long thin skirt

My poem 'long thin skirt' now up at HST:

https://horrorsleazetrash.com/2026/02/22/john-yohe-20/

 

fire woman

Excited to have my poem "fire woman" featured in the Poetry Maps project as part of ARTx: Art + Ideas Experience Arizona this year! See my poem along with all the others at the installation at the Museum of Northern Arizona anytime from May 18-26. Also featured in at least one bus in Flagstaff!

 

The Ghost of Ed Abbey

 My essay, "The Ghost of Ed Abbey," now up at the new DEAD SKUNK MAG!

Rim Liquor—short story

 Appeared August 2018 in MOJAVE HEART REVIEW, which is alas no longer with us.

Matt threw his cards down. —That’s it. I’m out. I’m done.

Ryan pulled in the money, smiling, cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth. —Mi amigo, you quit too soon. The night is joven.

Ryan’s trailer, in Verde Estates, north of Payson. Matt, Ryan, Johnnie, Anthony, Karl. And Jamie.

Matt stood up and grabbed his hat, putting it on. —I’m gonna grab a smoke outside. Anyone?

Ryan shook his head, collecting the cards and shuffling. —We’re not stopping now. Not when I got my game on. The rest of you vatos ready to lose your dinero too?

Matt walked past Jamie reading People on the couch and went outside onto the porch, lighting up and blowing the smoke up into the sky. Stars everywhere. Crickets. A television from one of the other trailers. Professional wrestling.

—Hey Matt!

He looked back through the screen. —Yo.

—Why don’t you go make a beer run?

—Alright.

—I want to go too!

Jamie’s voice. —I’m bored.

Matt turned away from the screen, took a last drag and dropped the cigarette and ground it out. Ryan yelled out, —Hey Matt, you want to take Jamie?

—Yeah sure.

The screen door flew open and Jamie came out. She had put on her boots, though was still in shorts and a halter top. She had her purse, checking inside for something. —Let’s go.

—Alright.

They got in his pick up, and he turned on the cd player.

—Is this Shania Twain?

—Yeah.

—You listen to Shania Twain?

—Sometimes.

—Is it because she’s hot?

—A little.

—Does Ryan know you listen to Shania Twain?

—Not sure.

—I bet he don’t.

—Why does it matter?

She shrugged. —I don’t know.

—Then why did you ask?

—I don’t know.

He looked at her a second, then backed out of the driveway and headed up the hill out of the valley.

—What was that look for?

—What look.

—The whole look-at-me-out-of-the-corner-of-your-eyes-like-I-done-something-stupid look.

—Oh that one.

—Are you mocking me?

—Mock? What does that mean?

—You know what it means Matt Wattley.

They got to 87 and he stopped at the sign. The Mogollon Rim off to the north. Dark cliffs. Storm clouds, up on top. A flash of lightning. He turned right, heading south down to Payson. The windows were down, and the cool air blew in. She rolled up her window. —Jeezuz fucking christ! I’m fucking cold!

He rolled his up, leaving a little space so the air still blew on his face. —Why didn’t you wear a jacket?

—I didn’t think of it, ok?

—Ok.

They got to the Payson city limits, then through the traffic circle in front of Wal-Mart.

—Why do you have a Toyota?

—What do you mean why do I have a Toyota?

—I mean why do you have such a small truck?

—What do you mean why do I have a small truck?

—Jeezuz fucking shit Matt, I’m just conversating!

—Conversating?

—Yeah, you know what conversating is?

—You mean talking?

They passed the turn off to the airport on the right and were in town.

She crossed her arms. —Ryan’s got a diesel.

—Yeah, I fucking know Ryan’s got a diesel.

—Well, don’t get mad at me. I’m just saying.

—You’re saying what?

—I’m just saying. Shit, what’s up your ass?

—You know how much diesel costs now?

—Yeah.

—Well ok then.

They got to the 260 intersection. He drove straight, still going south.

—Ain’t you going to the Beverage House?

—Nope.

—Why not?

—I want to go to Rim Liquor.

—Why?

—I don’t know. I like the name.

—Why?

—Cause it’s funny.

—Why?

He looked at her quickly. —Cause. Like the same reason it’s funny there’s a store up in Flag called Beaver Liquor.

She thought about it a second. —Oh.

They passed the Post Office on the right and he turned left into the Rim Liquor parking lot.

He parked and turned off the truck. He looked at her. —You don’t get it, do you?

She looked at him. —What?

—Rim Liquor.

—Yeah. Kinda. I get the beaver one. Is it like the other side?

He kept a straight face. —Of what?

She smiled. —Of the beaver.

He smiled. —Yeah.

—Matt Wattley, you are the most perverted motherfucker I’ve ever known.

—I doubt that.

They got out and went in the store. Bottles and bottles lined up along both aisles. He nodded to the cashier as they walked to the coolers on the far back wall. He stood looking at the beer. She hugged herself. —Fuck it’s freezing in here!

—Like I said.

—What?

—A jacket.

She smiled. —Fuck you! Hey, do you remember back in high school?

He shrugged. —Do I remember what?

—Like how we all used to get at keg and go up to Milk Ranch Point and have parties?

He nodded. —Yeah.

—What ever happened to Teresa?

—You know. She went to ASU.

—I know, but like, with you and her?

He opened a cooler door and grabbed two cases of Bud, one in each hand. —Nothing. She left and it was over. She said she liked Phoenix.

—How could anybody like Phoenix?

—Well, there’s jobs. I guess.

He looked at her. —Last she said, she’s going to get a masters.

—A masters? Really?

He nodded. —Yep.

He started walking up front. When they got to the counter she asked for a fifth of Jim Beam and a pack Marlboros, and put them with the beer. Matt stared at her. She added a pack of gum. —Don’t worry. Ryan’ll pay you back.

They left. He put the beer in the back of the truck and they got in. He started the truck and pulled out back onto 87, heading north.

She opened the Jim Beam and took a swallow.

—Jeezuz Jamie.

—What?

—Nothing, I guess.

—Hell, I’ve seen you puking your guts out, so don’t get all superior on me.

They stopped for a red light at the 260 intersection. The clouds had come down off the Rim. More lightning. Rain drops starting to fall on the windshield. He started the wiper. The light changed and he drove.

—Matt, do you still like me?

He looked at her quickly. —Oh shit. What do you mean? We’ve known each other forever.

—I know. But you don’t ever talk to me anymore.

—Well, we’re out of school now.

—So?

—So we got jobs and shit. And you’re Ryan’s girlfriend. Shit, I don’t talk to a lot of people no more.

She took another swallow. —I know. Me either. Hey! Turn here!

—Why?!

—Just do it, ok?

He turned left on Airport Road. —Where we going?

—Up to the airport. Trust me.

They started up the steep part, and when they got up on top of the mesa she had him turn left onto the road up to the water tower. —Turn in here to the parking lot!

He did, facing the truck north, towards the east side of the airport and the Rim, though it was almost hidden, until a flash of lightning lit up the whole area.

—Wow, did you see that?

—Kinda hard to miss.

He kept the wipers going and lit a cigarette, offering it to her. She took it and rolled down her window a crack. He lit another for himself. Another flash of lighting. The rotating green light next to the runway.

She exhaled. —Have you ever been up here?

He shook his head. —No. It’s nice.

