The End of the West Read online

  Mahler

  begins to fill

  the half-dead auditorium

  giant step by

  giant step

  The Colorado

  The Snake

  The Salmon

  My grandfather walks across the front porch

  spotted with cancer, smoking

  a black cigar

  The whales fold themselves back and back inside the long hallways of

  salt

  You have to stare back at the salt

  the sliding mirrors

  all day

  just to see something

  maybe

  for the last time

  *

  By now they are asleep

  some are asleep

  on the bottom of the world

  sucking the world in

  and blowing it out

  in wave-

  lengths

  Radiant ghosts

  Leif laid his head back on a pillow and waited for all the blood inside him

  to flush down

  a hole

  After seeing whales what do you see?

  The hills behind the freeway

  power lines

  green, green

  grass

  the green sea

  Marco Polo

  My grandmother set sail on a small air mattress into the middle of

  the pool and fell asleep

  Her fingers

  dragging the water

  The men talk quietly inside

  The outdated

  California architecture

  dissolves

  into pale greens, pinks

  and stark

  lemon

  *

  I want to set sail from the following three things:

  My little sister, tied to her trundle bed, crying, forced to eat slices of

  orange

  she believed were her goldfish

  I tied her wrists

  her feet

  I did that

  The neighbor kid I cornered, shoutingSay you’re fat! Say it!

  Say you’re fucking fat!

  and he said it

  My mother

  The waves out here

  look like steel

  baskets

  *

  My great-great-grandfather, my great-grandfather, my grandfather

  and my father

  all looking back

  over their shoulders

  Half asleep in metal deck chairs

  moving the ice around

  in their drinks

  Do you know who’s going to kill you?

  I’m going to kill you

  *

  Our limbs sound like sand poured out of a Venus Comb

  Our brains tick like tidal pools

  My grandmother

  Our eyelids close like Golden Moons, Tiger Moons, Zebra Moons

  My grandfather

  Open and

  close

  *

  At night

  the voices on the patio

  sound like small

  darting birds

  We set sail

  The light

  walks away from me

  on the water

  The light walks away from me

  quickly

  on the water

  Wang Wei: Bamboo Grove

  Alone

  Finally

  It’s nice to sit in the bamboo dark

  among the bamboo

  dark

  Guitars

  and a low

  whistle

  I don’t know anyone here!

  Me and

  the moon

  One shining, the other

  shining

  *

  It doesn’t matter what I wanted

  The air

  in green waves

  A park in the city

  A bench

  My friends

  What I have

  is finally invisible

  Singing a little tune They can’t take that away from me

  Look

  the moon is up

  The moon

  is down

  *

  Do you think that’s music

  we’re listening

  to?

  Ambulances

  and dogs

  The trees praying

  Strangers walking their darlings beneath streetlights

  whispering encouragement

  Bending down

  to scrape shit off the sidewalk

  into little plastic bags

  Sirens and

  trees

  All the music

  that’s left

  *

  You know

  how we are going

  to disappear

  into the dirt forever

  Or burn

  into the sky

  into oceans

  Well, I love this about us

  and I want to be able to do it

  all by myself

  It won’t be scary

  or cold

  Not like what they told us at all

  If there are spiders

  and there will be

  spiders

  they will not kill us

  in our

  New Cities

  The End of the West

  1

  My mother waits for me

  breathing easily

  having let her hair go

  silver, white

  longer now

  shining

  in this

  one of her many

  afterlives

  The new world is black

  and glassy

  and looks like

  the old world: pinpricked

  by telephone poles

  and stars

  She’s unbelievably patient

  Her hair piled up

  with long

  metal needles

  She’s never been

  this patient

  Rocking back and forth

  on an onyx-colored

  front porch

  Putting out cigarettes

  and singing

  She inhales

  my shoulders

  my legs

  The many ways

  I’ve lied to her

  My tongue, how

  I’ve tried to hurt her

  My back, my

  hands

  She exhales my name

  I want her to be happy

  and that’s why

  she’s here

  My Annie Oakley

  I want to be happy

  and that’s why

  she’s here

  My Dale Evans

  Her name

  is a pair of pearl-handled

  silver-inlaid

  six-shooters

  Everything she ever wished for

  written in cursive

  beneath

  the barrel

  Mom

  There was no other life

  She breathes in

  Now

  I remember

  There were hundreds of

  other lives

  She chose

  this one:

  Childlight everywhere

  Cutting across

  the newly waxed

  1975

  linoleum

  in the new kitchen: yellow

  yellow

  yellow

  She breathes out

  My mother dreams of being a child again

  and also

  of horses

  cantering down the sidewalk

  in lovely

  California

  light

  The smell of lilacs

  The sound of hooves

  on concrete

  She waves to us from on top of her pony

  in chaps and a T-shirt

  Little boots

  Little hat

  Little holster
/>
  A trick rider

  playing to the crowd

  At the age of five she’s already waiting for me

  But it’s different

  I was the crowd

  My brother and sister

  and me

  In the rodeo delivery room

  we clapped and

  clapped

  What is this like for her?

