Dream of Ghost Horses through smoke they come here to carry me across lakes and rivers marshes and meadows each a painted hand they are more than horses eyes stare into me the horses carried my father but he did not see them come in darkness he does not remember going only the dreams they are not horses they are the memory of horses tall elegance among pine and spruce dark beautiful manes spill out of their necks I think of Crazy Horse sneaking into camp steals these horses for love each night Appaloosa hooves pound the ground of my head stealing me into the fog of the world the woolly cotton of dreams they stand on the other side bend themselves to drink from the river I once played in stare into me knowing me better than I know my father March I think of you and the frozen ground of Escanaba It is March the month you were born some twenty years before me Do you wonder at what has become of your son My hope says yes yet here I am outside the windows and the doors of white washed houses walking alone on a quest that will not end for me till I have resolve Nine tiny numbers leave me wondering if you are even alive Nine tiny numbers that are like the numbers of a combination lock that rests firm and solid on the door where your soul is hidden behind Your service record gives me six now three remain unknown Three numbers and I will know what day of March to celebrate your birth and what day if any you died And raise a glass of fire water to the spirit of my father and hope somewhere on another street of white houses you wander in search of a son Dream of Suicide driving through the badlands again radio blasting the Eagles one of these nights seventy mph middle of the road headlights pulling stars ..crazy ol' nights.. pull the door handle and push out asphalt river below singing to me ..in between the dark and the light.. stand up the door and roof steady me drop my feet and feel them rip away I do this three four five times a month some nights driving home fantasize about the highway under me the rip away feeling in wind one time on highway 280 between SF and SJ found the Eagles one of these nights on the radio reached for the handle and pulled it pushed --much harder than I thought-- hard resistance saw the road racing away scared white door slams twist the dial dreamed of something different
Like Sleeping in America he wanted to sleep in her America among fallen stars tilted palm trees in concrete canyons asphalt deserts he slipped a finger into her pocket hoping for change someone played saxophone on the corner blues for the uninterested overpopulation she stared into his eyes said_stay_ _damn it stay_ but the whistle blew a slamming can garbage man chorus and the first egines turned over for early commuters he knew he should call in sick even as his ambulance drove away