—Yeah. My dad used to take us up here, like on nights like this. Or like when the monsoons come in the afternoons, you know, like in July. Or like, when they get fires. You can see the smoke and there’s helicopters taking off and stuff. You’ve really never been here?

Thunder.

—No I’ve seen the fires though. Remember that one out on Promontory? You could see it glowing at night.

They sat for a while. More lightning.

—Matt, how come you never asked me out?

—Oh shit.

—What?

—Just, why the hell are you asking that?

—I’m just asking. I just wondered.

—Well, I mean, you’re Ryan’s girlfriend.

—Yeah I know that already. I mean, before. After Teresa left.

—Well, maybe I wasn’t in the mood then.

—Oh. I thought maybe it was because I wasn’t Mexican or something.

—Jeezuz Jamie, what kind of stupid thing is that to say?

She tossed her cigarette out and rolled up the window. —I don’t know. Ryan’s all into mexican girls. Doesn’t he talk about them to you?

—I mean, we just talk about girls, period.

—Oh. So do you still like me?

—Oh shit.

She laughed. —What?!

He tossed out his cigarette. —We better be getting back.

He started the truck and turned out back on Airport Road and down the hill. She took another drink of Jim Beam. They got to 87 and he turned left, heading north. The rain lighter, but steady.

She crossed her arms again. —I mean, like when we’re doing it, he likes to talk about us having a threesome, and he always wants it to be with a mexican girl.

—Oh shit. Too much information.

—Oh I’m sure, Matt Wattley. You’re the one that likes butt-licking.

—I never said that.

—You implied it.

—Implied?!

She laughed. —Yeah! Implied!

—Oh shit. You going to go to college using all those fancy words?

—Oh horseshit Matt Wattley. Besides, I could’ve. I took classes at Gila Community College.

—And?

—And I have to work, just like you.

Neither of them said anything for a while. She looked at him. —But seriously, doesn’t he ever talk to you about that?

—About what?

—About being with two girls and stuff.

—No.

—He doesn’t ever talk about me?

—No. Not like that.

—Well like what then?

—Like normal.

—What’s normal?

—I don’t know. Like not about sex.

—Do you ever think about being with two girls?

—Jeezuz Jamie.

—What?

—Just lay off, ok?

—Ok! Sorry.

He turned left back down into Verde Valley Estates. Another flash of lightning. He pulled into the driveway behind all the other trucks. After he turned off the truck he leaned over and kissed her.

She jerked back and pushed him away. —Matt! What he hell are you doing?!

He froze.

She picked up her purse and put the bottle in it. He leaned back and turned and looked out the side window. —I thought that’s what you wanted.

—What the hell made you think that?!

He looked at her. —Are you serious?

She stared at him, holding her purse to her chest. —What?!

He didn’t say anything. She moved to open the door, but stopped and looked at him again. —What?!

He grabbed his hat and put it on. —Nevermind.

—Why are you mad at me?

—I’m not.

—What do you want me to do?

—Nothing.

They sat there a second, then she opened the door and got out.

He opened his door and got out. She was already running for the door, covering her head with her purse. He grabbed the two cases of beer and followed after her.

 

Globe

 "Globe" appeared at MOJAVE HEART (now defunct) September 2019.

Globe

twenty years later

still old open-pit copper mines

less mountains more pyramid tailings

small worn houses stacked on scrub hills

catclaw juniper cactus

small library nobody uses

highway 60 slithering through Cobre Valley

out to reservations

Salt River and White Mountains beyond

Pinals rising just to south—

hike up an hour you'll be in pines

downtown still attempting life

despite new Wal-Mart in Miami

the old movie theater

used to be an opera house way back

burned down

replaced by smaller place with four theaters

you can catch the latest Spiderman

two new bars—

one Irish and out of place

one a trendier sports bar made to look like a dive

or a dive made to look like a sports bar

with lots of tvs

microbrews on tap

new greasy spoon right on Broad Street

La Luz del Día

owned and operated by half-Apache sisters

where you can watch your huevos rancheros slathered in red meat sauce—

if you're vegetarian

they'll handpick out the chunks

natives from San Carlos and Fort Apache

Mexicans—

just arrived or first and second generation—

retiree white folks

or miners

faces dark and leathery

big city style café making espressos

and cappuccinos for the few tourists

plus regular coffee for locals

including the Globe Democratic party:
four old guys who meet once or twice a week

teenagers sitting on couches in the café

not even buying anything

will leave town as soon as they can

whites and natives and latinos dressed in black

staring at phones

sharing funny videos

of life in the Real World—

Phoenix oozing closer

plans to widen highway 60—

trailer park in Superior down the road

bought out by Circle K gas station

tenants kicked out

to power weekend ATV warriors

and future commuters—

go to Safeway

weekly food-buy

head north into mountains

to my tower

to look for fire

Selections from Aztec Lookout Blues

Three choruses (chori?) from my 12-chorus Aztec Lookout Blues now up at Thin Air!

 

Scott Seckel's "Despoblado"

Meet Val, one of Scott Seckel’s characters in his short story “Despoblado” from Deep Wild 2020, as he meets some fellow backcountry animals:

"It was an August night on the far east side of the Mazatzal Mountains. He was twenty-three. A pair of diamondbacks hit in a spontaneous one-two. One punctured his right calf. The other struck the outside of his left shin. The bites felt no worse than thorn pricks.

"The right snake’s head was broad as a hoe. Val saw its jaws flex as it pumped in venom. Its body was too thick to reach around. Using both hands, he frantically tried to rip it out of his leg. The fangs stuck in the wound. The third time they tore free. His calf was trenched more than an inch deep. He smashed the snake’s skull against a rock.

"The other rattler successfully disengaged its target. After striking, it withdrew in a coil beneath a saltbush. Val hacked it apart with a machete, then sank to the ground. Pain and swelling started in fifteen minutes."

Order Deep Wild #2 to read the rest!

 

 

Globe

My poem "Globe" now up at MOJAVE HEART REVIEW:

Holy Water

"Holy Water" appeared in the anthology ON FOOT: Essays on Hiking in the Grand Canyon from Vishnu Temple Press.

Loose rock/stones on North Bass Trail, with soft dry dirt underneath, but not too steep. Down under the North Rim, away from the ponderosas, out in the hot Arizona sun, through thick manzanita, Gambel oak, scrub oak, locust (my old spiny enemy!) and the start of the pinyon/juniper tree mix, switch-backing into White Canyon proper, I stop and listen: Running water! A stream off to the left! I wasn’t sure I’d be blessed at the beginning of the trip and so have loaded up with six quarts in my pack, enough to (maybe) get me through the first day and a half. Which it’s about time to sample. And—that was quick—my first stupid mistake of the trip manifests: the four Arrowhead bottles of ‘spring water’ I bought back in Kanab are not just spring water. No, I open one and it bubbles and fizzles out.

Aghast, I check the label. Oh. Oops. 'Sparkling' spring water. I’m not a fan of tonic water unless it's in a gin and tonic, and I could still drink it but, well, here I am at real spring water right off the mountain. Meaning I'm dumping this sugary stuff right now. I know, I know, I hope Mother Earth forgives me. Who knows what kind of mutation I’m creating here, some two-headed lizard or something, which could be waiting for me five days from now when I come back. But I do it.

