melancholy morning
there is nothing like the rain
to clear away the sins
of the night before
with an Easter painted sky
and hopeful tears
for a content future
there is nothing like the rain
to clear away the sins
of the night before
with an Easter painted sky
and hopeful tears
for a content future
Drowning in the thoughts of my self made wonders, wondering did I think too much?
Thinking about swimming becomes a secondhand stresser to a cross bound to the strangers of never ending mazes.
Thoughts of a passage too deep to sail, my boat has a hole in it, too big to repair.
Arms too weak to paddle.
I wonder how long I can hold my breath?
Smoke damaged lungs seem to be an unworthy qualifier for fresh air.
My neighbor is so sweet.
She’s is 65 and widowed.
Every time I pass her property I catch a whiff of ozone.
Like when I was a kid and I’d turn on the TV and run my
fingers across the thick layer of static on the screen.
Know what I mean? Last time I saw her she smiled at
me from across the street. I could see her mouthing a word
with exaggerated display. She was either saying
“raw” or “rot” or “Your fingers are nice and skinny. Your shadow sweeps the cigarette butts into the drain pipes in this neighborhood. Your skin is pulled too tight for words to creep out of your parched, cracking lips.”
but it was hard to tell which.
On today’s humid hike
the watering hole
offered cool, sweet relief
as I submerged my body
into a pool of ripples,
but even the waterfall
cascading over limestone cliffs
and pounding across my skin
could not quell the memory —
heat ignited
when your hands cupped my face
and I plunged into your current.
And how many fell
for that same broken
love song? Of knuckle,
of split lip, forgotten lyrics,
same shit different day,
adrenaline-junkie breakdowns?
Do they fall for the dance
or the destruction? For blood-spatter
constellations, for the head-split
seronade? I’ve seen men call
concrete their canvas, their
bottle their muse-
when we’ve Pollocked every
sidewalk, what will they sing for, then?
When the going gets tough
or the pain is enough,
there’s no longer a point –
should we blow this joint?
I want to be running
the day would be stunning
the end of the flight
from that quiet night
For once I was not
and yet will never be,
without a care or thought
for all eternity.
But do you think that reason
determines the season
or when we will go
to our final show?
Stull, I long to be free
of the clutter of things
but hold to my life
and the peace that love brings.
November 13, 1997
We search for
wide tall trees,
but we only find
young saplings
instead.
We search for
salamanders as
we dip our feet into
cold cave-fed
streams,
but instead
we only find
empty
plastic bottles
and bags
bobbing
in the water.
We search for
fragile summer
orchids in the
leaves,
but instead
we find
discarded
beer cans and
cigarette butts.
We search for
peace in the
wilderness,
but instead
we find late
night music
and illegal
four-wheeler
trails.
We search for
ourselves
amid nature,
but instead
we realize
people have
cut ourselves
off,
and all that
once
restored
our hope is
disappearing
into the
darkness
of humanity.
