I / Pacific Walkers

       That man standing there, who is he?

      His path lost in the thicket,

       Behind him the bushes

      Lash back together,

      The grass rises again,

      The waste devours him.

      — GOETHE, “Harzreise im Winter”

ON

      Signing on with The Daily Sun

      Nearing a thousand words a minute, I can type

      to your health. I can input a print that’s fit

      to all. Can get across baby without

      a single b. I can keep my prayer mat

      under wraps. Ditto the armband. I have the facts,

      you have the contracts. Sure, you can change

      my name to Lance in the byline.

      Like jerking off Band-Aids, I can rip away

      calendar pages so fast, no one will even know

      we’re over the past. Day in, day out, I can

      make them play along with my playing

      along, can make them believe decedent,

      can disseminate and disguise at the same time

      what’s face up, fetid, gnawed at by weasels.

      Just. The. Facts. I am like you. Or passing

      through you like a taco. Easily rolled up

      to swat a pesky moth. Spread wide to accept

      your bounty of trout guts. Quick to appear,

      pass the verbiage, and disappear.

      I can stay anon. I can live anon.

      I can keep anon in my heart.

      Last Address

      What gold flitter has made of your ear

      a hive? Clouds tug loose a last dream

      and now the rainfall bears down

      your secrets. The question’s not

      if the river had its way with you,

      spit you out as a small inquiry

      unfit for the big answer. No,

      the question won’t pertain to tattoos

      or unmatchable DNA, but to what

      world, under what sun, in what situ

      we go on finding each you, each you,

      the not-missed, the never missing.

      ***

      We stand at the foot of you.

      Bees and swallows rustle the grass

      around half flesh, half bone, half

      here, half gone. Dot of earth: nothing

      owed or owned. Once you were a bud

      in someone’s belly. A swim, a sleep,

      then to crown your way out. Keep

      mum. Keep it to yourself, Little Prince

      of the Reigning Question,

      the would-you-do-it-all-again

      there there, now now.

      Found on the bank of the Spokane River at approximately 2200 W. Falls Street. Adult Caucasian male. This male was 5 feet 11 inches in height and weighed approximately 161 pounds. His hair was dark brown or possibly black. Clothing worn: a pair of black lace-up boots with a brand name listed as “CORCORAN,” a pair of black socks, a pair of light blue denim pants with a brand