André Naffis-Sahely reviews & interviews plus books of the year
High Desert reviews in Guardian, TLS & Wild Court; interviews in DURA, Words Without Borders, OC Register, Adroit Journal, Lit Hub & Poetry Foundation podcast; Poetry...
Early in the spring,
hiking along the coast,
we spot the charred remains
of a giant oak tree,
its hollowed trunk roomier
than most apartments. It is illegal
to sleep here, it is illegal
to be homeless here
and so the poor reside
in rusty RVs at the foot
of this billion-dollar view.
The headline in the newspaper insists:
‘America will never be socialist,’
as if that had ever been in doubt…
Everywhere the rapacious harvesting of resources,
but scarcity reigns supreme. Everywhere a resurgent
love for one’s country, but no faith
in the meaning of government. Everywhere a newfound
love of God, but a concurrent deadening of the soul.
All day, I read about the Gracchi,
Cato, Casca, Cassius and all night,
I dream of Brutus’s final letter to Cicero
before falling on his sword at Philippi.
‘Did we wage war to destroy despotism,
or to negotiate the terms of our bondage?’
We have recorded the sound
the wind makes on Mars, but we cannot
listen to one another… All year we binge-watch
an endless rerun of the past. Eighty years
after Guernica, another coup in Catalonia and for
the first time in history, the brightest objects in the sky
are all artificial. A year after Woolsey,
wild mustard returns to carpet the hills,
its fire-resistant flowers bursting out of their sooty stasis.
There will be no hibernation for us,
no sleep except our final slumber.
*
Roadrunners
In the pink light,
haloes of cloud form over the mountains;
lightning, two valleys away,
then, not an hour later,
the explosion of thunder.
The roadrunners
pecking for breadcrumbs on the porch
have long since fled
into the endless ocean of grass.
Driving in every direction
down licks of red road,
I have lost myself in a militarised topography;
everything named after army units,
generals, scouts, miners…
The Dragoon Mountains,
Cochise Stronghold; defunct
Gleeson and Pearce,
weird, rusty ghost towns, the only
non-derelict structure
for miles, the local school,
its polished windows and well-kept lawn,
a source of great local pride.
No mountain monograms
for these desiccated whistle-stops,
no giant Q or C or W in bright
white paint to mark
the township’s still functional
sorta functional breathing, no
carving for them
into the planet’s bark;
and thus they are blesséd
to me like no other;
every successful city
is a flimsy affair with civility,
its eternalness, like Paris or Rome,
a slow march to desacralisation.
MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN,
BUY REAL ESTATE! Hail follows rain.
Nearby, the township of Sunsites,
once billed as the safest
spot to survive
the inevitable nuclear winter,
actually topped Soviet Russia’s
list of high-priority targets… Enter
the Orange Duck Candidate.
A haboob sweeps across
the Valley of the Senile.
In a week, the mountains
have switched from brown
to purple to green.
The desert is human
endeavour’s most fitting graveyard;
the slow bleaching,
the gradual eroding into sand,
the heat stifling sound as it leaps into the air.
IT CAN’T HAPPEN HERE. But it always does.
Sulphur Springs Valley, Arizona
*
High Desert
Time to listen to my bones, to seek a stillness
known only to deserts. Pause,
traveler, and behold
this empire of absences: the snowy salt beds
of vanished lakes, the outlines of decommissioned railroads,
the petroglyphs of people
murdered long ago, and, all around
nearly limitless stretches
of cottonwood, willow and mesquite tufting out
of the sand. All day
I drive along mummified freeways
from Amboy to Zzyzx and zip past Cadiz, Bagdad
and Siberia in under an hour’s time; the ghost towns
of America’s main street,
an unbroken montage
of smokestacks, silhouettes of sidewalks,
the boarded remains of small businesses…
There is no better backdrop
for the mirage
of permanent boom times than the desert,
a landscape, where despite claims to the contrary,
no town was too tough to die.
Once genocide
had cleared the country,
an extractionist lust was unleashed on the West,
the blunt simplicity
of place-names a shrine
to the seekers’ obsessions: CARBONDALE,
COPPEROPOLIS, OROVILLE, PETROLIA…
spartan mockeries
of morals and models
left behind and forgotten, towns where Sheriffs
robbed trains at gunpoint, or smuggled liquor
across the border,
only to blame it on the Mexicans…
Next to no sign now of the old tribes,
the trappers, the pioneers, yet no shortage
of jackrabbit meth labs,
tin cans, rusted lawn-chairs,
gas stations and faux-
Fifties diners… dead or alive, each one of them greets me
with the same sign, the same
four planks of wood: Name, Date of Establishment,
Elevation and Population, the latter always in the single
or double digits.
Exhausted, I lie down
on the sand and warm my feet by the embers
of this final frontier and consider how strange
it is that it’s here,
where after decades of rootlessness,
I abandon all cravings for permanence…
*
Buck Colbert Franklin (1879–1960) Attorney & memoirist
‘Here I am, peaceable and law-abiding and yet
I cannot walk the street; The newsies
are hawking their wares, all about a Negro
assaulting a white girl, the alleged assault
consisted of stepping on the foot
of a white girl on a crowded elevator… I could hear
bullets whizzing and cutting the air. When the eastern
sky reddened, from my office window,
I saw the old Mid-Way hotel on fire, and then
another and another and another building began to
burn. Where, oh where is our splendid
fire department? During that bloody day, I lived
a thousand years at least. “We must fight to make
the world safe for democracy.” I repeated
those words aloud and they sounded like hollow-mockery.’
*
George S. Patton (1885–1945) General & pheasant hunter
‘I urinate in the washbasin and wash in the urinal
because I have forgotten what they look like…
The nearest railroad is twenty-one miles away,
all officers and men will live in floored tents;
I wish to God we would start killing somebody,
somewhere, soon. My dear friend Caroline,
I would be unpatriotic if I aided anyone
in bringing comfort to our country’s enemies,
the Japanese in California. I have shot
one or more jackrabbits every day
that I’ve been here just to keep
my hand in for Rommel. The Mojave
is a wasteland and there is room to burn…
Sitting on a tank watching the show is fatuous –
killing wins wars. Who is as good as I am?
I know of no one… I’m a hell of a guy…’
Contents List
I: PEREGRINATIONS
11 The Last Communist
13 The Other Side of Nowhere
15 Folie à trois
16 Nova Atlantis
17 Spaghetti Westerns
19 Montricher
20 Young Romantics
21 Chittagong
22 Ierapetra
23 The Train to St Petersburg
25 Ode to the Errant King
II: THE CITY OF ANGELS
29 Welcome to America
30 The Year of One Thousand Fires
32 Maybe The People Don’t Want to Live and Let Live
34 The Bond
36 El Molino Viejo
38 Rancheros
III: HIGH DESERT
43 Roadrunners
45 At the Graves of Labour’s Fallen
47 [IWW leaflet, 1919]
48 Spanish Flu
49 Memorial Day
50 The Great Molasses Disaster
51 Down to Tucson
52 High Desert
IV: A PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF THE WEST
57 Pablo Tac
58 Mary Ellen Pleasant
59 Article Nineteen
60 Denis Kearney
61 Wong Chin Foo
62 Ricardo Flores Magón
63 Louise Bryant
64 Buck Colbert Franklin
65 Art Shields
66 George S. Patton
67 John Samuelson
68 Muriel Rukeyser
69 Richard M. Nixon