textfiles/politics/SPUNK/sp000328.txt

from _MILESTONES, SET 2 (1973 -1980)_
by Karl Young

you drove     from midnight till four     I drove
watching the dawn     from four until six
I slept from six until eight     
at eight in the morning     the industrial valley
begins feeding trucks to 35th street
it doesn't really begin then     it never stops
I have never seen 35th street     at eight in the morning
(the only hour I haven't     except in dreams)     at eight in the morning
the industrial valley     begins feeding trucks to 35th street
I slept from six until eight     in there somewhere
I dreamed of trucks     on 35th street
the road     daylit after dawn and mists
is full of trucks     600 miles from home
this road comes     from the industrial valley

@


the bus stopped     at the corner of Holton and Center
I was behind it     the light turned green
and the cars on my left     started moving --
a woman got off the bus     and started to run across Holton
she was hit by one of the cars     that passed on my left
she bounced off the grill     and landed head first
on the pavement --     the bus moved forward
and I followed it     seeing people gather around her
hands to bloodmatted hair --     none of this looked real
it seemed as though my windshield     were a t.v. screen
and all that I saw     was something staged
thousands of miles away     by people who'd go home to supper
just like me     after they'd finished their acting --
the windshield and traffic     isolated me perfectly
from what had happened     but the car is like a time capsule
after a couple of hours     I feel guilty about something
I didn't do     about something
over which I had no control     and about which
I could have done nothing --     I could have been
the driver who hit her     if I had been in the other lane

@



I've been crossing     these railroad tracks     
for twenty years --     if you drive over them     
at normal speed     they'll shake the teeth     
out of your head --     slowing to meet them     
is a reflex to me     as it must be     
to this town's people     who haven't done anything     
to change these tracks     in twenty years       
/is that intentional     do they leave them that way     
to make strangers slow down     or to shake them up     
do kids watch     in the tall grass     
to see outsiders     bang their heads     
on their own rooves     and brake in panic --     
the town itself     has changed considerably     
in twenty years     the road's been repaved     
often enough --     maybe this village     
despite its changes     has remained a small town     
perhaps the last one     left in America --     
the train stopped running     a decade ago     

@



loss on the road     is a common thing     
losing comes close     to defining the road:     
the path through the thing     you've left behind --     
the Mackinac Bridge     clearly set off     
Michigan's peninsulas --     crossing the state line     
into Wisconsin     was imperceptible     
except for a sign --     since early childhood     
the cottage in Michigan     has been something to leave
but not to lose     something to find again     
season after season     a place of constant renewal     
a place that adapted itself     to all life's changes     
a place to lose old selves     as new ones emerged --     
now that's over     the cottage is sold     
I'll never see it again     and this ritual drive     
around Lake Michigan     is a way of acknowledging     
the road's power     to take things away --     
no material loss     has ever been     
as bitter as this --     my notion of Paradise     
is Big Portage Lake     as it was a decade ago     
before the motor boats came     and filled the lake     
with gasoline     before the state     
killed all the fish     and restocked the water     
with nothing but trout     before the speculators     
built the biggest trailer court     in the state of Michigan     
around our land     and forced us out     
after four years of fighting --     nothing will ever     
replace that place     given to us     
by the road and its cars     the same things     
that took it away --     the road will continue     
defining itself     by the loss it extracts     
and our own willingness     to play into its hands

@



after a couple hours     of Indian dancing     
-me moving forward     Susan sideways -     
we drive through the cold     of a midwestern night     
when winter has come     without any snow --     
how ancient this land is     how quietly it whispers     
its long genealogy     its story of winters     
/does the sound of the drum     open your ears     
or the sound of feet     moving together --     
the car moves forward     its route is circular     
I'm driving     Susan's beside me     
earth tells its story     the world is at peace     

@



the ship was carrying     contraband timber     
from northern Wisconsin     to a mill in Chicago     
when it sank in a storm     nine decades ago --     
cold mud preserved it     until it was found     
a couple years back --     a few divers     
working in total darkness     with little sense     
of which way was up     or which way was back     
pumped out the mud     brought the boat to the surface     
and towed it to port --     it took two divers     
to handle the wheel:     one of them told us     
the original sailors     must have used winches and ropes:     
no one man could master     that wheel alone --     
I couldn't help being amazed     at how well this ship     
was built and designed     how careful and accurate     
its shipwrights had been     even when working     
on something as unimportant     as this ship must have been --     
I followed the beams through the hold     some cut in one piece     
eighty feet long     from whole trees --     
Susan called from the galley     as I counted spikes     
she wanted to show me     the china and silverware     
the crew had used     expensive ornate perhaps ostentatious --     
the diver told us     you wouldn't find better     
at a senator's table     when this ship went under:     
the crew of four or five men     criminals and outcasts     
living harsh and monotonous lives     ate their beans     
on the most expensive plates     they could buy at the time     
perhaps an amenity     that made life easier or even pleasant     
a bit of luxury and elegance     that let them feel     
like Kings of the Inland Seas --     we checked out their quarters     
just two wood bunks     too small for comfort     
even for men     five feet tall --     
the car seems small     as we imagine     
the lives of those sailors     the storm and their cargoes     
and expands again     as we fall silent     
in the sparkling sunlight     of untraveled road --     
/where are we now     on our own dark ship     
/sailing contraband cargo     that we're not aware of     
along the shores      of the glittering lake     
/are we in the galley     eating on fancy plates     
in the midst of a storm     we see only dimly     
/are we the giants     some future age     
will look at with awe     and not understand     
/have we the strength     to handle the wheel     

@



FOUND POEM FOR THE U.S. BICENTENIAL, JULY 4, 1976,
FROM THOMAS JEFFERSON'S _NOTES ON VIRGINIA_

"from the conclusion of this war     we shall be going down hill --
it will not be necessary     to resort at every moment
to the people for support --     they will be forgotten
and their rights disregarded     they will forget themselves
but in the sole faculty     of making money
and will never think of uniting     to effect a due respect
for their rights --     the shackles which shall not be knocked off
at the conclusion of this war     will remain on us long
will be made heavier & heavier     till our rights shall revive
or expire in convulsion"

@




_for Jackson Mac Low_


when we were here     last summer
the spice warehouse     across the street
smelled like a garden --     _un jardin_
would be more like it     a prissy fussed over thing
through which people dressed in silk     walked formally
couples holding elevated hands     as if continuing
a polite dance --     later it smelled
like a barn full of hay     after a long rain
-- a barn off SoHo --     three days ago
it smelled terrible     like a chemical dump
full of vicious effluent --     tonight
slowly being lifted     in the rickety elevator
unlighted and open     through the night air
the air full     of the infinite city
a little drunk     Susan falling asleep on my arm
Jackson talking     about Chicago in the '30s
it smells like a garden again     garden of a Calif
garden of earthly delights     framed in mysterious arches
surrounded by corridors     infinite as the city's streets
pools reflect stars     innumerable as city lights
comets fall in the jasmines     flowers distill themselves
into incense --     the spices are brought
from all over the world     constantly change
constantly produce     new composite odors
nasal poems     generated by chance processes
their scores     are bills of lading
/what will they suggest this winter     where will trucks
scatter the spices --     each grain will carry the magic
of the poem they made together      our car will follow
the spice routes     through darkest America

