H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s
b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i
v e s E d i t i o n
JIM COHN
Dragon
Tracks
The mind readers on
the corner usually always guess wrong,
But they knew your
man gave you a shotgun on Valentine’s Day.
So we drive that
firebird around these mountain curves at 120
On an empty tank of
gas, talking nonstop about those flowers
That never arrived,
chased by fortune’s worthless sleeping pills
& the naked leaves of all we have abandoned.
I don’t know why she
keeps her dresses in the refrigerator––
Little spring outfits
for running around in transcendental February.
There are seven gates
& danger tape around her mango tree
& the moonlight falling across her neck shines over the icy
river
That benefits a
hundredfold anyone who sees her
Putting on the
luminous.
Upon the waves that
lick the black mouth of love
Her cinnamon shadow
lingers in a vacuous grotto of dragon tracks,
Remembering a long
ago purple sky at the treacherous pass
Of merit &
transgression––where no thought conquers nonexistence
Within the snakeskin
tent as we dance till three
Between fearsome
bodies & the dying of the night.
[Originally
published in NHS 2001, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs01/cohn.html.]