Dodge (a magnum opus)

When your silhouette
surmounted the hill
Dodge was down
to nil
You peeked through
a humid dirty
windowsill
at a yellow calendar
on the wall
When your shadow
checked into
the rustic hotel
the pop. was zero
still
The dust-swirl streets
were just a shell
of not so long ago
Ambling and shuffling
your spur scuffs
make poor faint echoes
on the musty floor
Forcing the hinge
of the rusty
tavern doors
where only a squeak
speaks of the
boisterous past
Grey cigarette ash
once foisted
on the bar
catches a shaft
of light
before the day
burns out
leaving faint
night stars
Desperados
again in flight
and at large
have long flown
as star dots wink
through
superfluous
bar slots
All have served
their stretch
their sketchy faces
etched in
fading wanted posters
warning of a danger
long passed
A breeze chills
the mesa
and hills
and passes
through the
darkened jail cells
The avenues of dirt
no longer absorb
the trills of
the church bells
Whirling dust
follows dried weeds
swirling through
the tower
and whistling
in the hollowed
rusted metal
The drone of bugs
settle and echo
through the cold scrub
Shouts and gun blasts
propelled out long ago
into vast space,
the footprints of
the Clancy Boys
erased;
Only soot hints
burnished
on a chimney mast
evince the smoke
from the tannery
blast furnace
Standing poised to last
white wood planks glow
on the church, the silo
and the bank
slowly rotting inside
in silence
In the funeral parlor
a dehydrated dark rose
stands slumped
in glass
amid half-finished
caskets
You check out
not signing the book
the ink dried in the well
Casting a last look down
from the hillcrest
at this restful
corpse town
A ghost goes west
riding out
on an equine wind

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

Denial

While I have eyes
should I waste them
in lies of aversion?
Denying the sights
that cry to be seen;
Immersing my mind
in what lies beside me?
Seeming in facade
to cherish diversion;
Feigning disinterest
in sensual terrains;
reigning in gazes
and snuffing desires
that draw my eyes
to the flames?

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

Demon

there’s a demon that haunts your mind;
that makes you fear the very ride
through life;
that brings more strife to men
than disease;
that eases its way into the spaces
of fear;
that erases the freedom
to stray
that makes you fear
your own brain
that makes you insane
that makes you seek comfort
in refrains;
that makes you teach lies
ad infinitum
that makes you seek fear
forever;
that makes you feel right,
when you’re never;
but leaves you stranded,
and unrequited

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

Civilized

American Tin goes in,
the indigenous now sinless
bow to the porcelain sink,
they drink from a pipe,
brown and clean,
de-savaged,
no longer ravaging the forest
for leaves,
harnessing the river
for the power they needed
all along,
they no longer sing songs,
they watch TV

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

Control

They don’t need the rope
to bound and gag,
and stunt your growth
They only need
every other means necessary,
and they own them

c. 2001, 2003 Evan Gilling

Chastity

There’s a chastity belt
on your brain
that makes you say things
you don’t mean;
that makes you make friends
you demean;
that makes you make enemies
to tease;
that makes you appease
the one with the key

2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

Anticipating Coldness

Anticipating coldness, my esophagus awash
in the icy sting that freezes my fears;
I grasped the enticing brick-red bottle
and popped the cap that fell on the countertop
in a monotonal metal jingle;
you were preparing a meal, your hands caked
in salmon and crackers and eggs,
as you grabbed the bottle and tongued the lip,
sucking a sip as you gently lined
the cold orifice of glass with your hot flesh;
I sipped too, and the brew volcanically spewed
a head of foam like the bottle was cumming;
and the cold anticipation subsided, and we laughed,
surprised by the heat, rising

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

Rust (a traditional poem)

The earth rusts once a year,
in the air adheres a crust
of dark orange;
All is dusky
arrayed
with shimmering decay;
The land is surprised
by its somberness,
but does not fight;
The glowering sky
cast shadows
in dying light;
There is no
cowering or fright
in the carpet
of darkened canopies;
The air sucks water
from noble
glowing leaves;
The trees shout
proudly
in stunning silence;
The earth
does not mourn
this tender violence;
In this cadence
of seasons
incubates birth;
In blankets
of molds and dirt,
the dust
knows its reasons

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

Mischa (an inside joke)

Cancel
“canceled disturbances,”
they said,
but you can’t cancel disturbances
so I put it here instead
in my repository of misfits,
that I crawl around inside,
(like a nostalgic worm)
feeling at home

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

Rock port (an experiment in old skool poetry)

There is the place
by the rock port
where haze veils
barely faze the blue
where mischief breezes
seize and tease
a thousand strands
of hair
Where spray
from the jetty
catches the air
forming a jetstream
of dew
Where whirlwind wisps
dance pirouettes
chilling the skin
in tingling rivulets
Where soft sea sneezes
whistle and wheeze
nipping the eartips
and tickling cheeks
Where mirthful
circles meekly
whisper and flirt
whipping up
white cyclones
of sandy dirt
Where raving winds
rape the crest
of the wave
Stripping the salt
from the rise
Draping landscapes
in silencing mist
burning the whites
of the eyes
The rock port’s
a place
of tempests eternal
Where night beacons
beckon
through the
churning heights
of foam
Where sea sights
cease to rest
in seconds
and memories
in spaces, alone

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling