The Redwood Lays the Cards
This is the freeway of giants, with their tall fringed hats
and their bad moods. They appreciate bikers with quiet wheels
and huffing breaths, but they don’t know what to make of me
in my little car with my big man and seven suitcases and only
a single pair of shoes. I want to have my fortune read by the
biggest, oldest, hollowest of them all, the one whose limbs are
wind-cracked and calcified, her hair full of spiders and birds,
her toes coiled at the edges like shoes from a nursery tale.
There is a map to her but no one has ever seen it. There is a
poem about her, but no one can remember what rhymes.
I walk with my eyes tugged closed, chlorophyl lids and evergreen
promises. When I find her, she will bend at the waist the way
old women do. There will be pinecone cakes and high noon tea
in the final slant of falling sun. The road will go on by us, as it does.
She will shuffle her leaves into small piles of could bes, and try
to root me. I will bury the queen of spades in the mud.
Image of graffiti carved into a California redwood tree.
Words written in a motel overlooking the ocean.
Ears On James Joyce, Ulysses
Time Taken seven and a half minutes.
Brain On … aroo? Nothing but words.