west coast blues

passed the old farm where the bicentennial flag adorned the roadside barn for the better part of twenty years until it fell, a casualty of time, weather, neglect

passed cornfields reminiscent of a king thriller, this should be iowa or nebraska not northwest new jersey

lakes and ponds, streams and rivers, summer shrieks of childhood joy, wonder, amazement, crayfish under rocks, sailboats, lizards and salamanders, waterfalls and everlasting forays into swamps, muddy from head to toe by day’s end, thistles imbedded in every square inch of clothing, sweaty, matted hair

campers and hikers at the delaware water gap/appalachian trail, cut through rock over centuries by relentless power of a single drop of water combined with like minded others, the detritus scattered over the sides of the old river bed hundreds of feet above my head

memories of swimming in the abandoned quarry, crystal clear blue green water, sixty foot precipices to leap from in a tumultuous rush of adrenaline and fear, the chilly flows of the natural spring on those hot, humid, beaten summer days, overheating cars, pushing in traffic just to make it

close to my first ski experience, a small, icy, eastern slope, magnificent to a wide eyed child of nine, frozen limbs and toes, ears, hands, all night skiing as adults made merriment at the lodge and in rented homes, bleary eyed by six a.m., exhausted, feeling like the king of the world for making it through the night, youthful desire to make it to the light of day, now so common

seussian snow covered pines, stunted from the altitude of the poconos, fire lines cut through the expansive, age old forests, begging for some children to tread their tracks over miles of unbroken, freshly fallen pristine snow

somber desolation of snow packed valleys, one lone cabin, smoke billowing from it’s tall chimney, cars zoom zooming by from one civilization to another, so cozy

more and larger valleys of farms and far off lights, cutting through gorges, chiseled into the rocks before my time by hardened laborers, silent blue black cold, cloud hidden moonlight, frost shimmering wire fences, blinded by the falling snow, like blackbirds in migration propelled by the fancy of the gusting, blustery wind, sent from old man winter, rows of corn stalks and tilled soil form a patchwork tapestry quilting the landscape

i dreaming of tacoma all the while, hurling past it all, in it’s solemn glory, home soon, warmth, comfort, rest, won’t be home long, do it all again next week, and again two later perhaps

remnants of advertisements on decrepit barns next to new homes, "chew mail pouch tobacco", i light another cigarette, crack the window as the smoke whirlwinds around my head

wear worn tires thump across deteriorating back roads, thump, thump, thump, hypnotically thumping off the slabs of concrete, laid by now dead engineers of long ago, their monument- legacy to a future passed, roads used to go through towns, now around, missing all the broken small locales, less reminders of industrial collapses that decimated the old steel, mining, blue collar true grit every day hard working america, where’s hank reardon today, waiting for a more randian future

car streaked with white salt and brown mud, no visibility out of the side windows, passed trailer parks with muddy, pot holed roads, barking mongrels, torn apart vehicles, all shapes and sizes, state gamelands and gun shops, nuclear power plants spewing steam and chemicals furiously into the clouds, onward and upward, long into the horizon, old steel mills, soot and dirt covering the mon valley, polluting it’s rivers, crushed dreams, lost to all time, bars crowded in the a.m. to drown pain and sorrows, so much pain, so many sorrows, the trapped truly are, no more hopes of the vitality of mills and factories, simply reminders of them by their tormented backlash

back towards suburbia, strip clubs, bars, dealerships, restaurants, stores, still rural, but metamorphosing like cancer, attacking whatever it can, haphazardly ripping apart the countryside, no form or beauty, just existential blah

finally back to the golden triangle of the three rivers, steel to the sky, magnificent lights, crack and shooting, late night at primanti’s, southside, oakland, downtown, college students carousing a few streets away from gangs and drive by’s, lighted inclines and san franciscan hills of winding pavement, scenic, hits like a ton of bricks when seen shooting out of the fort pitt tubes for the first time, fountain on and lit at dusk

William dePerra