Hopefully this is my only big mistake. I usually have one every trip, but my consolation in this case is to sample the water of White Creek right now: Just scooping my hands into the water and raising it to my mouth. Cool, clean, deliciously pure. Or purely delicious. A wonderful treat after expecting basically arid desertness, and I’m tempted to lighten my load and just drink as I go, but who knows? Better to play things safe here in the Grand Canyon. I refill the bottles.

The trail parallels the creek down into the drainage bottom, shrubbery and small cottonwoods as well as a few brave ponderosas providing shade over boulders and rocks, and then climbs up onto red dirt PJ flats. And though some uphill is required to do this, walking on the trail is actually faster than jumping boulder to boulder. Weather today: mostly clear blue sky, with some high welcome Simpsons clouds. Birds: goldfinch, chickadees, and a big hawk circling above, not even flapping, just riding the hot air up and up. And flowers, still, at the end of May: reds, yellows, whites. Lunch break, check the map, and based on the fact that I am now at the Red Wall Descent (unmistakable because of the straight up and down red walls) I’ve only gone 3.5 miles! I re-check, using a big landmark, Emerald Point, up on the Rim, directly across. Lining up the map, yes, I appear to be where I think I am. That can't be right. Hike all day, downhill, to only go 3.5 miles?? Time and Space seem to have no meaning down here. That means no Shinumo Creek tonight, which I’d thought a possibility, or maybe just a hope, because of its perennial water.

The Red Wall, always the narrowest section of the side canyons. One misstep and I could go crashing down over the side! But, after some almosts, I’m down in the creek bed again, though water seems to have vanished, drizzled down underground. A few nice flat sandy open areas though, and HUGE red rock walls rising up, with a HUGE natural sandstone shell echoing even normal voice levels 200 yards away. A cathedral. In shade too—a relief from the hike over the hot flats, though still warm. Big contrast to last night up at Swamp Point where I froze my butt off!

Packless, I explore upstream, and find more blessed running water: just a trickle, but with some sandstone pools big enough to strip down and throw water on the ole corpse. Then kneeling, cupping and raising the hands. Feeling ghosts of others who have done the same here. Drinking water as a tradition. Drinking water as a spiritual experience. Quenched, at least temporarily, I sit in a last remaining sunny spot, naked, communing with dragonflies and butterflies, plus some fat black bumblebees.

Back in camp, feasting on Triscuit cracker-wafers, with Tillamook Monterey Jack cheese, working away at a huge chunk I've brought. Even cheese and crackers becomes a spiritual experience down here. Backpacking as spiritual practice. And for dessert, Fig Newtons! I’m stuffed, though it’s not really that much food. Weird how while backpacking I exert way more energy than at home, but eat less and feel better.

But the thirst. Drinking water all day and still this thirst. Gulping it down from my bottle. My urine was clear last time I checked, so not dehydrated yet. Out here even just laying on my sleeping bag is dehydrating. The air cooling some, but not too much. Sunlight reflecting on the clouds. A bumblebee buzzes by. Birds chirping, three different kinds at least. Crickets, spring peeper frogs, and....goats? No, frogs, bigger ones, farther upstream, echoing off the sandstone amphitheater. A frog chorus. Going to be a wonderful star night, if I can stay awake. And my friends the bats come out, flipping around. I doze off for a little bit but wake with darker sky and bright half-moon, cold, putting on my long underwear and zipping up my bag. Perfect—warm, but with cool night air on my face.

The next morning, after donning my pack, and in keeping with my tradition of thanking wonderful camp sites, I raise my hands to heart in prayer position, and bow deep at the waist, then turn and hike down between the narrow red walls. And I'd thought that there would be no more water until Shinumo Creek, but White Creek starts back up! Yes, with even a flat sandstone rock area and a dripping waterfall! Opportunities in life like this cannot be ignored—I must stop and stand under it! I de-pack and de-shirt, sticking my head into the drip. The water just slightly cool, not quite brisk. Goosebumply. A minor miracle. I raise my face, open my mouth, and gulp as much as I can.

This, alas, turns out to be the last of White Creek, as the path comes out of the Red Wall narrows and onto the Tonto Platform. Flatter ground, following the now-dry creek bed. It's hot. And dry. Ugh. Cactus, mostly prickly-pear, some even blooming, but also hedgehog, spiny green penises. And another old enemy: cat claw! Arizona: where everything wants to bite, poke or scratch you. But around lunchtime, another miracle: a small shady rock ledge. Thirty-degree difference in temperature under here! Feeling very lizard-like, I lunch and doze. Then more hot desert hiking, though soon heading downhill again, another steep descent, switchbacking over dark brown shale, and—finally!—a glimpse of Shinumo Creek! Glorious snaky shiny moving water in the desert. Coming down into the main campsite next to it, I drop my pack in the shade and get in on my hands and knees, like an animal, dunking my head and gulping cool clear water.

Plenty of time, the sun still up, and the campsite still in full-on sun. Packless and light, I head upstream into the narrow side canyon on a small trail, wanting a nap more than anything, sun-groggy, but once I'm walking, curiosity takes over. The trail becomes more like a game trail, and actually ends after maybe a mile. A determined person could bushwhack farther, but this section of creek is deep enough to be considered a swim hole, so I'm determined to get naked and swim. In the desert, if there is a swim hole, one has a moral obligation. And lo, it is good. Refreshing and lovely, though once I find a nice rock ledge to sit on, keeping my feet in the water, my lower pale body in the sun, getting some air and sun on the man parts, I immediately start to doze, listening to water burble.

Back at camp, I set up near the creek, and dine on more cheese and crackers, dreaming of the decadence of river runners carrying coolers and coolers of iced foodstuffs, barbequing steaks and veggie burgers and drinking lots of cold beer. With plenty of sunlight still available, I’m tired, wanting to sleep really, but go down and do my best imitation of a crane, standing knee-high in the water and observing small fish jumping out, catching mosquito-looking bugs hovering over the water. One brave fish actually throwing itself onto a rock, trying to catch flies sipping at the stream edge. Plus, a stillwater pool of tadpoles, not moving much, just floating, maybe feeling the changes coming on, the appendages starting to grow. One big one hanging out at the edge, facing the dirt, as if hearing the call to crawl out of the slime. That's how I felt in high school.

Back in camp, air mercifully cooling down, sky deep blue, wispy pink cloud lines, then dark. Fat moon already glowing. Rapids both up and downstream. And here come the bats! I lie naked on my sleeping bag watching planets and stars appear. Sky clear, no clouds. A light down-canyon breeze, warmer than the cool air settling in the creek bed. And more frogs! Another spring peeper choir to sing along with the crickets. What's missing is coyotes. Would be nice to hear them singing too. And wolves!

Morning sun almost over a nearby butte, which makes me think I must have slept a long time, but no, only six o’clock. Time flows differently here in the Canyon. Sad to leave Shinumo Creek and its good water. Not sure if I’ll be near it down at the Colorado or not. I can always filter river water, but I'd prefer this pure creek soma. Not quite goodbye, though. First, some creek crossings which, earlier in the year, with snowmelt off the North Rim, could even get sketchy-dangerous. Even now, a wrong step, a slippery slip, could put me face down with a heavy pack on, so I stay mindful.

