Beached

Agile jeep-man plunged into the water and parked on a sandbar in the pre-dawn.

I set out early Saturday morning to camp on the beach at Bolivar Peninsula’s west end. I have converted the RAV4 into a micro-camper and wanted to give the new fixings another test run. I spent the morning in Galveston and took the ferry to Bolivar around noon.

The jeep photo was not desaturated or converted to B&W and the sky above that cloud bank was a bright grayish peach.

Sunrise on the gulf just East of the entrance to the Houston ship channel.

Black-bellied Plover
Snowy Plover
Western Sandpiper or Semi-palmated Sandpiper, I am never sure with these.

The tip of the peninsula is cordoned off for the bird sanctuary, east of this the beach is lined with camping rigs of various sorts and sizes. Ten dollar parking pass gets you a year of beach camping here, so it’s a fairly popular spot for RVs. Lots of birdlife with many wintering species staying here for the season without the burden of a ten dollar pass.

A vast winter sky holds no position in particular, but binds all within it to an inter-connectivity which teaches all things how to be.

Found this birder at the ship channel on the Galveston side before taking the ferry to Bolivar. Those are (mostly) Black Skimmers on the sandbar, wintering here by the hundreds every season.

One of the legendary Bolivar Mosquitoes. I photographed this one on the window glass after having had its fill of my bodily fluids and wishing then to escape. You’re welcome. A steady gulf breeze tends to keep them inland but that dies down at night and they will find you if you’re up and about early like I always am.

I intend to do some traveling next year, so expect more travelogue type stuff here. I will write another poem when one occurs to me and not before.

Deliverance

Out for Delivery

I’m getting the part I need
For my ship, then I’m outta here

It’s just a hubcap, but some galaxies
You just don’t cruise in a beater

You earthlings are just too much
Y’all like me-me-me, and a no-no-no

Get-get-get, and a go-go-go
Peace it out or blow it to bang-bang

I’d get back to the home planet
But it’s the same shit everywhere, like

Deliverance is no cake walk, yo

Tread Wear

Steel Belted Radials

They don’t make movies like
they used to, he said, but they
never made tires like this—then he
says it: haltingly, wistfully, as if
it were a line from a popular ballad

Steel Belted Radials

as if Leonard Cohen himself
were standing there before you
casting tire-buying spells with
magical incantations and smiles
backed up by the pedigree of
a pure bred confidence

Steel Belted Radials

spinning, orbiting
they sing against the pavement
with a melody above, apart
from the automotive implication
of a sure grip on a slick surface
or a rolling rampart

against punctures, evoking
scenes of roadside despair
with passengers pressing sad faces
against rain speckled windows
as you labor with a jack handle
against fate itself

Steel Belted Radials

upon the radiant bearings of
the gods, such a car would soar
on a cushion of air, uplifting
inspired, like an ode to a planet
draped gloriously in robes of
carbon monoxide, cinched by cords
of endless highway

Steel Belted Radials

you reach for your wallet
like a magistrate for his gavel
to the background hum of a
grinding economy, and spit gravel
peeling out of the flag-draped lot
and drive, you drive back to the

bottoms where your domain asserts
a stubborn little imprint, the tread sipes
in a dirt driveway, within patterns too
large and convoluted to comprehend
perhaps, and the radio is tuned
to a country song about disgrace
and redemption

Finishes

DISTRESSED FINISH

PEELED OR RUSTED THROUGH

WET THEN DRY THEN WET AGAIN

AGING AS WE SPEAK

GATHERED UP FROM FAR AND WIDE

HEAPED UP IN DISHEVELED STACKS

TEASING AT SOME DEEP MEANING


Photos gathered from junk shops and scrap yards in the Northeast when I was traveling by car there a few years ago. What exactly is the appeal of rusty old things? Do we think we can get a glimpse of the extent of time’s doings? Yet it’s not even a clock-tick in terms of imaginable natural history.

Malick

seawall-low-tide-bw-10-26-2015

A short film by Terrence Malick of
two figures on a beach, walking.
No, it's just a photo I took one afternoon,
but I like to envision my life sometimes
as if it were filmed by Malick,
narrated by William S. Burroughs,
and written by someone who knows
how to live a damn life.