  It’s like when she and Mickey and Pat

  would sneak up on the mares

  at night

  With belts

  No saddles

  Whispering their names

  or the names

  they’d give them

  Buttercup

  Mistletoe

  Burnt Sienna

  When I’m quiet enough

  I can hear her

  digging

  the heels of her red-and-black

  hand-stitched cowboy

  boots

  into the clay

  around her

  Calling me home

  Over the range

  Over the rhinestones

  The stars

  The six-shooters

  Over the bluebottles

  Over the bottle grass

  The prairie

  The promise

  Rain

  Birds

  Horses

  Spurs

  2

  My grandmother sips

  Takes

  another

  sip

  In her blue-light

  cha-cha

  afterlife

  Are you thirsty?

  Yes

  I’m thirsty

  Oh honey

  this one is going

  to last

  Her tongue

  edging the impossibly

  thin stemware

  A lake on fire

  Gin Fizz

  Tom Collins

  swimming pools

  wine spritzer

  Gin Fizz

  the Pacific Ocean

  the Pacific Ocean at dusk

  wine spritzer

  lemon trees

  Tom Collins

  redwoods

  Redwood City

  a Baileys

  a Baileys and coffee

  The company of men

  White Russian

  Black Russian

  White Russian

  If she could play anyone

  she’d play

  Joan Crawford

  If she could play opposite anyone

  she’d pick Cary Grant

  So handsome

  in tails!

  The Thrill Is Gone

  Autumn Leaves

  Look for the Silver Lining

  Oh honey

  Cheek to Cheek

  I’m in heaven

  In the movie she’s misremembering

  she’s Joan

  at the top of the stairs

  in sequined

  black

  about to descend

  on silver pumps

  Backlit

  by stars and

  stardust

  Grant waits at the bottom

  carelessly turning

  a silver cigarette case

  over in his hands

  His boyfriend waits for him

  in the trailer outside

  Her husband

  waits for her in the bar

  Stars and

  stardust

  Grant insists that they dance

  at the foot

  of the staircase

  Despite the hour

  Despite all the fake moonlight

  His hand

  flat against the flat of her back

  so she has to move

  where

  he wants her to move

  They look safe

  and pretty

  It’s hard to see what Grant is wearing

  because his hair is

  so perfect

  But the deathgown

  my grandmother wears

  is a silk-and-metal

  design by

  Edith Head

  Tails and top hats

  and black servants

  that’s for her

  White canes and white ties

  She throws rice and streamers

  from the deck of a ship

  headed south

  She pulls the hem of her black-

  and-white dress

  into a Bentley

  headed for the coast

  Headed for the poolside

  suburbs

  Lemon trees

  and blacked-out

  bourbon

  Her Cary Grant alcoholic husband

  closing up

  her

  close-up

  My grandmother sips

  Takes another

  sip

  Blue light

  Moonlight

  Are you thirsty?

  Yes

  I’m thirsty

  The veins in her hands look like jewelry

  Her face

  smiling looks like

  credits rolling

  3

  My brother the Saint walks out among the trees

  to cure them

  of their blindness

  To cure them

  in his sacred

  and feathered

  afterlife

  He listens carefully to the veins of the maple

  pumping green

  The metallic green

  on the pin-

  head

  of a fruit fly

  It smells like photosynthesis

  Metal

  A migraine

  Saint Francis has nothing on my brother

  walking the streets of Assisi

  everywhere

  Moving his hands

  over the bark

  and cancer

  Making the sign, making the sign

  Streetlights flicker

  Ants gather

  around his feet

  In the burning miracle

  The trees aren’t really trees, the trees are really people

  men women and children

  we see that now

  White sulfur

  amputates their faces

  leaving a clearing

  made out of skin

  and fever

  My brother the Saint

  steps from body

  to burning

  body

  like an acrobat

  Reopening the holes

  Raising the dead of their mouths

  Walking on the water

  of their eyes

  In the red miracle

  He’s a little tired

  and full of

  visions

  Poppies in the snow

  Blood in the toilet

  He wants to take

  and be

  taken

  He turns in his

  red bed

  our demons

  into fleas, our hands

  into stars

  In the last miracle

  my brother the Saint lifts the face off the west

  like a handkerchief

  Blue

  with white curlicue designs

  that look like

  cotton

  Lightly, lightly

  He snaps it out into the wind

  and lays it back down

  smoothing out

  the edges

  hospital-tucking

  the corners

  4

  Then I am found

  walking around the old neighborhood

  just like I never left

  Trying to learn how to whistle

  Watching the dogs

  tear at the chain-link

  fence

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