And, even though I’m expecting it, I’m still surprised to come on Bass Camp, maybe because I was expecting some kind of structure, a shack or something. In fact, it's a cave-ish area under a big north-facing perpetually-shaded overhang. This Bass guy was one of the big (white) explorers back in the day, and owned a ranch over on the South Rim (which the Bass family still owns and runs), and had guests and customers over to this side, for hunting, and maybe just as the first tourists. This 'camp' still includes a collection of old tools—an axe head, three different pick heads, a stove, some pry bars, plus a bunch of glass fragments from really old bottles, all laid out on some benches. The hard thing to believe, although the guide books say so, is that Bass had an orchard here, with apple, peach, and fig trees, whereas all that's here now is some mesquite and cat claw, on sand. Can peach trees grow in hot desert sand? But how amazing would it be to sink my teeth into a nice juicy peach right now?

This is the last place to fill up my bottle and dunk my head before the push for the Colorado. And the sun is a hot bastard. I dunk my t-shirt and floppy hat in the water, as well as my head, for some evaporation action as I continue on the trail, which soon splits: The path-most-traveled heading up and over a pass to, supposedly, sandy beaches. I'm sorely tempted to just stay on the path-less-traveled following the Shinumo, but I’ve heard rumors of women in bikinis on those beaches. That is, the possibility was mentioned, and it has become a Great Promise. Maybe I’ll even encounter one of those all-women groups. Good odds! Surely one would want to rebel against all that women's empowerment energy and invite a scruffy backpacker dude into her tent. And anyways, why couldn't that be empowering?

But first, up 700 feet—a good dry run for the hike out, and yeah, it's hot, and yeah, it's uphill, but in fact after a half hour, lo! Thar be the mighty Colorado down below! A shiny, wide, deep green strip curling through red-brown and black rock, two sets of mild rapids visible, and glimpses of white sandy beaches (so it's true!), with a flotilla of rafts even gathering above the top rapids! I descend, switchbacking through shale, watching them take the whitewater one by one. Lordy, that looks so much more fun than hiking in the desert with forty pounds on my back right now.

At the bottom, another fork: One way going down to the main, bigger beach right below, where the rafters usually camp, but there’s another smaller beach just below the top rapids, and I love the idea of a beach of one’s own, though that lowers the chances of being invited for dinner and beers by bikinied vixens. Sigh. I hike the extra mile upstream, and find a little trail that weaves down onto a beach, with bonus little shady cliff overhangs. I drop pack and shed clothes asap, heading to my baptism. By the way, that sand is blazing hot! No stopping now, though! I get on a rock bluff, the water clear and deep below, and dive.

Holymotherofgod it's COLD! My appendages, all five of them, throbbing. But I swim! Not too far out: the strong fast current a wee bit scary. Would be really cool (and dangerous) to go all the way to the other shore, but that's just not possible here. These little beach areas are hemmed in by tall rock ledges, especially on the south side.

I reach the shore and pull myself out of the depths, out of the water, and rise, naked, reborn. This is it, the holy land. Cliff walls and mountains rising up all around. The wide green Colorado, rapids and clear sky. The enormity of this Canyon, and this River that carved it, and the Time it took. Hallelujah!

Walking barefoot in the Grand Canyon

Appeared in the zine GRAPH in January 2017:

What if you left your clunky hot boots behind

Or just tossed them once and for all over the Rim

Walking barefoot in the Grand Canyon this time

Smooth redrock Esplanade water tinejas shining

Going slow with a backpack filled to brim

Now that you’ve left your clunky hot boots behind

Almost step on a snake basking in the sunshine

Still May-torpid doesn’t move just tiptoe around him

Walking barefoot in the Grand Canyon taking your time

Redwall Descent into Narrows and petroglyph designs

Spring water stream deep enough to swim

So glad you left those clunky hot boots behind

Grit rock and soft sand for your sole dodging yucca and cacti

Out to the Colorado and another (freezing) swim

Walking barefoot in the Grand Canyon outside of time

Crawling naked out of the muck out of your mind

What a wonderful place in life to begin

Leaving your clunky hot boots behind

Walking barefoot in the Grand Canyon for the first time

—for Heidi

Stairway To Heaven by Alison Hawthorne Deming

Stairway To Heaven: Poems

Alison Hawthorne Deming

Penguin paperback $20

Release date: Sept 27, 2016

ISBN: 978-0-14-310885-6

Stairway To Heaven by Alison Hawthorne Deming is about death, and grieving, of and for Deming's friends and brother, but especially her mother. At the middle, the core, of the book is “The Luminous Mother,” the longest poem of the book, about the last days and moments of Deming's mother, starting with a prayer for both, and an invocation of Whitman—that is, an invocation of poetry/art:

I light two candles of uneven height

one for my brother and one for my mother

both dead in the same inscrutable year

After burning for two days

the candles are the same height. What

is the science of their diminishing?

I want an explanation about the matter

when I should be paying attention

to the condition of my soul.

I take Whitman's command

as my own. I do not bow to death.

I place my hand against its cheek

as the heart quiets and grows still...

The spaces between lines read as lines unsaid, or hesitations, or places we readers might fill in with our own experience. This is always true with poetry, but even more apparent here, the three-line stanzas a seemingly much-needed structure Deming holds on to writing about a difficult topic that could send anyone out of control. The stanzas also a perhaps very slight nod to, or evoking of, Dante as well. Her poem not as epic, of course, but still, Deming's confronting death. Not quite the afterlife, not for her, but a questioning of how and why, and maybe an unconscious desire to take this experience beyond, to continue the dialogue.

Other poems about death and dying, meaning about grief, lie scattered around this one, but Stairway To Heaven also includes many desert poems, which stand alone, and are the best, like “What The Desert Is Thinking”:

We know the desert has consciousness because the saguaros

stand up and speak as one about the heat.

They tell the Gila woodpeckers to come in out of the sun.

They tell a man or a woman lost without water to lie

in the column of shade they make out of their kindness.

The saguaros all hum together like Tibetan or Gregorian monks

one green chord that people hear when they drive

through Gates Pass and come to the Place where they gasp.

Beauty does that though the nihilist will make an ironic joke

about the note of surprise that has escaped

from his or her loneliness. The smile from the joke will cover

for the smile for joy. That's okay. Consciousness

is like the saguaro's decision to wait half a century to com up

with arms though arms were in its mind all along.

'Place' in the book becomes vital. We go from the American desert to the east coast ocean and forest, and back to the desert for the last series of poems. In all cases, in all poems, except those when Deming is in a hospital room with someone dying, she places herself outside, and it's in the outside, in N/nature, where she finds refuge from, and solace in, her grief, culminating, almost seemingly inevitably, in Death Valley, maybe the starkest landscape in America, and certainly one most people would find uninviting or even scary. And yet, Deming shows us the beauty there. And this is what poetry, and art, does: not only to help us come to terms with death (others', and our own) but even find a certain stark beauty in it. It's hard to conceive, but in “Resurrection,” Deming's mother wants death, at 102 has had enough of life and its pain(s). Death can even be desirable.

The weakest point of Stairway To Heaven is the title poem. I admit, as an old Led Zeppelin fan I was curious, but weaving an interview with Robert Plant heard on the radio into the grieving process for her brother just becomes a distraction from the strongest part of the poem, the ending, with Deming in dialogue with her brother on his death bed:

…..Do you ever dream

of animals, I ask him, hospice bed

looking out on a plywood squirrel

perched on cement black wall.

