bodie, california
the road that leads there
is filled with deep creased ruts
you'll put your car through the course
as you choose between
the larger rocks that litter, 
with the grade of climb in elevation
and those deep creased ruts 
but it's worth the ride as you'll see . . .

the ruins of man's litter left as iron scraps 
of thin tin, cans and such
and the shells of antique things
like old time cars and pumps
 
then there's the thicker density of it, 
in the form of stupendous geared wheels
lying at various tilts, 
askew on the prairie hills' ground
their teeth somehow preserved pristine by thin oxidation, 
on well forged steel
it's reddish brown, the thing called rust

look to the hills above 
the flat community left 
as it was abandoned

there you see the warehouse, milling machines
the pounding presses, 
gigantic hammers that crushed the ore 
to powder and great wealth of gold

nothing's missing but flesh and blood
that ran it
but things are hiding unseen everywhere,
if you could see them you'd not hang out
long after dark

look through the windows left preserved 
like blown glass, flat, 
filled with minute bubbles, 
reminiscent of the antique past
you may see a gray translucent face 
staring back at you

look up the street and see the greyed wood, 
the browns, the tans of black
in creases of disheveled, twisted planks
somehow, miraculously preserved through time,
suspended on the bleak and dusty ground

even now, there they be, 
go look,
if you doubt you'll see,
despite the chill, 
the below zero winds, 
the snows and rains of winter
and deathly dry of summer

look at the squarish nails of yesteryear, 
shiny black, opaque 
just like the eyes that peer at you 
from the white embroidered veils 
of suspended curtains, 
still hanging from windows,
serving those denizens then,
and serving as portals today 
leading to the den of spirits, 
who still inhabit this place

spend the night unauthorized, if you dare
it's not so much eluding capture 
or a fine from the patrolling rangers 
of this USA department of interior land,
as much as it would be, or is 
the pursuit of satisfying a gnawing, 
a pervasive curiosity,
that goes both ways,
for flesh and blood, 
and for spirit beings that inhabit this domain,
they're harassing of intruders,
and intruders harassing them,
by their mere presence

for they exist in the form of miners 
who worked these hills and the mines in their wombs
they exist to watch and exploit the wandering tourist
who would be so foolish as to delve too far into their domain
in which they revel?

. . . the sound of the pounding hammers, 
the screech of those in pain, 
as timber cracked beneath the weight of the mother lode,
of the trapped and dying miners seeking wealth and fortune,
their blood and guts in the pain of gain
but for a minute time, a speck of it,
for death and their end of time to live,
. . . it quickly came at the heels of their means of support,
for their labor to sustain their lives,
spent in toil 
which in that end delivered for the rich mine owners
steeped in luscious wealth in san francisco and such,
fine wine and dining
choice meats and caviar on doily dishes
and cheeses and exotic wines
'til most of the gold ran out

their end too, came soon after,
they all ran out,
miner, owner and banker
except the gold
that forever is
always will be
it adorns someone, somewhere, somehow,
the ear, the neck the hand,
the dark,
in it it lies in bulk, 
bullion somewhere in vaults
serves in quiet to back, 
the paper that governs our lives

though ground to dust within the earth,
if lost, to be recycled again and again,
until it coalesces by thermodynamics
to find itself beckoning the seekers,
to be found, it must,
driving them to lust to find
and do or die,
to make another bodie