Surface Magic

Dear sleeping ones to westward,
at this moment one hour west
of dawn,
between the Agents of Light and
the Arsenal of Signs I look out
passing through
another town.
All the eastbound windows slumber on.

Roaming the rain-pelted woods
deep inside me
is a fear of black people

Rooted
in my black soil
is a loneliness for women

Sometimes I have to rest my mind
on the hard earth, remembering
darkness:
what the cave speaks. What the moon
illuminates. The light itself is
invisible all day,
waking only when
the running lights race my long asphalt shadow.

Something in me loves the dance
of destruction,
wrestling the power mower,
wielding the woodmaul

Darkness lives,
and never lives on only one side
of the border

Yes,
I remember the Not-Seeing of Zen,
the Way of the Crooked Shaman,
the Evangelists
of the Artificial Moon. I have not
forgotten the bulletproof limousines
of the Messiahs.
Take heart:
the earth's dumb gods are watching.

I can't do anything
right
therefore I am

Across
the electrified fence of my fear I offer you
the thing I lack

Sleeping ones, you only see these
headlights wash across your ceiling
hours before dawn.
My friends, you only know me by my
vanishing. If you were only with me!
What a privilege it is
to be riding west
this morning with the daybreak in my mirrors!

Inside I balance
at the tip of the highest
fir tree
on the Blue Ridge