Frequently. A lilt of surprising joy. What kind?

Mostly the jungle animals. Then: I'm going

to do my exercises now. What exercises?

I like pacing, he said, immobilized

upon his death nest of nine pillows.

Then he closed his eyes to become the inward one

whose only work was to wear a pathway

back and forth within his enclosure.

Sections like this, when Deming just stands back and lets us 'see' the scene(s) of the process of dying, and let's the dead talk, à la Dante, are where she's at her most powerful (likewise especially with her mother). Not forcing meaning, but showing us a picture, and letting us create/imagine our own meaning.

You don't have to read Stairway To Heaven as a series of connected poems about death and grieving, and it's interesting to think about how the 'theme' of the book would have changed if, say, Deming's mother and brother hadn't died—I think somehow the collection would have ended up more of a celebration of nature, which would have been fine. And yet, that aspect of celebration is still in here, on the edges of grief, where maybe it always is. Life is sad. Life has a lot of things to celebrate. We go on. We go out into the desert. We look up at the stars. And feel small. Isn't that beautiful?

Walking Barefoot in the Grand Canyon

My poem "Walking Barefoot in the Grand Canyon" now appearing in GRAPH(eeties) #2 from Plankton Press in Tempe, AZ.

Order through the links, but also available in Tempe, AZ, at Wasted Ink Zine Distro. Some copies are at Fantastic Comics in Berkeley, CA, and More Fun Comics in Ashland, OR.

2 poems at BoySlut Journal

Two of my poems up at BOYSLUT Journal, "Then there's pussy" and "Just Hours."

Going Down Grand: Poems From The Grand Canyon

My review of Going Down Grand: Poems From The Grand Canyon now up at ENTROPY:

Marisa, hitchhiker, Payson to Phoenix, July 2007

This appeared in The Chiron Review (QDEP...) back in 2007:

Marisa, hitchhiker, Payson to Phoenix, July 2007

Don’t worry, he doesn’t have enough gas to follow us.

God I can’t believe I’m leaving him.

I just don’t want him hitting me anymore

and calling me a piece of shit or a whore in front of my kids.

He always uses them to get at me.

But I love him.

I don’t know why.

He’s got my heart.

I was only sixteen when we met and he was like thirty-three.

But he delivered my last kid, my girl, in our trailer

with the 911 operator on the phone.

I gave up a modeling career for him, the fucker.

They wanted me but I came up here to be with him

but I can’t stand it.

He’s been on unemployment for two years

plus his dad’s rich.

All he has to do is wipe his own ass basically

while I do everything

and then he gets mad if I smoke a little dope.

I mean I do but so what?

My mom smokes dope.

She had me doing methamphetamines when I was eleven.

That’s why we’re up here

to clean up and get away from the city and the other dopeheads.

I had to borrow money from our neighbors

I was gonna bring my kids down to see their grandma

she never sees them

but he said I was gonna spend it on dope.

I mean that’s part of it

like twenty percent.

I like smoking dope and I get so fucking bored

but I just wanted to bring my kids down to see their grandma

and he fucking starts hitting me.

This time he kicked me about seventeen times

I still got bruises on my arms from trying to protect myself, see?

Usually he tries to hit me in the face.

He always likes to say how I won’t be beautiful anymore

how no one will like me anymore.

I mean I know I’m good-looking.

I’m not being egotistical it’s just a fact.

I was a dancer for three years.

I know what guys want.

I never made any money at it though.

The place I worked was mainly niggers and mexicans

and you can’t make any money on niggers and mexicans.

My sister and me were the two best-looking girls there

the owner knows it too

but I’m not one of those girls who whore themselves out

or try to get anything they can from men.

I’m always stupid and end up talking to guys.

Like there was this one older guy

he took me in the VIP lounge and just started crying

and I didn’t laugh at him or make fun of him like some girls would.

His brother just died so he just talked about that.

Twenty bucks a song and he just kept paying it and paying it.

He had to go to the ATM machine a couple times but he didn’t care.

He’d come back just to talk to me.

He stopped coming after a while.

The thing I hate is when I’m talking to a guy and he just stares at my tits.

I mean you can at least look me in the eyes.

That’s why I stopped being a stripper.

It wasn’t worth it.

And I was going to be a model,

which is real good money

and they were gonna take me

but I gave it up goddammit

for that asshole.

God I love him.

I don’t know why.

It just hurts so much leaving him.

This is the seventh time in three months that I’ve left him

but I keep going back like a dumbass.

I know I’m being stupid but it’s just something I can’t control.

I was staying with another guy

a really nice guy too

really different from me

from the other side of the tracks you know?

He’s got his own three-bedroom house and is really nice to me.

I was staying with him

but he’s letting his crackhead friend and his crackhead wife stay there

and they have a kid who is evil.

He’s a little fucker.

He’s five and just wants attention all the time

and his mom doesn’t do anything!

She’s a pathetic bitch.

So I’m like I can’t stay there cooped up in the bedroom

cause those crackheads are hanging out yelling at each other.

I told my friend but he just doesn’t do anything.

He called and left a message last week saying

hey you need to get your shit!

He’s mad, but he’ll get over it.

Plus I had this other guy

he was younger than me

but we’re really soulmates

or guardian angels for each other.

He said I’m good for him.

He was going to move up here too

and we were both going to get clean

but then after two days he took off with some ho-bag

and now I heard he’s smoking dope again.

His friend came up too

and told me he was in love with me

but I couldn’t

I already decided to come back to my husband

and make it work

so the other guy left for Cali

and robbed a Circle K

the dumbass.

He wouldn’t have done that if I’d been with him.

I’m good at taking care of people.

God I feel like shit.

It’s like I left my heart back there or something.

My mom will be pissed.

I mean she wants me to leave him

but she wants me stop changing my mind.

I’ve got a friend in Phoenix

she’s the only girl friend I have.

I don’t really get along with other girls.

I lived there twenty-two years so I’ll be alright.

I just need to get a job.

I’ve been putting out lots of applications

but no one ever calls.

It’s hard cause I was a dancer

and you can’t put that

so I don’t have any work history.

But how am I supposed to get a work history?

I mean I can go back to dancing.

My sister still works at the club

but I don’t really want to.

I just need someone to give me some time to get back on my feet

so I can save money.

What part of Phoenix are you going to?

MASKED MAN—novel excerpt

The first 20 pages of my (as yet unpublished) novel, MASKED MAN. Enjoy.

Crow circles over South Mountain, in Phoenix, early morning, cawing occasionally, flying lower and lower until it lands on the branch of a palo verde tree outside a ranch house in Ahwatukee, side-stepping until he can see through the window, at the old man laying on the black pleather couch in the middle of the room, asleep with an empty bottle of scotch on the floor. Long-sleeved green shirt untucked, fly on his Wranglers unzipped, and snakeskin cowboy boots.

On the wall behind the couch, with the door on one corner, hangs a college diploma, a doctorate in literature from Wayne State University. Also pictures: The man a little younger, but not too much, smiling, with a thin woman his age next to him, a bit tired looking, though also smiling, wearing a bandanna, because she has no hair.

