thirty summer

carving words out of willows

I remember once

I remember once,
back when I played bass guitar
that a member of the Hell’s Angels
told me I needed to stick with it,
that I had talent.
Now I write poetry.


And the night becomes

The dim light cascades
shadows across the room
making skeletons out of chairs and tables,
and amid the remains are
those who have suffered through the day
wearing skinny-girl pants and carrying smiles
wearing sandals in June and singing in styles
new to me — it’s all so new to me
and I let it linger a bit
over a cup of coffee
as the dim light resides over the shells of buildings

and the Earth moves, and the Earth moves.

It was just for a moment, I felt I was the edge of desire
and now as if a bloom of noise, I feel something else.
The eclectic is now electric and moves like a cobra
through the air and the desire is now despair.
We move on like business and commerce
and push through the afternoon as if we are Bearers of Scorn.
It used to be over bottles and bottles that we would
kill the evening and watch the sun die
but now its over laughter and loitering
and some of us are mad in the streets.

and the Earth moves.

Its darker now in Indiana where a family
becomes a story becomes a fable becomes lore
and a family in Arizona simply becomes lore.
There is a family in Texas that sings songs of praise
and though I might not be home yet, it feels alright.
The insane help the words find the phrase.

As a new night is christened, I think of the families
I have been a part of, for better or for worse
and I am reminded that we are all people —
flesh and bone and teeth and eye lashes —
Ah, but the voices in the air tonight
also let me remember that we are not always so human,
as we pour it out of our mouths
as we pour it out of our casks
and sing praises for better and for worse.

The dim light cascades.

The Earth moves.

And the night becomes.