Walkabout Book

Walkabout Book

In a vast and ancient land
distant, far beyond the rolling blue sea
in the glade of a primeval forest
I’m reading beneath a tall and timeless tree

A life in the living, water in the flowing
words in the reaching, it’s the Walkabout book I read
Is it a moments diversion, an idle fantasy?
a dream in the dreaming?
or a final and singular reality

Sometimes short and simple
sometimes long and obscure
now a novel, now a short story
complex and winding, or childish and naive
each time when I open it
walkabout is a new book to read

It’s told me of an elemental mystery
where behind an old brown desk
cluttered with crumpled probabilities
a ten-space case is pondered by Robin Williams, private-eye
On the floor beneath his feet
Schrodinger’s kitten plays with a ball of quantum twine
Outside the window, a busy city street
Enterprise cabs honk impatiently,
so far to go
and the damn law limits their speed
On the corner, Hawking hawks white papers, a dime a at a time
while Einstein does strange matter pantomime

‘Times I’ve opened walkabout to find
the Sunday ads for Uncle Sam’s Supermart
You can get a two-pack, army tanks and fighter planes for $5.93
Fast Billy Gates window blinds are on sale
and there’s liberty dolls, autographed by Martin Luther King
your choice, get’em in desert tan or olive green
If you’re on a diet CBS prime’s a good buy, no substance, just air
Buy in to it all at Uncle Sam’s
where there’s always a rebate on Rambo justification
and a special on 2 liter bottles
of sodium-free Califorinication
Sometimes the walkabout book is a song
where Glen Miller and his boys
play to the rhythm of a wartime metronome
and Sade sings soft and sultry
of an exotic land where thunder rolls in Cerwin tones
There, locomotives breathe Blues Brothers breath
Tom Sawyer dances Mambo No. 5
and I look for a time for us
among parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme

My walkabout began with Johnny Tractor on Dads lap
ten small fingers happy helping to wrap
a great big black John Deere steering wheel
I read of firecracker cannons and prairie dog towns
of hunting blackbirds and walks in rolling wheat fields
as harvest neared and July ran down

Later, I read a lot of questions
and many stories of outlaws, mystery,
math, and science fiction
Would she, could she be wanting me to
kiss her deeply again and slowly unsnap
that one last snap?
Flat out, will this Mustang truly do
fifty times three?
I read that someday I’d go far
if only I stayed in school and got a degree
Alone on the winding road late at night
drifting corners, thinking speed
somewhere between now here and nowhere
the walkabout book became philosophy
and there, in between the lines I could read
of a shadowy ghost following me

Much time has passed
I’ve read many, many tales great and small
still, there is much more to read
The walkabout can be a book of answers or a book of questions
sometimes it’s a story of misty secrets and scarlet mystery
most of the time, it’s about heavy traffic
finding more dollars for more donuts
about school assemblies, and HBO TV

Now, there’s someone beside me
here in this timeless glade,
reading under this ancient tree
Together we see stories of hard work and asshole humor,
tales of mutual hopes and common worries
and of common partners in mutual crimes
Late at night
we read of gently touching lips and soft velvet lucidity
of high-speed electric rushing ascent
and eternities of silky smooth sensuality

Sometimes,
when the leaves filter the sun just right
when the mountain air is especially sweet
when the clear blue sky
is a reflection of my lady’s turquoise eyes
— then I can read with a special clarity
all the world becomes a single moment
and the walkabout book is a poem
I open it to find only a single page with two words,
Feel. Breathe.

D. Dirks

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One comment on “Walkabout Book

  1. Marcos Loures says:

    wonder

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