The Double Cone Quarterly
Window to the Wilderness
Summer Solstice 2001 || Volume IV, Number 2

Poetry


Jets
(under the flight path/SF to LA)

A Poem, by Art Goodtimes


Ashes in the firepit
pale from last nightís burn.
our bags damp with the chill
of a land not our own.
We wake without song.

The sky bleeds
from the savage arteries of morning.

Redwoods swaying in the wind
make rachet sounds
like the clocks that tick inside bombs.

Then we hear it.
Echoing far up the canyon
whose chert outcrops rise
strata on strata
like a geologistís open tombs.

The vaporous whinnies of engines!

Jets clutching in their talons
bushels of arrows.
Their limp bodies gone rigid in death.

Startled bluejays screech & rage.
Does, fat with young, crouch instinctively
amid buckbrush & manzanita.

While
underneath the earthís fierce beauty
the spirit volcanoes of Big Sur
pretend sleep.

Somnambulists poised in their silos
gathering up like deadly amanitas
the magma of centuries.

Art Goodtimes
Union of Street Poets (Ret.)
Kuksu Brigade
4may50001
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