by David Lee
where he jumps out and runs over and opens
the door and he just puked like hell
three up front was arredy dead two of them
stuck together they’s burnt so bad
the crewboss’s hand was off
he didn’t have no face left
how he drove God knows I don’t
there was only one othern still alive and
he died that night so then they come
to get us out of the back and they started to lift
me out I said Get him first he saved my life
the man says it’s too late he’s done dead
I was laying in his lap
onliest two that made it was me and the crewboss
he was in the hospital for ninety six days
and I was in for a hundred and four
a week and a day more
I remember cause he come to see me
when they let him out
he was burnt so bad I couldn’t tell
who he was till he said something
he ast if I’s okay and I said Yas
we just looked at each other for a minute
then he walked off
I said Be seeing you, he just waved
three days later he drove his car
into a bridge and killed hisself
they buried him exactly one week after
they let him out and then let me out
the next day after his funeral was over
I don’t have no bad scars left that show
my legs is burnt good
I still feel it I get cold
have to wear them long underwears
all year long on my legs
my hands is so thin they bleed easy
skin’s about as thick as a cigarette paper
but I’m lucky I guess
all the rest is dead cept me
I went back to work for the oil
the next day because I didn’t have nothing
else to do and they put me on chain
wrapping pipes, that’s when I done it
I hadn’t been working a hour
when this feller on the other side
thew his chain and I felt it hurt
so’s I finished and took off my glove
the finger stayed in
I said You sonofabitch you done cut my finger off
I don’t think he heard he didn’t say nothing
well I had it I went to the man
and said That’s it pay me off
oh he tried to get me to stay on
but I lost the taste
didn’t care no more
it was after that I went down South
for the lectric company
got my stomach cut out and
then I come here to die
it was a pretty place, I didn’t have nothing better
ever day LaVerne’d pack me a lunch
I’d draw her a map of where
I’d be if I didn’t make it home
I was weak and couldn’t hardly stand
so I’d drive up to the caprock edge
where I’d take off my clothes
let the sun shine on me
my muscles wouldn’t heal up
on my stomach where I’d been burned
just ugly skin there you could see through
I only weight ninety six pounds
I’d lay on a quilt and look back at the valley
and just wait to be dead and have it done
you know by god I guess I’d still
be laying up there waiting
except after a while LaVerne she went
and bought these two hogs for me
she knew I’d like that
I got to coming down early to feed them
when I was up there
I’d get to thinking about the market
making money
I got so cited I come down one day early
went to looking for a boar
to get a herd started
the next day I forgot to go up and die
then pretty soon I about quit
thinking about it altogether
it just don’t take much to keep
some people going
that gets us about to here
which is nearly last call
before heading home
time for one last beer
they say God takes special care
of children and idiots
I guess he’s been watching out
for me and you two
by god I’ll always remember them times
they was good times for the most
but I do hope to Christ
they don’t never ever come back
Last Call
The two saddest words in the English language.
—from a conversation with Bill Kloefkorn
1
Tonight
moonglow
from within
softly
like a candled egg
and softly
stars diminish
until incandescence washes
the dark sky
until midnight’s
lightslick
its ebb and flow
liquid
the candent universe
rolls
softly
2
Midnight
remonstrance:
there are those
I wish honestly
only to remember
being gone
and only memory
and
there are those
I wish to never remember
desiring
only their presence
lasting as long
as my life
until forever
as
I cannot imagine
living in a world
containing
only their memory
3
And you my friend
whom the gods call
into that other alone
wherever you wake
be it desert or forest
mountain or seaside
find tinder
dry moss and kindling
flint
strike a small fire which
being eternity
will flicker beyond forever
sing
your bright poem
fork your lightning dance
I will find you
sooner than later wherever
you wait in the darkness
We will sing together
delirious and off key
We will tell great lies
to shame the heavens
We will cook with wine
I promise you this
Coda
What do you honestly think
about that pile of stacked up junk?
I honestly think
it’s probley one of the most beautiful things
I ever saw in my goddam life
Are you shitting me?
