Let the Tape Run

Lincoln Beach motel.  Mexican food and

Margaritas. Night Gallery, the one

Where a fisherman catches a mermaid 

Who becomes a fish head with a woman’s 

Legs.  That soggy hike on Cape Lookout—I

Saw you look at him, and couldn’t blame you. 

Sleeping at Sand Lake, red bandana round 

Your head, then locking our keys in the car 

At Wee Willie’s.  Talking into daylight,

Cape Meares’ fog surrounding us.  Where were we 

When found our headlights on that fantastic 

Alien landscape of rocks and rotted 

Logs jutting up and out of chaos?  Did

We dance in the glare or was it just me?

Then racing the moon on those Coast Range back 

Roads to Portland, South East Madison and 

Twenty-Third, where it’s been raining all day . . .

Month . . . summer, cold, dark gray, twilight.  Window

Open I push a microphone out a 

Hole in the screen, recording rain.  A truck 

Splashes by against the street.  A couple 

Walks past, their voices trailing.  I let the 

Tape run, making itself.  Whitewater, a

Little girl found in the Columbia, the

Radiation experiments on jailed

Inmates—“Are you surprised?”  Packwood, Tonya,

Sarajevo, L.A. quake, and there’s a 

Triple murder in Gresham.  Out with Ken

Friday, drinks at Mary’s Spot, talking of 

Friends—Michael, Victor, Derek, then Steve, Greg, 

Vance, Sean, David, big and little Jan.  I 

Live where swings and pulls exert influence.  

If accuracy interested me 

I’d be someone else.  Still, the thread remains.

This is that beginning.  It’s all there, and 

Never really off.  I just turn it on.