Ocotober 11th 2010

October 11th, 2010.

Fallen leaves are golden, sentimental, lying disheveled on the winding

Silver valley dirt roads that take me to work, my mind recalls

the view from 30,000 feet, the approach to Spokane just beginning

to give me that feeling of lightness, change unchangeable, New York

earlier that afternoon had been gray with slivers of oblique, smoggy light

playing across the thin profile of the Empire State Building

viewed through the grimy little window of the airport lounge,

so utilitarian, my thoughts stopped as I gazed absently

across the 10 or so miles of industrial holocaust

towards the shining apparition of New York.

I hated Spokane. not just the time I wiped silent tears from my face while

rudely slurping soup in some half-rate strip mall Chinese restaurant,

the surgeon said my jaw was broken, damn mountains,

damn ambition, 2008, July, the light was still hot and muggy overhead,

I left for what I thought would be the last time, somewhere before

the first.

People dreamt here, but they were small dreams, crowded, narrow, poorly lit,

Spokane sucked up the suburban drivel and made it sadder, urban without renewal,

somewhere there were outcasts, leaders, believers in life and not just heavenly

ambassadors of judgement and hate, of crystal meth and baggy sweatpants,

filthy from walking the decaying blocks, proud old Victorians

crumbled under the harsh October light, of opportunity limited.

Perhaps I hated Spokane because I saw farce I was living, the endless adventures

and new boarding passes, postponing a mildewy apartment here? No.

This much I know is true.

Or was it that night in the airport hotel, they better not make me pay for the sheets,

goddamn that was good, tried to call you

but you weren't interested, my departure to LA the next morning

so smug and early, smiling until I forgot to be self conscious

I didn't want a damn relationship

just more

of that.

You were so Spokane, in the best and worst ways I saw later,

though I don't know if I'm addressing you or me

when I quote a sketchy Denver drag queen I overheard on Colfax one night,

she told the sweet, diesel scented sky, 'Girl.... you trippin'.

But anyways, this doesn't help

my forced disconnection from the golden yellow leaves, aspens and Tamaracks,

sad hillsides of the Silver Valley alive with the sun's premature departure,

I win this one with myself, screw the internet, the social networks,

I'm going for a bike ride.

The trails are all boarded up for winter, by which I mean

they let them go because fun is only

for paying tourists in the proper season.

so I smile reluctantly as I clear heavy branches and wet, matted leaves from the

narrow, winding profile of the Alhambra Trail,

named after a wonderful lead-silver vein right up the road

but 'Silver Mountain' doesn't entertain such facts; too useful.

The woods are always dark here and I want to shout out

'Hey Bear!' to the brooding, fallow logs and somber hollows

but steel myself against the woods, this one is for

the war in my head.

Breath comes short and rewarding, the high of exertion only fueling

the next corner, next ridge, next straightaway.

The gondola sleeps until snowfall, obscene and gesticulating

over the poverty and sense of community

here in Kellogg.

So I must go up, because up leads to down, and if I just get one of those

laughs that escapes your throat involuntarily

like an overdo fart,

it will be worth it.

I push, mostly, sometimes pedal, it is steep, unrelenting, solitary,

just how I like it.