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| TO MY FRIENDS, WHO NEVER LEFT HOME Poems by Lucas Heilbroner To My Friends, Who Never Left HomeI My brothers peel their skin and leer -Eyes bugging- Through exhaust and broken corner stops. Reeling into thuggish scenes of postulated positioned stage and anger. Where gangs of fools slide across towns And see themselves glow- In the night- And feel the closeness Between furies, and break their heads against each other.II Scars came quick we set ourselves up, Quick to day-trip and fall off of heavenly faces, Never wondering what parts of ourselves we were leaving behind Through the fog, or quick flash electricity, Of firing ourselves off The face of each earth that we came too.III When we get old When we feel inessential In case we left home too early In case we let it all hang out When boredom hangs off the shoulders In case we fried ourselves to death TroutTrout coming home In the deep silted water And the pouring rocks.To span the ocean, To follow a sense of place And nascent memory.I too cannot let it go. And instead circle, and return over again. Back towards some mineral taste, I was hiding in the deep, And mapping in my min SmokeI remember how the sky filled up With reflected clouds and etherous smoke Clogged down and pooled in our valley Like a gossamer.We would look out to the roads That went East And the long pass that lead out of the valley And into the light.Everything darker. The sunsets pink to purple, With striations of bloods and rusts, Measuring distance east and westIn the distance, trees, silhouetted through The dim, Saw against an atmospheric body Magma!We know that underneath it all Is heat. Magmatic pulling aparts, Amalgam of drift, and dense sets of elemental combinations. Re-combusting among the total pressures, Roiling out as slowly as paste Crumpled from its end.Our earth is round, And it holds all things.It is a coagulate, Melting down out of fantastic experiments: The golden hearts and tin Ideation long deposit in the soil.In such heat, the Lines and distinct tables of rock –Our Measurements of time– Are incinerated.And has its true center ever moved? Has it changed these cosmic years? What iron center held its place And brought all else to it? Brought the sand around its coating, And gathered particulates of rare blasted metals that combust in starts. .jpg) Author about himselfI grew up in the mountains behind Ashland, Or, and a lot of my poetry is about rural life. The history of Southern Oregon is something that I think a lot about, from its violent annexation and re-settlement to its extensive agriculture and timber production. Growing up, I remember seeing logging trucks coming down the steep mountain road that we lived on. They would be loaded up with massive tree-trunks, many of them hundreds of years old. Through it all, the population boom of Portland, the Bay Area exodus, and even the damming of most of our rivers, the land still feels wild. Many of my friends still living in Ashland are struggling with the problems that come from doing the same things for too long. Ashland is such a tight-knit town that It can be very difficult to leave. Some of my poems are messages to these friends. My poems are also tributes to the craziness, addiction, and death that still exists in a small town. I am 22 and in School at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. After high school I worked and traveled for two years. I am currently studying English and Chemistry and working on a larger collection of poems. I have lived in Bend, OR. Olympia, WA. and Medellin, Colombia. |