@




_for Jerry & Diane Rothenberg_

this is the Borscht Belt     the place where New Yorkers
took their vacations     before aeroplanes took them to Florida
to California and Israel     to Europe and Bali
they moved whole neighborhoods     into these hills
husbands and fathers      commuted from the city on weekends
mothers and wives fought for groceries and cooking space     played mah jong
on rickety porches while watching small children     sons and daughters
picked up new tricks     to rework into their city environment --
the playground of Jewish gangsters     -not unlike Kenosha
where I grew up     which had been the bedroom and summer resort
of Chicago's Mafiosi-     the place where a generation
of comedians served their apprenticeship     and still rule
under gentile names     the humor of the nation
back then they told the same jokes     to tired garment workers
who'd saved all year to get there     to girls looking for romance
to mothers looking for rich sons in law     to jaded hoods
who wanted noise around them     while they cut deals
enforced pecking order     tried to burn the anxiety out of their throats
with cheap vodka or imported scotch     snapped the garters
of strong-smelling nymphs     to young business men
beginning to feel their way through the recesses     of American economics
their fingers eager     for the happy buck
to worn out housewives    recasting their lives in the glamor and power
mimed in floor shows     to boys learning the mystic code
of honor and deceit     to old people bewildered and wondering
where life would drag them next --     the hotels and resorts
have been converted     to religious retreats and rehabilitation centers
communes and ashrams     we pass Talmudic scholars
in gaberdines and earlocks     discussing the mysteries of letters
on spacious lawns     their sons run along the road
with earlocks puffy from swimming in chlorinated pools     aging hippies
try to farm     naked in fields of stones
ghosts with hollow eyes and cheeks     stare at us through fences
we pass women wearing wigs or scarves     or nothing at all
women wearing veils     or hiding behind skin tanned to leather
young men pass us     in the hot-rods of the fifties
or in cars that cost more than our houses     legions of children and old people
herded in and out of busses     or marched along the road single file
Hari Krishna dancers approach us     in a town that contains no more
than a gas station a bar and a couple of houses    we drive through small towns
that contain a few houses     and as many pizza parlors delicatessens
healthfood stores and icecream stands     we drive through small towns
owned by semidivine kings     from Tibet or India or Korea or the deep south
we drive through small towns     no different from those back in the midwest
fields full of cows     antique farm houses
glittering tractors --     I love to drive on unfamiliar backroads
just to see whatever's there    that's pleasant enough in Wisconsin or Michigan
but this is a backroad driver's paradise    the pure products of the whole world
gone crazy     in this strange place
this vale of enchantment --      /if we stayed here for years
could we figure out the maze of backroads     the maze of faces
we wander through now      /would we search our hearts for freedom --
they feed into the great orange freeways     of the imagination
that link the positive and negative poles     of our consciousness

@



_for Toby & Miriam Olson_

my feet move     over the pedals
thinking of the pedals     it seems I can feel them
through my shoes     the ribbed rubber of the clutch
the two bumps of steel     on the accelerator
ribbed rubber again     on the brake
a little sand between the wales     of the brake and clutch
a shine on the high parts     of the uncovered pedal --
when we were clamming     out on the cape
we walked slowly     putting our weight
onto our heels     digging our heels
into the sand     moving them sideways
as we pressed them down     feet cool in the sand
the sand yielding     to the motion of heels
a lightly twisting downward pressure     into cooler
and less yielding sand     I didn't know
how the clams would feel     when I'd asked Toby
he just said I'd know when I hit one     so as I walked
I tried to imagine     what the clams would feel like
like the hard coldness     of a piece of the glacier
that made the cape     like the strange vegetative rocks
you see in Islamic miniatures     always just on the verge of turning
into people or animals     like the waxed and painted featherwork
of Moctezoma's lost treasure     like an embarasing or pleasant moment
suddenly remembered     like the pedals of the car now
driving through the mountains     the grade constantly changing
as we move over it     as I keep changing the pressure
of my feet on the pedals     passing and being passed
by people with faces as blank     as mine must be
their feet searching like mine     as I watch them pass
watch trees and signs     pass with them
as buildings and pools go by     as the road
changes in front of us     we search with our feet
we don't know what for     or what it'll feel like
like the strange vegetative feel     of millions of dollars
like the cold assurance     of complete authority
like the shrill rush     of absolute power
like the calm release     of pure serenity
like the surge of prestige     when we invent a new world
like the feel of a clam     under our toes

