DRY CRIK Journal

1.
Packed mules all-summer of ’66,
either side of the Kaweahs,
over Franklin, over Blackrock

leading a string along the sandy track
between the steep scree and beaver dams
at Upper Funston, anytime in my mind –

            gentle thud of hooves behind me,
            long strides rubbing loads and leather,
            jingle of snaps on loose draw chains –

my ears were eyes. Sometimes
you could feel the beasts inhale
before the ropes got tight, before

the story you hoped to tell exploded.
But here an excited calm collects and
glides with rainbow trout in clear pools

beavers made – here God takes
His vacation away from the phone and
leaves desperate prayers to angels.

2.
USC after Watts was surreal –
young women in crinoline, kegs
of beer, everywhere – a little

world lost in the black
asphalt and concrete, a long
day’s ride to earth left alone.

Before the war and the Sixties
came down hard, we’d slip off
to the Ashgrove on Melrose,

displaced country boys
listening for a little bit of home –
John Hammond, Lightening

Hopkins, Ramblin’ Jack
on stage, two dollar ticket,
four dollar cover, two

drinks served before the show –
and Jack is young, forty-four
years ago. Hat, boots and acoustic

ready to jump off stage and whip
the usher interrupting ‘912 Greens’—
he hollers instead, ‘Hold that gate!’

                        for Joe Botkin, Parker Kennedy & Jack