Bl Pawelek grew up in western New York and has lived and hiked throughout the United States, Canada and Far East Asia. Influenced mainly by Edward Abbey and Charles Bukowski, he has had writing and photographs published in dozens of publications throughout the country (Writer's Journal, Silent Voices, Willows Wept Review, Luna Negra). He earned his MA in English (Literature) from Loyola Marymount University, where he won the LMU Graduate Poetry Award for three straight years (1998-2000) and the LMU Graduate Fiction Award (1999). Current writing projects include a non-fiction piece about Eddie Slovik and his website, http://www.blpawelek.com/. He recently completed his first novella, “case 11512” and the prose poem "days on the loniest." He currently lives in Southern California with his wife, son and daughter.

days on the loneliest (non-fic)

5 am cold
above freezing

sunrise revealing giant clouds
no warmth from the sun yet
breakfast coffee oranges
my friend threw his hand out his window
to wave goodbye then gunned the engine
he will meet me
in four days
some 80 miles away
on the top of amboy crater

day one

i stand on a washed out road
one that started strong
as it left the 10
but has now been given back to the desert
behind me the small town of desert center
ahead of me nothing but sand rock cactus blood beauty

the mountains change color
light tan to light brown to chocolate
the sun will paint other as well
but i start taking my first steps
aiming for a crater i can not see

twenty miles a day through desert
november weather is cooperating
sunny and about 70 degrees
the way is easy the sound silent

my water bottle
its full weight in my hand
i drop my head in despair yet again
forgot to fill the water bottles
quick inventory about a gallon and a half
meant to double that
no water at all on this trip
no springs and the mountains hold no vegetation
after looking back toward desert center
then back north then back south
confident a sly happiness
rolling the dice one more time
yes to all

i don’t drink
but slide it back take a knee
look for a pebble the size of a marble
find it and toss it in my mouth
a little dusty keep the saliva flowing

the base of eagle mountain perfect timing
crawl into a small crevice under the rocks
the size of a mummy tomb a bit cooler
a bit claustrophobic but a nice small nap
let the sun bury itself
then the scurry to watch the sunset

day two

mountains to flat lake asphalt and sand
more of the latter
high winds flooding soft shoulders
cross iron age peak
the north up the road
painted stones parking area on top

as for living humans one only
a sign for a city called wonder valley
hike down a rough road looking
no avail

junkyard artscape
shotgun holes as the mist hangs
over the ghost of bristol lake
4:30 the sun drops behind the mountains
a noticeable chill go north
the sun rises and falls again
over and over across each peak passed
still shadows of clouds
the sun coming in at harsh angles
making the mountains look treacherous
inviting

the volcanic black shape
of the amboy crater
a huge black ant hole
the spew of black volcanic rock
at the 25 mile mark

enter bristol lake
the wind immediately steals my hat
the vegetation ends
past the mining companies evaporating
for the chemicals leaving their salt rock behind
the wind howls
i huddle behind some large brush
dig a small trench
it is so loud grit sand entering everything
clothes eyes nose
the time to give it all up and become
accept being simple part of it all

the light brown sand
in the far north distance
the death of an old lake
coxcomb mountains
the ragged, saw-tooth
inviting at first but waiting to bite
aqua peak resting in its loneliness
at 4416 feet still on the colorado
side of the desert line

day three

rocks that lined the bottom
the ground is different
walking on shells and hard water-compacted sand
the sun beats and there is nothing for cover
an x in the middle of nowhere
plotters planners do I dig
there is a nail in the center
all water stolen from this place
wood crumbles in hand
feet fall into pockets of air underground
inhospitable love it
i donate some required recycled water
back into the dead lake
a place where the balloons go to die

the old after dust of dried
chemical ravaged lake bed
a crust full of some obnoxious horrible
yet men in the trucks
pull their liquid cylinders
the needle and the damage done
the drenches of clear brilliant
blue water with snow white crust
no animal tracks in the area
they are too smart to give it a try
i consider it for a moment decline

the howl of a train passing
through amboy starts continues forever
50 100 more train cars
on the path to the east good luck
sand storm the drifting sand whipped
by the wind takes away all visibility
i walk as long as i can
prepare to stop but see the glow
of a beaming yellow red sign
nailed to a pole trust jesus

day four

morning
5 a.m. cold
above freezing
no animals as they are all probably huddled
in their beds for warmth
the wind whips the sage
and the moon is still high
the amboy homes have lights
fires proclaiming their residence
7 a.m. sunrise revealing giant clouds

a few miles west
of the ghost town is the amboy crater
a volcano that erupted
thousands of years ago
folks can see the whispers
of smoke and the smell the sulpher
and salt water in areas
indicating another eruption in the near
near being in the next couple thousand years
BLM guys say it is extinct
whom to believe

nighttime
stars growing and growing
as the sun slides further to the west
dust and glowing white pebbles
in the sky from god’s hand
moving stars or planes
so high in the air twinkling stars
sounds in the brush as it gets colder
the only sound the soft ringing of the ears
the phenomenal number of stars

none recognizable
but all majestic none the less
the black night and blacker mountains
eventually fall asleep
a large circle moon visible with craters
the sea of tranquility

Table of Contents

Art (November 20, 2009. Issue 11.)

The Sky's Fire

Elements Four

The Pull

Table of Contents

Four Poems (October 20, 2009. Issue 10.)

the within voices

in the future rubble
of orange clouds and no sun
the living no longer so
the dying doing so
as witness to all

the within voices
try to drown out
the sounds of the strong
king's wind and tall dirty waves

it no longer
simply rains down on me
in the few years
of the broken and deceived
in the ruins i awake
still waiting for truth
to come hold my hand

a thousand crows

in the short years
of grey and poor sight
he rests on the bed
above the whirl noise
of black wings and ragged claws
under the moon pale light

below
the ancestor bones
open their arms to lure
safety from the inside
the dozen short breaths
of little life and short patience
continue to wait

but the crows do not relent
their thousand peck at the roof
to drive death off

inches above my head

destiny fingers run through my hair
a gentle pat then the signs above
i'll never see

a small man with its worked out plan
higher clouds push in and pull out
with the lunar continual waves
the earth continues to spin and roll
and the invented time maintains its plan

waiting for the last words
the soft words no one hears
before someone pulls
the clean white sheet

the florida sick children

the camera rolls the steps
one after another
the egret splashes away
and the night orlando lights
shine the child joy
of the sick

the red points
on the top of the world
bring god a bit closer
before they chase him away
with justified guilt

the non eye to eye look
the hand on the child's head
the tear falling
from the cheek to floor

Table of Contents