Gary Blankenship

Journey with Rimbaud VI – Beyond the Edge

now is the time of the assassins

As the temperature hovers near 100,
I read your words and listen
to the footfall of a cat on the sidewalk,
madrona leaves drop into a bed of nettles,
a bed unmade,
the aroma of discarded tissue,
pages turn as the book drops to the floor.

There is no midnight be-bop here,
no peyote or a pope’s ring to kiss;
there is no kill-a-pig fastidiousness,
no sex with the sexless – girl or boy.

There are only commercials for acid-reflux
and thistles riding over scrub oak
on a feather torn from a sparrow’s breast.


(Inspired by The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry,
Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1999)

Journey with Rimbaud IX – A Finish to a Journey

I'll throw myself under the horse’s hooves

There are no butterflies,
hummingbirds or moths;

No morning glory or honeysuckle
sun-bright as weeds.

There might be oak and pine,
but no elm or filbert.

There are starlings and crows,
nightingales are absent and owls rare.

There used to be surf, sand and shells
they washed out to sea.

The lighthouses are all dilapidated,
the harbors filled with sand and mud.

There might be avalanches,
but I am afraid of tight places and heights.

I tried to include a well-built blonde model,
she knew I am married and my tongue was tied.

Fox, wolf and bear never roamed here,
though otters still play among the willows.

There was a stampede of camels;
they stopped, sheep in their way.

Today, there is a nap;
tomorrow, there will still be stray cats
and a walk to the morning paper.

Peace will have to wait
for another, better…