@



a screw     a screw
a forced screw     east on North Avenue
to the ramp     twist
the groove continues down     I ride the thread
onto the freeway     and on to the next ramp
turn up     continuing the same curve
"___a cylinder     grooved or threaded
in an advancing spiral    on its inner or outer surface
a circular application     of an inclined plain
used to exert pressure     or overcome resistance
through a short distance___"       freeway ramps
hold down concrete beams     that hold down
the streets of the city     our pressure on pavement
holds it in place     our use of the ramps
keeps the screws     tightly fastened
we tighten the screws     turning them down
make them bite into the city     I participate
in the screwing of this city     entering the freeway

@



I drive through flat fields     that wait for developers
to sew them with concrete and steel     past a condominium
surrounded by an artificial lake     and there on a hill
rises the great mastaba     of a shopping center --
a thing created by cars     and making cars
indispensable --     the garden of automobile
the paradise of t.v. --     the stores inside it
are minuscule --      televisions tell shoppers
what they'll buy     before they go in
so varied selection     isn't important --
the building contains     hundreds of stores
that create the illusion     of choice
a labyrinth of tiny cells     in which we hide
our lack of freedom --     potted trees and moving crowds
skylights and vagrants     armed guards and fountains
mime a city     where no one lives --
its brains are scattered      all over its hinterland
encapsulated in tubes --     I have driven along
its nervous system     and now I enter
its hands its mouth     its essence its soul
the endless asphalt     of its parking lot

@




we wear our cars     like jewelry --
when we drive     we put on our wealth
making our treasure     expand around us
farther than earrings     lip plugs
nose pendants      cascades of armbands and necklaces
making us bigger     than featherwork or stretched skins --
the jewelry itself     makes itself visible
moves itself past     more people
and more other jewels     than we could show off to
dancing around a fire --     our jewels
demand to be seen     they carry us with them
wherever the forcefields     of wealth demand --
our jewels replace     themselves and us
when they get tarnished     unless it is our lot
to wear our poverty     around us like jewels

@




these cars have replaced     the Nile boats
that bound the Egyptians     in Pharonic slavery
the horses that conquered     Europe and Asia
allowed central governments     to exploit large territories
the horses that conquered     both Americas
subjected them     to imperial rule --
these cars     have replaced those horses
and we ourselves     have become part of them
we don't need     bands of horsemen
to keep us enslaved     we do it ourselves
driving our cars     we ourselves drive
the vehicles of our oppression     our cars control us
tell us where to go     what to do
how to pay up     our tribute money
our bribes     our wergeld
our protection fees     keep us laboring
at the endless wheel     the immense millstone
that turns on tires     make us think
we're having fun     make us feel
our lives are free       do you hear the scream
of the iron chain     each link a car
sliding along     its concrete housing

@



when the sun set     it was dark
hearth fires     candles lamps
couldn't negate it     just form islands
in the same darkness     pervasive outside --
the difference      between inside and outside
wasn't great     a simple matter of walls --
outside there were stars     like fires candles lamps
everyone knew them     knew their stories
knew their seasons     knew their progression --
the only time     we know darkness
is when we drive     at night:     
the only time we see stars     if we bother to look --
there is no darkness     in movie theaters
only luminous screens     surrounded by nothing
there is seldom darkness     in our bedrooms
when we turn out the lights     we flee into sleep
occasionally we find it     at outdoor parties
that go on at night     but then
we ignore it     except for the atmosphere
it lends to the party      occasionally we find it
when some frustration     compels us to walk at night
but then we're absorbed     in our own
private pain --     we only know darkness
in our cars     we only know isolation
in our cars     we only know detachment
in our cars --     we only know ourselves
a world we did not make     when it invades our cars

@




Credits and acknowledgements:
The first poem in this group appeared in _Poetry Australia_
The second and fifteenth poems first appeared in _Hambone_
The third poem first appeared in _Printed Matter Japan
The fourth and sixth poems first appeared in _World's Edge_
The fifth and twelfth poems first appeared in _Bullhead_
The thirteenth poem first appeared in _Midland Review_.