you were perfect there on the coast
you let me come and lose my mind there after
my work was done
you were perfect there by yourself
you were hallucinating rock and roll
music coming up from the sink
as you ran the faucet. you turned thirty
and wrote a creepy message to yourself in lipstick on
the bathroom mirror
that you’ve probably already forgotten
one day you left
you got drunk and woke up with your
clothes on inside out in the
back of your truck
outside of Ashland
and I had no answers for you
the sirens yawned off in the distance
one, two, three times, sending messages through the
small town of Gold Beach, but I didn’t know what any of it meant
a vortex of fluff at your feet
your cat spoke only French
and was no help at all
then there was a dog named Monk
after the one true god of bebop
we used to drink beers as we drove to town
and sit across from each other in dark booths
and those moments grew long
like the shadows they grew beneath
and they are hard to forget
you told an incredible story about dancing
on stage in a Got Cookies? t-shirt four sizes
too big, right in front of the Philharmonic
at a black-tie affair
as their strings whined and the conductor turned black down
to the gristle
before security escorted you away
only then did they agree that it was not actually art
I got in my car and drove all over Oregon
trying to put my mind back together
you were patient
thinking maybe I’d just disappear
and I did
I simply exploded in every direction
at once
you decided to go out to the forest by yourself
for your birthday and find peace
but all you found was a town with a closed bar and
a Wal-Mart parking lot
the seals just bobbed up and down
watching you with curious eyes
next to the old defunct cannery
you dreamed of one day turning into a skating rink
the sirens caterwauled along the coast
one, two, three
times
while you were away
after all the work was done
and the shuddering moved in
an out-of-focus rush of life
the shedding of rain
off a tar-slick roof
we never found a rhythm that held us
and you told me much later
that it still affected you, to my
dumb surprise
after the coast
the rocking earthquake night
after the treehouse, my
most blessed and beatific domain, aloft of all critters
I lie now in bed
back in the city
in sort of peace and in the dark
just refusing to leave
until I’ve written
something
and now I’m dreaming in poetry
By Walker Rose