Moscow Mountain

Moscow Mountain

Moscow Mountain



Fuck an A brother,

it’s all going to be ocean front property

when California slips on up the coast

and the Cascades sink into the sea.

We’re going to have us

a nice little inlet here.

‘Course it’s going to be a little hot

while Hanford’s still bubbling.

It’s safe though;

it’s safe.  They keep telling us.

Tell that to the poor bastards

who died at Nagasaki.




Each morning we watch it come up

as we drive over a rise in the hills:

mountain in mist, mountain in sun,

in mountain itself.

I never go there;

you have to be a sorcerer.

All the roads say private.




A storm coming on from the East,

while looking down into the valleys

sun-patches crossed the tops of trees.

Wheat fields in the West

being closed down in a cloud of dust

with green caterpillars crawling in a line:

evening air, red with dust.


The other book:


Old mountain, old trees

listening to the echoes of black seas

as they flowed from fissures

and never crashed back from the shore.

They remember what was in the bones of the earth,

echoes from the dream,

a dream of shadows marking the future.


first published in Wind Row, Spring, 1985.



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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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