elegy for Ray Clark Dickson
On the road, on the sea
on the trail of the diamond word,
following the drunken footsteps
of London and Kerouac,
men who left scattered
manuscript pages in their wake,
you wayfared your way through
bottles, businesses, boats, vows,
families, fortunes, houses, huts,
saddles, reels, saws, tales, timber,
and night jam sessions turned to day
turned to night turned to endless
blacklight benders to Ensenada
Osaka Nuku Hiva Kitimat Stockton.
And returned home with nothing,
except the world.
Though the century wore out
and the world got small,
you wrote it big again,
colored it burgundy
outside the lines from the limits
of a tract house
and gave it back free from your self.
Now, as the puritans of identity
roll up our language like the flag
of a defeated country,
no one writes like you anymore.
The bus passenger obscured
by rolling clouds of dust.
The captain at the wheel minute
before the squall.
The Basin Street drummer eclipsed
by the diva.
The fisherman emended
from the legend of his catch.
The gringo escribér erased
by the words he left behind.
No one writes like you anymore.
Posted for dVerse ~ Poets Pub’s “Poetics – Now I Can See…” prompton Tuesday, Mar 24, 2020 by Mish