Poetry by Lee Boyle

Girl, maybe a leaf still hanging, lazy tree trying to shrug you away,
maybe an arrow slung from a faraway bow, faint slab of gold
panned from slumped harbors, maybe the first
to finish high school, to attend college,
maybe the first to sweep a string,
to hear a note and keep on with it,
to write a song, maybe from cinders,
maybe from royalty, but, all the same,

from whatever you’ve come,

you deserve to wake and snuff out the dreams
from some inner chattering, to scheme, to move,
to forget all within the day it was conjured, to
cry out, escape for means of cozy moss and oaken silences in woods,
for means of pink sunsets on piers, for laughter while catching crystal
flakes, building forts in whirring blizzards, for
dancing, laughing, traveling, and clumsily
pursuing an up-ahead moon in
lightning-bugged air.

If, shut in your heart’s barn, there is not

an owl singing,

don’t do it.

If you need a taste of whiskey, if you are

meticulously rummaging for the right vibe

in leather outfits, simply for fake lovers trembling mattress coils,

if you travel tufted hills of pine

only to get to work, if you aren’t looking at the vans beside you,

for the rhythmical breaks between the factory skeletons, if you’re not

chalking Cincinnati’s pavement, looking for the record covers

on coffee shop walls in Akron, for street musicians in Columbus art festivals,

anarchist basement shows in Toledo, if you don’t want to play in the corner

with pool tables in Cleveland, if your nerves confuse in the throngs

of Mom’s weekend in Athens, if Youngstown doesn’t come off as

hospitable to you, if pebbles under the tires of all small towns hurt

your ears, then don’t do it.

If you are waiting on a roar

and your guts don’t have it,

don’t worry about it.  It isn’t for you anyhow.

If freedom doesn’t come packaged with lack for you, if, when

a club in Geneva-On-The-Lake shuts down, you don’t feel

anything, if you are just some infinite repetition

out of North Royalton who doesn’t think music is happening

in your town,

if you are flying beside the breeze

instead of in it,

just don’t bother.  We don’t need you anyhow.

You would just ruin it.

Beginning in Portland, Oregon where I was born,

Driven across states to Ohio by my parents, after

Exploring parts of America, delighting in storms,

Standing over cleanly Nashville, Tennessee,

Sleeping on Long Island’s grass, sitting in

Late bars of Louisville, Kentucky, carrying

My camera and notebook, tipping my kayak in a

Lake which hides a long-dead camp director’s corpse,

Drinking goat milk from a Christmas cup and

Pounding on old piano keys, rolling down

Fresh sand dunes into Lake Michigan,

Glimpsing Niagara’s rainbow,

Aware of geckos in Hawaii, snakes

Posing as vines as I climbed ladders,

Crowds overflowing the sidewalks of

Ohio University, having studied the

Musical tones, recording them to

Cassette from radio, solitarily in

Succession of past selves, I have been

Unionizing the eternal riches

With which nobody else is

Satisfied.

East rumbles; sticks shift in spruce hills.

Infinite office towers store cabinets of cabinets.

Car snouts dig road.  Tunnels snuff smoke

through bridge frills and antenna webs.

Red sky dabs windshields on stony long-hauls

across endless maps.  A thousand motors buzz

behind fuel-drunk torches; tire rows sling

trek pebbles into darkness.

Love, these days, opens vastly

In me, star colanders in wintry sky,

A rough breeze’s introduction

To hillside meadows,

Grass blades flipping, shining,

Parting my hair

A million different ways.

Wobbling across driveway ruts, we curve

Towards the pale garage, luna

moth on the window.  The porch

       beckons

and coyote howls mix

            with train horns.