I shit you not
Notes
While there are dozens of allusions and references in this book to scriptural and classical authors, as well as known and recognizable writers from the middle ages through the twentieth century, certain contemporary writers are quoted and should be acknowledged.
In “The Committee to Review and Revise the Board of Education Mission Statement,” the italics are from T. S. Eliot. In “Lost in Translation,” the marvelous Mr. Nims is John Frederick Nims. In “From the Pickup Cab,” the hero is Robert Creeley. In “Idyll,” the prophet is Phillip Larkin. As far as I know and to the best of my knowledge, Jack Shit was an invention of either William Kloefkorn or my Uncle Odell Latham, who I have wanted to acknowledge as a major influence in my life for almost seventy years and am delighted to use this opportunity to fulfill that goal, even though I am sure beyond any shadow of a doubt that these
words never crossed his lips.
In the poem, “The Monument to the South Plains,” the images of farm implements and machinery used in the sculpture’s construction are taken from poems by William Kloefkorn and by the author of this book.
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to thank the editors of the following presses and journals where the poems in this book originally appeared:
Bosque: “The Traildust Gospel”
Clover, a Literary Rag, Volume 3, Summer 2012: “At the Sign of the Flying Red Horse”
Clover, a Literary Rag, Volume 4, Winter 2012: “Monroe”
Clover, a Literary Rag, Volume 4, Summer, 2013: “Substitute Teacher”
Cutthroat: “San Antonio Incident,” “Eloise Ann”
Paddlefish 2012, Number 6: “The Monument to the South Plains Series”
Paddlefish 2013, Number 7: “Driving Solo,” “What They Say,” “From the Pickup Cab”
“Higher Authority,” “Lost in Translation,” “Jacks,” and “The closing Sequence: Idyll, Oil Well Fire and Last Call” originally appeared in Narrative Magazine.
An earlier version of “E. U. Washburn’s Story: Uncle Abe” appeared in Covenants (with William Kloefkorn), Spoon river Poetry Press.
An earlier version of “Pain” appeared in Day’s Work, Copper Canyon Press.
An earlier version of “The Oil Well Fire” was a part of the long-poem Driving and Drinking, Copper Canyon Press.
For patient, thoughtful, wonderful bordering on the magnificent readings, suggestions, encouragement, and critical reactions to this manuscript that went light years above and beyond the call of duty or friendship, copious thanks to Eleanor Wilner, a goddess incarnate; my great friends Michael Donovan and Rob Van Wagoner, who I claim as hermanos; Jon and JoDee, who have grown to be both kith and kin; the Boulder, Utah wild bunch, who tolerated my insistence on their being my first audience to hear these poems for four years; and especially Rita Jean, who stayed with me all the way both in the caressing and goading modes on this one.
About the Author
David Lee was raised in West Texas, a background he has never completely escaped, despite his varied experiences as a seminary student, a boxer and semi-pro baseball player (the only white player to ever play for the Negro League Post Texas Blue Stars) known for his knuckleball, a hog farmer, and a decorated Army veteran. Along the way he earned a Ph.D., taught at various universities, and recently retired as the Chairman of the Department of Language and Literature at Southern Utah University.
Lee was named Utah’s first Poet Laureate in 1997, and has received both the Mountains & Plains Booksellers Award in Poetry and the Western States Book Award in Poetry. Lee received the Utah Governor’s Award for lifetime achievement in the arts and was listed among Utah’s top twelve writers of all time by the Utah Endowment for the Humanities. He is the author of twenty books of poetry. In 2004, So Quietly the Earth was selected for the New York Public Library’s annual “Books to Remember” list. His latest, a joint collection with the late poet William Kloefkorn, is Moments of Delicate Balance (Wings Press, 2011).
Wings Press was founded in 1975 by Joanie Whitebird and Joseph F. Lomax, both deceased, as “an informal association of artists and cultural mythologists dedicated to the preservation of the literature of the nation of Texas.” Publisher, editor and designer since 1995, Bryce Milligan is honored to carry on and expand that mission to include the finest in American writing— meaning all of the Americas, without commercial considerations clouding the choice to publish or not to publish.
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