If a man’s to charge me now
I don’t think that I could move
Blinded by the sun
The insects stand aloof
Counting blades of grass
No luck of clovers here
Each day’s a hangman’s pity
Each night’s a cross to bear
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whether or not
Every morning
theres’s a woman
pruning bush, or
a bush pruning
woman, whether or not
either is real to me
it’s real to her,
that rose bush
pruned, green grass
now rising wet
in the morning dew
of chimney’s now
smoking, standing
in line at the DMV
with the DUI
unpaid, scratching lotto
old men lifting hats
scratching heads,
wondering like children
where all that hair
goes when it falls out
and if there’ll be
enough water
for the grass, in
the coming July drought,
no matter, still
does the woman prune
as the old me croon—
each mourning.
Golden
Tree lined
suburban, shadowed
street signs
stand aloof
in the quiet morning
daylight gloom
of happy homes
opened doors
and kisses. Questions
fall like flower petals
on sidewalks, cracked
by ancient roots
whose planted hands
can only tell
the difference between
early mornings
and daylights answers.
But the sky is new,
and the desert
Golden, only as old
as the moon which hangs
still as the sun
does rise over broken
glass bottles, which dress
Winnetka, asphalt
like a torn evening gown
come morning.
Through the air vents of my room
I’ve known a many artist in my day, say
Today old friend you come to mind
And how for a short time, your voice divine
Scratchy and old, though, you and I know
Age is just a number and it’s you who’d show
Me this: Dear, Gavin Heron Vante
Who needed a place to rest his weary head
For the night I offered you some bread
Where that night you had said, Ah man!
I haven’t seen this show in years, mind if I watch
Married with Children, Amen! Amen!
Then later I’d record you playing all the chords
I always had wish I could, watching your fingers
Slide and swoop through Sloop John B
I tried to sing harmonies but who was I kidding
Aloof in my eagerness to know everything and all
You had to offer and more, more, more I cried
Singing, drinking in the night like two old friends
Because we were in fact just two ageless nobodies
In the effortless night of somebodies
Giving me your time, cradling my wine
Looking through old photo’s now
I can still feel your spirit sing softly through
The air vents of my room
The next morning of course, saying farewell
Dropping you at Austin’s Coffee
Collecting your bicycle and taking the trash out for a buck
Needing my fix of early morning talkie
That I’m sure no one ever really gave a hoot about —
Now I hear you’re out of the Coma
That took you too soon like a phantom in the night
You were right when you told me
To take it easy man, oh man, Gavin Heron Van
Where there is no plan there in lies the plan
I now know the meaning of that age old saying
Those were the days, good sir, I give my praise
Sincerely,
Dave
P.S. There’s a place for you here, always
the bridge to Angel Valley
I set my intention
crossed the bridge to Angel Valley
unknowing of what was to come
but fully away of what I was leaving behind
I stood grounded, cool and calm
released of all tension
as if a lifetime had come undone.
It’s there I let go
of all those old ways of being
shed that snake skin feeling
and came back from beyond the pine
into that crystalline light
of my own healing.
With all stones cast
With all stones cast
There’s a pot still boiling
And a kettle left black
There’s a house still standing
With thinly cracked glass
There’s a kink in the line
With a reel still intact
There’s a spell in the ether
Waiting to be cast
With all stones thrown
There’s a hole full of flesh
There’s a crack in the arrow
There’s an angry protest
Each body a story, color, and time
Each arrow head sharpened, pristine, and divine
Each voice becomes voiceless, estranged, and unkind
With all stones turned
There lies not a soul
The truth is but squalor
Results are annulled
In a garden of daisies
Rest youthful and old
A graveyard of rubble
for silver and gold?
that old hotel
Each drive cross country
I’ve laughed, I have
Cried
Sang
Danced
Purged
Prayed
Lost and
Loved.
Etcetera,
etc…
So if you decide
to drive across state lines,
could you do me a solid?
Stop in Fayetteville.
See if that old hotel
is still standing,
the one I first told her I loved her,
—bedbugs and us—
before sleep took her away
and that cheap wine
nursed me tender
til morning’s
cruel light.
But how will you know
that old hotel? Well,
it’s just like all the rest now
I’m sure, remodeled to dust.
Another ghost among the many,
love’s whisper in the wind.
everything is
nothing new
nothing old
everything is
rand0m th0ught #110
young people
decide the future
older people
control it
nobody really wins,
this much I know
for certain
old friend
I look at you
like an old friend
someone I haven’t talked to in a while
and with enough time together
you find it odd
how good it feels
to speak again, and again
in the morning and at night
I’m the lull of mid afternoon
taking pieces of my certainty that aren’t yours to have
leading me to remember, why
we stopped speaking
in the first place.
Though you know I’ll listen when you call.
I couldn’t be that cruel.
Words Of An Average White Male 