rail-road tracks, walking, Oregon

toward the edge of Ashland, Oregon,
we went walking:
many of us

There was the China-man's ghost:
bleeding black blood that stained the rails,
There was a long dead conductor
(a neat suit around bare bones)
muttering to himself:
"all aboard, all aboard"

There was my grandfather,
taking his daily walk,
still wrapped in the tattoos of WW2,
with the great wooden staff
he always carried for dogs;
I tried to embrace him
but he was only air

Onward, we walked,
dodging occasional shards of glass
and blackberry vines creeping onto the tracks
that no train will ride again

There was my hobo self:
young and angry,
carrying a copy of "Hamlet"

There was my inner child,
an odd little creature with fierce claws
and giant ears,
always looking around
and listening for the trains
that don't come anymore

There was a young pioneer named Sam
from an ill-fated wagon train:
in Oregon, arrived from Boston,
with nothing but a back-pack,
a roaring work ethic,
and an iron will

There was a young Irish woman
with gentle eyes,
pregnant with my child,
following us all at a distance

And then there was my conscience,
a huge and monstrous figure
with a huge back-pack full of lead
which he couldn't lay down
(though the straps cut deep)
for reasons of family and loyalty.
He carried on:
a creature both noble and vile,
ugly and handsome,
seemingly indomitable as Frankenstein:
great rippling arms and legs,
and a great racing brain.
But I , the poet,
looked in through his eyes
and saw a haggard old soul,
tired of war and lies

Onward,
we all walked in silence,
past wild fields
and tended gardens,
under the great dry Ashland hills,
which are the re-incarnation of Prometheus,
forever doomed to drought
for giving the fire of culture
to the city below

Onward, we all walked,
keeping to ourselves,
dodging occasional shards of glass
and blackberry vines creeping onto the tracks
that no train will ride again