Thursday, October 27, 2011

an observation

imagine running the first half of a marathon in proper running gear
then imagine putting on sorels and a snowmobile suit to run the second half
the desire to outrun the wind remains but the wind could dog paddle and still beat you

i think our minds should age with our bodies, but i've found one has little concern for the other
you pop the cork on the '47 Chablis and you don't see bubbles spilling out like children at recess,
shouting wee! and sliding down the stream into an orgy of chaos.
no, as the dust sighs relief, the bubbles escape gingerly, curtsy at the entrance, and demur properly.

I suppose so should we, in our pink fuzzy slippers and horrible bathrobes, as we scratch our ass
and send the cat shrieking with our best imitation of the walking dead.
but i'm finding we don't, and i think it's a damn shame for us to wake up and find ourselves
prisoners in a rusty, broken old frigidair buried in the weeds.

why weren't we told?
why did those before us pretend they were old if they really weren't?
surely i would've treated them differently

sure, my ears are growing into lazy eagle wings, though not as dramatically as Ringo Starr's
and my nose is becoming a rutabaga from Mrs. Johnson's garden
but inside, in my heart, in my mind, and in my spirit
i still play in your sandbox, my young confused friend
i still, snap my fingers, slide down the hall in my fruit of the looms
and my dick still swings from the jungle trees
though not as high up as it once did and it needs an afternoon nap

and i still get excited over root beer floats
and christmas
and i still giggle at hangovers that hurt
though they're harder to cure with just instant replay
and i know your mother, young dancer
and your father, star pitcher
and uncle ned and your naughty aunt kate
and let me tell you, they're not who you think they are
and shame on them for not telling you so

so yes, you of playful youth, pity the broken frigidaire with rusty hinges
but know the heart plays elsewhere
skipping rope over dreams no different than your own
and let me tell you young fella, who surely will follow my trail
it's all a sham and i'm here to cure the lie
your life will not end at thirty or even forty
at fifty you will not grow an obsessive love for bingo
at sixty you will not long for rocking chairs
at seventy your heart will still beat as twenty
and your mind will be a willing accomplice
looping never ending remembrance
in hopes of spurring a desire that never grows old
and to this cause,
we should never surrender
and certainly
not be ashamed

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Cohen and the apple

your toe has dipped, swirled and tingled
in the clear crystal pool of first love
and yet it recoiled, to the burning chill

you've held an apple, stroked it
bitten it
but the juices flowed bitter
for it was not the apple
and there is, but only one, you see

now onward through the garden
and the landscapes of growing
you blaze a trail that must be your own

and as you breeze and sometimes trip
through the lush fields of your passing
i tell you this, through a knowing fear

carry your book of Cohen
through the mall, into class
right there out front
for others to see

there will be one who will notice
and he will have eyes deep as silence
and hair where it don't belong
and he will be alone

and he will love you
and you him, but only for a time
and then you both will grow sense
and live as you must

i tell you this in knowing
he will not stay, nor
will you let him
but in this journey yet unseen
but somewhat perceived
he will be the apple
and the juices shall never
run dry, vanquishing regret

Saturday, October 15, 2011


i wonder, the trees, what do they think
to see it churn, devour, lumber up and down
like a mechanical bull gone mad in the town square
or mrs. peedwinkle in the church basement,
with her fingers clutched with skirt

they appear in the fall, out of nowhere
going everywhere
like migrating dinosaurs
hungry for the harvest

and as they chew up the land
razor-clip the wheat, soybeans and corn
i think too, of the stories told
of seasons past and generations gone

they thresh the history of families
birth, laughter and tragedy
told over early coffee
or that late afternoon beer
when the truck feels its leather

and these trees, where gray squirrels plot their larceny
they too have seen it all from the edge of woods
where does give birth to a bulging freezer
and seasons upon seasons have been
laid across their aging

and i wonder as the wind blows one more
what do they think
to see such passing
these trees, silent stanchion

Monday, October 10, 2011

The Trip

them first hundred miles were somethin, weren't they?
we had the top down, hair blowin
not another car in sight and all the cops
in the donut shop
fuck! we fairly flew

then it got a little rougher as
the mountains grew in the windshield,
summer passed and we had to put the top down.
still though, a damn pretty ride

there was swimming in the hollow
sleeping under the stars
fucking in the moonlight
and a laughter immeasurable

but then we lost that hubcap in livingston
then that flat in lansing
a radiator here, a fan belt there
and the radio died in greensboro

still we held to the road
and still we clung to each other
knowing, it was all we had

but then the fat cops full of donuts
spied our weakness and licked their pens
and then that damn blizzard we didn't see coming
snow blinded the summer of our ease

we bought a few tools
tried even to paint the dusty wreck
but it was no match for the gravel roads
that every detour led to

it sits there now, in the weeds
at the edge of the field
mice build there nests where we slept
bees sleep in the trunk where we hid our dreams
and us?
well, it was a hell of a ride wasn't it?

we drove that bitch as far as she'd take us
leaving a trail of breakdown
we hardly noticed

still, no regrets
it was a helluva ride
a once in a life time trip
few will ever know

Wednesday, October 5, 2011


names of places are to me
like a child i might have fathered
but never known

alberta is a blizzard i should've avoided
sacramento the chance i never took
baton rouge the girl who picked me clean
and ol abilene, that summer without friends

paris is the man i wanted to be
Kilimanjaro is the man i became
and that dream of love was austin
while capetown became my shipwreck

once, my father was butte
and his brother missoula
but my father became branson
after his brother went to deadwood

and malibu is who my mother should've been
but seattle she became

as a wayfarer, i go places
and places become shelves
and drawers where i keep things
and the truth
keeps them organized

Sunday, October 2, 2011

My Horoscope

are you the dickhead i just passed?
my cheap fag bobs as an undecided fish
as i mutter obscenities

and so it goes,
me and dickead playing highway hopscotch
or is it white line leapfrog?
cuz he's too stupid to be consistent

this makes me remember my horoscope
which i read like it matters
knowing it doesn't

"you are not on earth to judge
and punish your fellow travelers
though sometimes
their actions will frustrate you"

well, no shit sherlock!

i read my ex-girlfriend's too,
as if it matters

"you made the right choice
and happiness is just
around the bend"

see? they're always wrong!

Jesus was a taurus i think,
the pope made him one
by blowin some orange smoke
or maybe just to explain
why he kicked over those tables
and cursed the innocent fig

we can be ornery bastards,
us taurus
though Jesus wasn't a bastard
and probably not a taurus
just sick of the bullshit
we humans dabble in

hey dipshit!
it's rainin! wanna turn on your wipers?
oh! brilliant move ass hole!

I'm not even gonna read it tomorrow
it's all a bunch of hooey
and she'll never be happy
you'll see

beep beep
up yours fuckwad!