20150612

Tyler Pruett


A Psychogeography of Mill Park

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Maundy afternoon I set off on a drift at Mill Park
The former site of a woolen mill complex that burned to the ground in a spectacular blaze twenty two years ago yesterday
Now the park is public, and it sprawls through large flat areas of fine lawn
To begin my drift, I stepped from the parking lot and onto the park grass
This was my point of departure
I was free from external guiding influences
I had no problem letting go of my usual motivations for movement
I drifted down a knoll where the spirit presence of mill workers showed themselves as troposphere
Generations of immigrant ghosts inhabit the park
Their unities vibrated through my chest
I had a vision
I saw the exploitation of children workers who were forced to operate looms for long hours without rest
Surely their resentment persists through gateways of the living and dead
The maniacal river named KENEBEK whispered my name
It called me QUETZALCOATL
I moved to the shore in a trance
Consumed by the river’s sheer volume and power
The whispers faded into varnish goo
I stepped onto the walk with black ducks
While HAWKS glided low above deep pools searching for fish
The ambiances blossomed
At the end of the river walk I established a base where I paused to improvise spells at dumb throttle innocence
The river thirsts for magnetism
I sought to satisfy the river
I stepped off the walk and down a slope covered with jagged, football sized rocks from alpha Centauri
Big water spiders scurried from my boots and down into damp crevices
Vanquishing passional terrain
I could smell decomposing grass along the shores
I tried to stop and meditate on my natural surroundings, though it was difficult for me to stay still
Maybe the energy of the drift had me pushing to wander and discover fresh new psychic spaces
Or even to communicate with the dead
I stopped for many fools had died to build the dam
Where I stood at that moment was a pivotal point
I spat upon the grass to mark the spot
I made a cold reading of driftwood trigrams on the sands of the shore
The symbols read: the abysmal and the gentle
Thank the gods I know I Ching
I floated to a granite abutment that used to anchor the dam
I touched rough edges where the dam was removed
Here my spirit filled with supersensual textures
I became emotionally disoriented
I hustled away from the water and into a field where I passed an older woman who walked with the help of a cane. She followed her two miniature dogs leashed together
The dogs battled in a constant tug of war to sniff and pee on trees
The woman did not say hello to me and continued down to the boat ramp where she unleashed the dogs and let them swim in the cool river waters
This was my first encounter on the drift, thwarted by angry sirens who sang the song singers love from a tangled island
As I watched reflections on the river, I suddenly felt attracted to the mouth of a nearby blacken brook
The brook was an apex, and my body the axes | secured by bellybutton
Nonetheless I moved in rapid passage
I looked down to the flooded brook from a steep tide wall
Rainbow OBSIDIAN waters mixed with the river to make whirlpools and brunette eddies. SIRENS hacked and HOWLED
The tension in this zone increased, and my entry was discouraged
This is the vortex of Mill Park
The Phantom Vortex of Children Mill Workers
It spun and touched the air with FLAVOR SHADOWS
My ears buzzed in a cool microclimate that rushed past the tide wall
The fleshen psychocontours swirled
Yet I was forced away from the sensation-rich brook by nucleonic forces bent on my expulsion ultimate
By the spine of the vortex itself
I crossed a dusty parking lot and entered a field the longest way across
For the first time that day I felt safe and satisfied
My relative attachment to the material world slipped away
I wandered through large grassy sections of the park for some time, and past the pétanque courts where city workers poured cement into deep holes to hold new benches I wandered through large grassy sections of the park for some time, and past the pétanque courts where city workers poured cement into deep holes to hold new benches
NULL SET
These workers all looked up at me as I passed. None offered a hello
I supposed they noticed my drifting and thought I was crazy
This was my second encounter
I waited for an impossible rendezvous
Lazarus Jones joined the phantom
I blacked out
My ego escaped and faded away
By the time I awoke the city workers had disappeared, while the cement beneath the benches remained cool and damp on my brow




Tyler Pruett is a writer and artist with a special interest in short forms of poetry, especially English-language haiku. His poetry has appeared in many journals including Presence, The Heron's Nest, Modern Haiku, and Frogpond. His work has also appeared in anthologies including Haiku 21 by Modern Haiku Press, a fear of dancing by Red Moon Press, and A Maine Haiku Anthology by Tancho Press. He recently published a collection of his works titled Blue Wolves Are Howling Grapefruit Orange.
 
 
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