More: The man and woman, at different points in their younger lives, with a young woman/girl with them, hugging them. The young woman in graduation robes and hat standing on the University of Arizona campus. The three them standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon. The man and woman looking like frazzled graduate student parents, the man with dark hair and a beard, the woman with long brown hair, holding their baby.

Shelves of books on the next wall: Russian and American anarchists like Bakunin, Kropotkin, Goldman, Thoreau, Abbey, as well as novelists like Tolstoy, Cervantes, Hugo. One whole section filled with Louis L’amour and Zane Grey. A large screen tv against the third wall, with rows of DVDs on each side. The television on, sound down low, a woman on the screen. The bodies of two more young women were found buried in the desert on the mexican side of the border this weekend, yet more victims of drug-related violence that has been building for years in the city of Santa Teresa, in the state of Sonora.

Crow inches himself closer to the window, cawing again, the branch dipping down under his weight. He caws again, and lightly taps its beak against the glass. The old man inside moves slightly, putting his arm over his eyes. Crow tilts his head, waiting, then caws and again taps on the glass, harder this time.

The man snores once, loudly, jerks, and opens his eyes, looking around, not moving, then slowly closes his eyes again. A Taco Bell commercial. Head to the border!

Crow moves his head, looking at the man with its other eye, and caws again.

The man opens his eyes again, sighing. He sits up and rubs his face. Goddamn crow. Goddamn everything.

He looks out the window and sighs again. He stands up, accidentally knocking over the bottle. Looks at it. Leaves it. Walks around the couch to the pictures on the wall, looking at the newest one, the latest one. He kisses his pointing finger, then puts the finger against her mouth. Hello Jenny.

He leaves his Man Room, goes into the kitchen and starts a pot of coffee, leaning against the counter, staring out the window at the corral next to the house. The horses up and out and walking around. When the coffee is ready he pours a big cup, straight, and walks outside.

The air still cool. The old man holds the coffee cup in both hands walking out to the corral. The horses see him and trot over to the fence, lifting their heads. Morning Silver. Morning Sunshine. Morning Lady.

He strokes their snouts. Are we ready?

He goes into the barn and pours their oats. The horses come in and dip their heads in, munching while he runs some fresh water into their tank.

Back inside, he goes into the bathroom with a pair of scissors, looking at himself in the mirror as he trims his beard. With a razor, he shaves the rest off, splashing aftershave on and wincing.

He showers, puts on his Wranglers and boots, then a fresh, light-blue long-sleeve shirt that he buttons up all the way. In the bedroom, he finds his white hat and puts it on, looking at himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door.

He packs a travel bag with two extra shirts, some underwear, and toiletries. Back outside, he goes into the barn and saddles up Silver and Sunshine, with saddle-bags, and puts a packsaddle with bags on Lady, filled with oats. All three of the horses stand and wait patiently while he does this, excited. He ties a lead line between them and leads all three out into the driveway next to the house, tying Silver’s rein to the doorknob.

Back inside to get his travel bag. In the hallway he stops and looks down at the Navaho rug. You need a blanket Ed.

He stoops down and rolls up the rug, then takes it and his bag out, putting them on Silver.

For the next hour he goes in and out of the house, bringing food items, bread, almond butter, Grape-Nuts, raisins, some chocolate bars, coffee, along with a pan, a coffee pot, and some cups, all of which he tries to put in Sunshine’s bags, and if they don’t fit, he ties them on the outside with zipties and bungee cords.

When the horses’ bags are bulging, he tells them to hold on, and goes back inside, walking around the house, looking for something. He can’t find it. He stands in his study, looking around, thinking. He looks at his desk, goes over to it, and opens one of the side drawers, labeled “School Stuff.” Taking out a black marker and going back into the bathroom. Leaning in close to the mirror, he uncaps the marker and draws a large circle around each eye, up over his eyebrow and over the bridge of his nose, filling them in all black. He puts on his white hat. He smiles.

Leaving his keys on the kitchen counter, he goes outside, locking the door behind him. Untying the horses, he swings himself up into Silver’s saddle and sits, straight-backed, looking around one last time. With a soft flick of the reins, he says to his horse, Hi ho Silver, and heads south.

Gordon Lightfoot came out the front entrance of the Wildhorse Casino, rolling up his smock. His supervisor, Gus, right behind him. Hey college boy!

Gordon leaned up against one of the columns, searching with one hand in his jean jacket pockets.

Gus came up to him, pointing. No one talks to me that way, college boy.

You mean when I said stop talking to me like I’m an idiot?

I mean you disrespecting me.

Me disrespecting you? Gordon handed him his bunched up smock. You can find someone else to cook burgers.

Gus grabbed the smock. I can find anyone to cook burgers.

Exactly.

You can’t quit.

I just did.

You’ll never work on the Gila River Reservation again!

I think that’s ok.

Gus stared at him a second, then walked back inside. Gordon checked his pockets again and found a pack of cigarettes, American Spirit, and took one out and lit it. After he took his first drag, he looked out across the parking lot and saw a man with three horses riding towards the casino. They reached the parking lot and kept coming through the rows of cars, right up to the front step where Gordon was standing. The man said whoah softly and pulled on the reins, bringing all three horse to a stop. He looked at Gordon, pushing back his hat. Howdy.

Gordon did a double-take. What’d you do to your eyes?

Tonto, that’s my mask. You should know that.

Gordon took a last drag of his cigarette, and threw it to the ground, stepping on it. What did you call me?

Tonto.

That’s what I thought.

We’ve got a mission Tonto.

A what?

A mission. An adventure. A quest.

Man, are you fucking batshit crazy or what?

Two middle-aged white ladies walked past them, going in, looking at both of them, wide-eyed. Gordon heard one whisper to the other, Do they have wild west shows here? Gordon looked back through the doors and saw Gus inside, talking to two security guards. Shit.

Well Tonto, ready?

Let me get this straight. You want me to go with you? Where’re we going?

Mexico.

Mexico? Why?

To rescue a mexican señorita.

Why?

Because that’s what we do. We help people. We rescue them when they need rescuing. Like mexican señoritas. It’s our job. I need your Indian tracking skills.

Gordon shook his head. Oh shit. Look man, I never rode a horse in my life.

The man pulled out his wallet, which was bulging. I have wampum.

Gordon smiled, shrugging. Well why didn’t you say so?

He looked back at the casino doors, through which the two security guards were coming. He jumped up on Sunshine’s saddle and flipped them off, smiling. Adios muthafuckas!

The man flicked his reins, saying Hi ho Silver, and they started off through the parking lot.

They crossed the parking lot, south and a little west, out into the Reservation desert, until they were paralleling the freeway. Turkey buzzards circling overhead. Garbage scattered everywhere. Beer cans. Diapers. Somewhere up wind, a sewage treatment plant, its foul stench hitting them like a physical blow. They wrapped bandanas over their noses and mouths, but that did no good.

In the middle of tall scrub and palo verde trees, nearing an old deserted building, windows long smashed in and half the roof missing, they passed three big rectangular cement holes, with about a foot of green algae-filled water. Gordon almost jumped out of his saddle when something long and slimy, primordial, flopped in the deepest area. Jesus Christ what the fuck is that?!

They stopped the horses, covering their mouths in the crooks of their arms. In the murky water lay a huge mutant trout, the marks on its back like black eyes, or torture scars, or a prophecy thrown with ancient bones. The fish flopped its tail again, barely moving in what little water there was. What they looked more closely they saw two other fish just as large, barely moving their fins.

