only black and white dreams
the cat, new to birding
after 15 years, stalks
three crows on television
they rummage through winter
she’ s dressed for murder
last week she stood
atop a flat screen tv
confused
there was no way
to attack the data
found in the image
of a bird of paradise
I tell her I have a hard
time with reality too
as camera cuts
to robert frank
talking about americans
those wide open spaces
only black and white
dreams can fill
a sound runs in my head
shrill, pitched, fierce
the same sound woke me
cold morning in north dakota
confused I unzipped tent flap
stuck my head out
two mustangs
twenty yards from me
battle for supremacy
bucking and rearing
the futility of territory
which gladiator wins
is irrelevant
to a dumbstruck interloper
it’s 630 am in the badlands
or I might suggest they
gallop into town
buy each other a round
talk out the anger
rooted in life’s rejections
then cool down in a hotwalker
robert frank tells me
it was all wide open once
he says it without malice
like an ill wind never
blew through the buffalo grass
stanton avenue blues
taking turns on pittsburgh
goat paths twenty
miles too fast
each stop sign
push the volume
couple more notches
bass notes steady
seconds vibrate
my head with enough
buzz, vibrates lightning
every street a memory
ghosts in rearview mirrors
rilke said you are the future
I don’t know how to see
the future now
anymore
once i was
I struggle with a cheap
ballpoint, a handful
of postcards on the couch
in a king sized econolodge
sunday morning room
fog rises, mountains
swallow highways
time moves to new york
or some other place
cary grant just died bloodless
drunk with an ingenue
also dead now, they notice
their corpses, wait on trumpets
realize some good deed
will send them to heaven
I find the remote wrapped
in sheets, take my key
stare at dead lights
of an overgrown baseball field
the half tarped empty pool
several boats lost in the storm
of an appalachian savanna
the paris of the northern tier
there used to music and dancing
every night, prime rib on fridays
I guess we’ll always have paris
I watch decades, start car
read a map as a novella
seconds speed. long past
morning glory, well fit for frowsy
once I was, once I was
Jason Baldinger is from Pittsburgh and misses roaming the country writing poems. His newest book is A Threadbare Universe (Kung Fu Treachery Press). Forthcoming books include The Afterlife is a Hangover (Stubborn Mule Press) and A History of Backroads Misplaced (Kung Fu Treachery) . His work has been published widely across print journals and online. You can hear him read his work on Bandcamp and on LPs by The Gotobeds and Theremonster.
