the coat closet,

a handsome grey with

green trim: a silver fox

waiting for rain.

The forecast is near 20

and dry. I check

the active wildfires in BC,

scroll-down the page,

wonder:

what a hectare is,

how big is a half-million,

why metric still feels foreign,

who was still worried,

is this normal?

200 dollars

for a bike rack—

from Germany, comes with

a 30 year warranty.

Still. . .

A sunny day in October:

the man with a snake and quick gait

walks past the coffee shop

that just ran out of cold-brew.

In Las Vegas: 50+ shot dead

with two dozen guns modified to be

automatic—politicians offer prayer

for victims, congress considers

a law legalizing silencers.

Joe Laughs

Joe paddles backward in the eddy

behind a rock, riffles like fu-manchu

frame Joe as he lingers in the river

soul-patch and checks his fit-bit

equipped with paddle-boarding app—

“6.1 miles” he shouts. An Osprey cheers

from it’s house atop power pole.

Joe is impressed I know

Osprey from Merganser.

Joe lives on this river,

confuses me with ignorance

of names and lack of fear—

standing on shaking legs down rapids

between rocks with igneous flare

like punk-rock bracelets we bought

from Hot Topic. Joe laughs at danger

even as he drops his lower half-in

to warm the river and mark it

home.

Dennis Lake

Cutthroat trout slurp gnats on the surface 

of shoals reflecting the Telkwa Range’s

sloping shoulders, somewhere hidden 

there a remnant Caribou herd munch lichen. 

Two clouds hover above a loon’s eerie call.

Who could give language to this grandeur? 

What name could contain this sacrament? 

Difficult tasks beckon the brave.

A pioneering settler, a century ago, 

ignored first peoples, remained 

unpolluted by native tongues, beheld 

this place and thought "Dennis."

-->

The Drive to Telkwa

Merritt

Sun slouched upward:

a free-range yolk

over-easy in a dirty

rusted cast-iron pan.

Kamloops

Smoke from the interior

mingled amongst pine

and sage, tawny hills and

sometimes green valleys.

Valemount

The gas station clerk

said it’s always busy:

no gas either direction

a long ways. And there’s an A’W.

Mcbride

Mountains were marbled with snow,

like a python’s black-and-white self-portrait—

a transparent but ultimately unsuccessful

attempt to appear artistic.

Vanderhoof

Clouds like white corduroy

dissipated over leather-skinned

road workers. The slow-stop

binary waited for deconstruction.

Something Something Deep Love of Jesus

I asked if she was still reading

Infinite Jest—it’s the only thing

I know about my barista. She is.

I took my coffee and sat-down,

considered the day and worried

that would be my only conversation.

My mom asked me about a bank

account she set-up for my wedding.

I love my mom. I told her to leave it.

It’s good to be optimistic. Her text

tells me she laughed out loud.

Her text did not make me laugh.

I asked about what to do next.

I’d take any instruction: nap,

move to the Yukon, smile

at the next woman I pass.

My mind flipped between

an Eagles song I hate and

a hymn I forgot the words to.  

This Will Be On the Test

Over a month in nothing

but rocks and sand

and shivering then

sweating, fever dreams

for people who wouldn’t

stick around and no one

came looking, it was a long trip,

people had families

and this was his thing,

training, practice

for the final: abandonment

and thirst.   

Books I Read in Highschool

I read a book with

hell as sprawl

like suburbs or

Houston expanding

like space and everyone

moved further and further away

they complained

about public transit

there were no conversations

except self-talk

arguments about neighbors

who lived out-of-sight

and I thought it was clever

and creative but

now I have coffee dates

scheduled a month in advance

with college friends

who will be moving soon to

states with reasonable

property values to

buy homes and

have kids whose names

I’ll forget with faces

seen occasionally

on screens flickering

in a dark but affordable

studio apartment that
isn’t a metaphor.

All Grown-Up

No one ever told me,

that’s a lie (probably),

but it allows some anger

to disturb the lethargy.

People were always droning

on about growing-up.

Warnings I didn’t hear.

I listened to myself, and ska.

I didn’t envision: crying bored,

staring over plain oatmeal

at ugly house-plants, hour-long

walks looping around

gentrifying neighborhoods

waiting for the sun to finish,

an early bedtime and another bowl
of oatmeal to start it again.  

-->

Sahara

David Attenborough tells me

the Sahara is expanding. There

used to be giraffes and elephants.

Red paintings now. David thumbs

through a thesaurus, desolate:

bleak, empty, forsaken, lonely,

bare. But there is life. Spiders.

A snake. Ants on stilts.

They only come out at night.

Satellite pictures. David flips

to the back, vast: immense,

expansive, massive, endless.

Wind hisses over blank dunes.

Now David tells me about climate change.

The futility of action, drying up of hope,
play lullaby as I slip into an afternoon nap.

Malaise: Jimmy Carter Was Right

A Hyundai—best in class,

used, some version of

off-white, mostly dependable

but starting to rattle.

Kraft dinner with basil

and oregano, microwaved

broccoli, and beer leftover 

from a party left early.

A beta fish named

Joe--for the gorilla,

an inside joke with

a friend who move away.

A Moleskine notebook filling 

with doodles of robots, sad 

thoughts dressed in Sunday

best, and unread reminders:

call Mom,

change oil,

book appointment
with counselor.