Gordon looked at the building. What is this place?

Ed McCarthy looked around. Trout farm?

A trout farm? In the middle of the desert? How? Why?

McCarthy shrugged.

Gordon shook his head. Fucking Indians. Only they would do something like that.

The first fish flopped again, like a death throe, but they saw that it was actually raising itself to catch one of the bugs, flies, mosquitoes, that had begun to buzz them and the horses, going straight for their eyes.

Come on, Tonto, let’s get out of here. Nothing but ghosts.

They passed some BIA houses, ten of them out in the middle of nowhere, all the same, faux-adobe squares, scrunched together on a few acres of land when there were acres of desert all around. Some children were playing outside one of the house and waved to them. They waved back.

They took a dirt road south from the BIA houses and got to a brand new complex of buildings, though no one seemed to be around. The sign out front at the paved road/highway proclaimed it an alcohol rehab center.

They looked up and down the road. Nothing to the west, though to the east in the distance they could see buildings and the sun shining cars on I-10. They nudged the horses across the pavement and into more garbage-strewn desert.

They rode until evening, then stopped in an old sandy wash. Ed took off his hat, wiping his brow on his sleeve, slightly smearing the marker, which had already been running down his cheeks like black tears. We’ll stop here and camp for the night.

Gordon looked around. Here?

Yep.

We’re not going to get a hotel or anything?

Nope.

Not even a motel?

Nope.

Alright.

Now Tonto, if you want to collect some wood, I’ll take care of the horses and then get out some food for us.

Ok boss.

There wasn’t much wood to get in a desert, but Gordon found some old palo verde branches and a dried out saguaro trunk. He dragged them back and piled on other smaller branches and some grass into a pile. Taking out a notebook from his inside jacket pocket, he tore off a page and stuck it in the bottom of the pile, lighting it with his lighter. The grass took, and soon flames spread to the branches. He stared at the flames for a while, then looked up at the sky. The stars had started to come out, bright and clear away from the city, though he could still see car lights from the freeway way off in the distance.

Ed put the coffee pot on the edge of the fire, and threw some beans in the frying pan. When they were warm, he poured half in a bowl and handed it to Gordon, along with some bread and cheese.

Gracias.

I didn’t know you spoke Spanish, Tonto.

A little. Couple years in college. For example, did you know that tonto means stupid?

I didn’t know that, Tonto. We’ll need your Spanish-speaking skills when we get down to Mexico. When we rescue María.

The mexican señorita?

Yep.

Do you actually know this mexican señorita?

Not actually, Tonto, but I’ve heard she’s in trouble. Mexican banditos.

Banditos?

Or maybe the federales. But probably banditos. Hard to tell nowadays.

Well, that’s probably true. Do you know where to find her?

That’s where your Indian tracking skills come in, Tonto.

Right.

They ate refried beans on tortillas, with slices of cheese, washed down with water, sitting over the fire, which had dwindled to some embers under the coffee pot. After he had washed out the pan with a little water, Ed McCarthy continued to throw small twigs and branches on, as they sipped coffee.

Gordon spat. Damn Ed, you could’ve brought some instant. These grounds are killing me.

That’s cowboy coffee, Tonto.

It’s like rock coffee. If rocks could float, which they can’t, so never mind.

Adding the cold water is supposed to make the grinds sink to the bottom.

Supposed to, huh?

Ed McCarthy shrugged. The life of a cowboy is rough.

Gordon spat out another ground. For an Indian too.

So Tonto, tell me about yourself. You’re always so stoic, never saying.

Gordon stared at him. Are you serious?

Your help is always appreciated, but we’ve ridden so long together I feel we should finally unburden ourselves.

As he said this, Ed McCarthy was staring into the glowing coals. Gordon took another sip of coffee and ate another piece of 82% cacao chocolate. Well, Ed, my father’s Apache, but my mother’s actually Crow. She and my dad met at a powwow up in Boseman, and she just came back down to Arizona, to Globe, with him and they got married. My dad was a firefighter for the BIA for a long time, he was already in his thirties when they had me. My mom, she was like eighteen. Bad mix. Also, they both drank. My dad not so much, but my mom, a little too much. She didn’t work cause she had me, and my dad was always gone on fires, so there she was stuck on a new reservation and basically stuck in the house taking care of me, so she did a lot of drinking. My dad would come back from being out of state on fires somewhere and sometimes just find me by myself in my crib. My mom would be down at the bar. I don’t remember any of this, you know. Anyway, this went on, I was oh, two or so, and then one time my dad came back home and she wasn’t there and she never came back.

They stared at the fire.

So I got raised by my dad when he was home, but mostly by my aunt, his sister. She already had five kids of her own, so she didn’t really mind. I guess.

Did you ever see your mother again?

Oh yeah. Later. Like when I was ten she got back in touch with me. She married this white guy up there. An oil driller, but like the owner of a company. Big christian. So he kind of cleaned her up. Or she cleaned herself up. Didn’t want to lose out on that money. She called, asked me if I wanted to come live with her. But I said no. I didn’t even know who she was. Like, who was this strange woman talking to me on the phone? She tried talking to my dad about it, but he wasn’t having any of it. And, she didn’t push it. Probably could’ve made me go up there if she really wanted. But she didn’t. I think she was just doing her christian duty, though I don’t think she ever really cared about all that. Later when I was a teenager I did go up and visit. Wanted to check it out, you know. Her husband, Jack, was a real winner. Nice house. Nice church. She never said nothing when he was around. Fucker tried to make me go to church when I was there. Like, any person under my roof goes to church, but I was like, no way. His face got beet red, you know the way palefaces get when they’re angry, which is all the time.

Later that night I heard them fighting in the kitchen. About me. Like, arguing, but then fighting. I was upstairs in the guest room and I heard him hit her and I was down there like a jackrabbit. She was sitting on the floor crying, holding her face, and he was standing over her and I didn’t even slow down, I just walked right up and hit him right in the nose. Knocked right to the ground. I think all three of us were surprised. I didn’t know what else to say, so I said something like, Don’t hit my mother or I’ll kill you! He just stared at me, then got up and went upstairs. Big guy too. I was just a scrawny Indian kid.

And what’d I get? My mother told me, You can’t stay here. You have to leave now. So I packed my stuff. Right before I left, she handed me an envelope with a thousand dollars in it. I don’t know how she got it, if she just stole it or had been saving it. But she told me, Gordon, you have to get off the Rez. You have to make money. This is what happens to us because we don’t have any money. I’ll always remember that. So I took the money and left. I didn’t know whether to say thank you or what.

You never saw her again?

No. Thing is, she stayed with the motherfucker. But, she had my address, and sometimes she would send me money. When I got in high school, every letter had some money, a check, and a short note, saying she was ok and that she hoped I was ok and that I needed to keep my grades up and get into college. Get off the Rez. Get off the Rez. And, she was right. I don’t know how she was right, since she was so fucked up, but there it is.

You should see her again.

And say what?

Just, hello.

Yeah, well. Gordon poured himself some more coffee. This isn’t decaf, I can tell. I’m gonna be up all night.

So how did you get off the Rez?

