Moments Falling

Tonight was a lifetime.
Slowed until
eternity was a prison
with dancing immortal
specs of dust
distant ancestors
composing a cosmos
deep and infinite.
You told me in the attic
and now I’m afraid of heights
the same cosmic rhythm
throbbing to the beat of blood
in my ear
removes air, moisture, and time
from my mouth.
Tomorrow I will breath and drink
and remember again
if it ever comes.

if it ever comes.

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Scissor, Rock, Paper

The summer of 2008
is still neatly
cut away from my forgetting mind.
Protected by a holy space –
a vacuum that the eaters
of words cannot
travel.

Our apartment
was a typical
triple-decker. Cluttered
like the 20 somethings
that shambled its
ancient wooden floors.
Everything creaking.
Underneath discarded shoes
separated from their pairings,
scattered papers,
and underwear
there existed a skin I don’t
think we ever saw more than once.

The action atop that firmament
played out very differently.
In a room discarded by everything else
I sat with black coffee,
keeping time with circles in a cup
to the constant heart beat
of the house,
and I wrote over the prayers
and whispers that came through the walls.
It was isolated but not lonely.

You
were more interested
in unions than exposition.
More than one person
lead by an extended hand
past the womb in which
I feverishly wrote.
The bright light of the kitchen
silhouetted your umbilical march.
Sometimes slurred or staggered
yet always like a salmon returning
to the place of its birth.

Laying amidst
so many discarded half-poems
I could keep time
to you and be jealous
that while a fire raged inside you
I was left only with messy sheets
and a laptop. It wasn’t until 5
years later that you told me
you always felt the same.

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Home, for now.

I thought I would explore
brave new worlds,
since I was stuck at home.
I walked down Main Street.
Ate a childhood pizza
from the pizza store
I grew up in.
I drove down the streets
that I walked down.

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A Cigar That Is Just A Cigar

Had a dream last night –
must’ve been something
I ate. Or something
that happens more often
without me. Under things.
Things greater than covers,
stronger than night lights,
and too deep to be quenched
by warm milk.
Every thing I’ve ever seen
making guest appearances
trying to reach out
back into my life,
though they are gone.
My grandfathers coin collection,
yard sale paintings,
thrift store outfits.
I always liked old things
like nighttime rainbows
unseen but permeating
through bad timing,
lack of light,
mistaken identity.
I woke up afterward
only to find everything
I’ve ever seen
rearranged, changed
in my room – like
mythical beasts.
My collection of dirty t-shirts,
my college education,
empty well-intentioned diaries.

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Hung Over

The last fleeting memories
like leftover half-opened beers
are collected for recycling.
Residue of revelry
sticks to the table
soaking yesterday’s news
with sepia tones
like the faux wanted posters
we made in grade school
and stained with mother’s tea bags.
Reward 30 silver pieces
for salvation from
my own bad decisions.

I stand to let my perception
orbit my mind
strange queasy loops
made visible by the drinking
caused by the thirst
of my tongue,
caused by the hunger
of my stomach,
caused by the removal
of my food,
caused by the failures
of my mind,
caused by the God
of my heart,
the God of my feelings,
the God of my neediness,
my fragility, and my insecurity.
Caused by the emptiness
of my last drink.

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Victory

Ours are the only lights in downtown Worcester
Electricity is a fragile touch at 40 miles an hour.
These are the nights of youth for young inventors
With drinks and smiles, like us, and the three ladies at the bar.
Simplicity is the power to resist holding tongues,
to ignore ethical necessity, to allow change to rout
the phalanx of lightless office buildings. We’re the ones
made of stories, eyes of hallow grounds, we’re figuring out
distance means being flightless in our feelings and honesty
means being selective with our sounds

Our night was filled with worlds of swirling smoke,
poetry if not honesty, and memories that fade like city lights.
Ash falls on our outfits, burning from our cigars as we spoke
about health nuts who would never live thru these Worcester nights
with any sanity or soul. We talk about where we’d rather be;
Israel, Germany, Florence (with a lady sleeping next to me) –
But mostly we talk about going back in time and just doing this more often.
Outside, a different building, a different person, a different whole watches
through eyes without curtains too dark to see.They count off
ten orange cones marking a different route home. In their subconscious
they’ll recall 3 men exiting a bar who entered as boys at a birthday party.
Their shared victory would be timeless as they drove back in the dark.

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One Day You Will Stand

You will stand one day, surrounded by loved ones
Perhaps one too many, with perhaps too many memories
and when you look out onto the sea of colors
You’ve dreamt about since you were young
There will be once exception – a bright red tux
owned by the piano man – hired to play his songs
he looks oddly familiar to you.

Never the less you breathe deep.
Before things can get started his fingers move
unlike anything you’ve ever seen, perhaps except in a dream
and his black shaggy hair begins to sway
as a familiar tune begins to play.

You aren’t supposed to cry that early in the night
at least that wasn’t the plan
But no power either god or man could’ve stop the tears
as you recognize that song,
memories of passed nights,
slow dances, one too many drinks,
and scribbled poems on cloth napkins
at stuffy suit and tie affairs.
Afterwards you will look for the man to ask why
on earth he would play such a tune
or if perhaps he somehow knew –
but he had gone.

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What Memories Do

Mrs. Wilson loved her memories
because her family had moved away
when her hair turned as gray as the skies
and her ears never heard ‘goodbyes’.
So she hung onto each hello all day
remembering her children fondly.
Until she died.

Mr. Red’s memories drove him to drink.
The rain filled air made his body ache
like an imaginary force pushing him until he’d break,
a force no more or less imaginary than his right arm
which he often thought was their when he awoke at night
but phantoms aren’t always what you think.
He lost it in the war.

Then there is Clay, whose memories are yet unformed
He still thinks that girls stink
and that cookies are best served warm.
He does not pause to remember the belly ache
he had gotten Sunday, in a similar way
when he devoured mamma’s pie, freshly baked.
She scolded him good for that one.

What of young Dana, who is a memory her self.
Her picture snuggled tightly
On Mrs. Abernathy’s bookshelf.
Mrs. A often remarks on Dana’s long hair
and how she had increased in height,
she is stunned to hear that Dana might
be bringing her new boyfriend here.

Delilah loved her memories until last week
when her boyfriend realized he was not in love
(it wasn’t her though, it was him,
He had other girls to seek)
Thoughts which once brightened her day
Now caused only clouds,
She wonders if he felt the same. (He did, not that it helped).

Lastly there is Pavel, who doesn’t remember much at all
His brain simply doesn’t want all the fuss
So new ideas, or bad ideas, are tossed out all the same
Leaving young Pavel the very confused sort.
He often wonders what its like to know where you are
or to taste something familiar, or when his mother will come home.
(She’s remained in the other room too long).

Such is all I can tell you about memories
that they are new and old, good and bad
and if your smart they will serve you well.
Which reminds me of a story I’d like to tell
about an old lady who was always smiling
I used to visit her at the hospital.
I think her name was Mrs. Wilson.

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