Well, somewhere, I started to like reading. Didn’t get it from my dad. Didn’t get it from my mom. And not from my aunt Mabel either, but her kids, my cousins, they were in school and bringing home their books, and as soon as I learned to read I was always poking around in them. Plus at school all the poor old white women who taught us were just so grateful that some of us ignorant Indians had any interest in reading they’d start giving us books every day. I didn’t fit in anyways, since I was the runt of the family I was already being picked on at home, by the time I got to school, being picked on was second nature. It was just the way it was. Books were just a way to escape, get away. Better to go to the library for lunch than hang around the cafeteria and get picked on. And the teachers and librarians let me, and some others. Like I said, old white ladies love Indians. Or at least the ones who want to read books about white people.

My daughter’s a schoolmarm too.

A what?

A schoolmarm.

Jesus Ed, I forgot, you’re crazy. Anyway, I shouldn’t make fun of those women. They saved my Indian ass. By junior high I moved back into my dad’s house and basically lived by myself, since he was gone a lot. I shouldn’t say that. In the winter he was around, and he took me hunting. Sometimes we’d just drive, go on all the old two tracks, listening to the radio if we could get something way out there. Fishing. He knew some good fishing spots too. So, suddenly I wasn’t an Indian nerd. I wasn’t overweight, didn’t have glasses. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but there were plenty of other kids who were eating Coco Krispies every meal and just watching tv and getting beat and fucked by their fathers. Prime victims. Whereas I had actual real Indian skills like fishing and shooting guns. Kids stopped picking on me.

I never forgot what my mom told me. Whatever else she did, she was right. I looked around at the Rez and just saw that we couldn’t win. My dad was one of the lucky ones, with an actual real job, but firefighting doesn’t pay that much unless you’re on fires, unless you’re working overtime, unless you’re gone a lot. But those kinds of jobs are the ones all the guys want. Any other BIA jobs are just hard to get, and people who work them tend to get their family in on them. Other than that, nothing. So, you stay and have no work and are poor, or you leave the Rez and are just a little bit more than poor, but nobody ever does. Families don’t want their kids to leave. They say they don’t want us to lose our culture, our heritage, so we stay and end up like our parents, poor, overweight, living in shitty houses in shitty cities, like Globe.

Did your father want you to stay?

You know, I think maybe they only thing my parents had in common was to get me to college. Once I was sixteen, he got me into firefighting, on the BIA handcrews, during the summer, and sometimes even during school, for the money, but even if he wasn’t home a lot, he did always ask about my grades. I think his plan was for me to go off to college, but then come back.

Is that what you’re going to do?

Does it look like it?

Something happened.

I got up with the fire bug. Instead of heading to college right after high school, I just fought fires. Good money, lots of travel. Kept me in shape. I could drink all the beer I wanted and never get a gut. I started to be gone more than my dad. We hardly saw each other for two years.

I know why you stopped fighting fires.

Yeah? Why?

I saw that notebook you were scribbling in.

Gordon grinned. Ed, you guessed my secret! The reason those white ladies loved me so much in school was because I wasn’t just reading, I was writing.

Tonto, you are a poet.

He nodded. Yep, and after two years of fighting fires, I realized I hadn’t written anything, and hadn’t read much either. I could see that I was going to end up exactly like my dad. Which to most people, that’s not a bad thing. Most guys on the Rez would kill for my job.

You quit.

Yep. Cold turkey. Went back to my white lady angels from school and they helped me get my application for Mesa Community College together and then I left.

That’s where my daughter’s a schoolmarm.

Yeah? Small world. I didn’t even say goodbye to my dad, he was up in Idaho with his engine. With the fire money I had from that summer I headed to Phoenix and fell into the Indian curse.

The Indian curse?

Away from the Rez, surrounded by white folks. I started to understand why no one ever left. Every fucking day somebody calling me Chief, asking me where my bow and arrows were. Trying to go to classes, filled with white people, and work at a Safeway filled with white people. It’s hard bagging groceries knowing you could be on a fire out in the Chiracawas, getting paid three times what Safeway pays, and at least getting respected. Or at least just, you know, walking around on a mountain with a pulaski in my hand watching trees torch a hundred feet in the air. So, I did what any self-respecting Indian would do: I started drinking.

That’s the Indian Curse?

The whole thing’s the Indian Curse. The drinking’s just the final manifestation of it. Or, no, the final manifestation is waking up under a bush out back of my apartment complex.

Did you drop out of school?

Gordon smiled. Not at first. I made it to year two, and I never would’ve done it without another white woman helping me. She was my composition teacher my first semester and then my second. She didn’t give up on me, even when I would vanish for a week because I was drunk. I barely passed most of the other classes, and she did some talking to some of the other instructors too. I’m telling you, she went out of her way. I don’t know why. No, I know why. She liked my writing. She said I was a good writer. So I took her second writing class, and then the next year I took a creative writing class she taught. After that I didn’t have any more writing classes and things went downhill.  As long as I had writing classes, I could keep my GPA up. That, plus I did ok in the two lit classes I had, and ok in Spanish too. The rest? Math? Science? Not so good. Meanwhile I kept losing jobs. They’re not so understanding about vanishing for a week. My fire money ran out. I couldn’t get work. I just could not take going to another white guy and asking him for a job bagging groceries. I just couldn’t.

What was this teacher’s name?

Ms. McCormick. Hot too. And young, sort of.

Tonto, that’s my daughter you’re talking about.

Ed, are you serious? I’m sorry I said she’s hot.

It’s alright. Why didn’t you ask her for help?

Gordon hesitated. Well, she was always busy. I mean, she wasn’t my teacher anymore. I guess I was just ashamed.

He dumped the grounds at the bottom of his cup into the fire. I just didn’t want her to know how bad it was. How bad I was. I didn’t want to disappoint her.

Ok, go on.

Go on? I haven’t talked this much in my whole life! Nothing else to say. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t work in another fucking Safeway, so I went down to the Wildhorse Casino. I went to another Rez, just so I wouldn’t feel like a freak. Just so I could be around some more brownfaces. And you saw how that worked out. Not all brownfaces treat other brownfaces from other tribes very well. Plus, I’m an asshole.

Tonto, you’re a poet.

I’m an asshole poet.

But a poet nonetheless.

Ed McCarthy stood up, tossing the dregs of his coffee on the fire. Well Tonto, we have a long day tomorrow.

Ed, can we maybe stop at a WalMart or something tomorrow? Get some water? Or a Coke?

If you can use your tracking skills to get us to a trading post, Tonto, I’d be much obliged.

Ok Ed. Well, I’m going to turn in. You got a sleeping bag for me?

I’ve got this Navaho blanket for you.

You know Ed, nobody actually uses those anymore. Not even the Navahos. Look, this one was made in China.

The Navahos make great scouts, Tonto.

What’s that got to do with anything?

Ed McCarthy didn’t reply. Gordon stood up. Hey Ed?

Yes Tonto?

Did you pack any toilet paper?

Cowboys don’t use toilet paper Tonto.

They don’t? What do they use?

Leaves. Rocks.

Rocks?

River rocks work well because they’re smooth.

Ed, we’re in a desert.

Goodnight Tonto.

Ed lay down on his rug and wrapped himself up. Gordon stood looking at him for a second, then got out his notebook, tearing out a couple sheets. For once, his poetry notebook would be good for something.