my young bones

it is late at night

i’m outside of the local pool

talking with a girl

she is leaning against a car

or a fence, it is too far away

in the past for me to be sure

i’m walking home from school

it is very cold and my ears hurt

the winters are cold

but never snowy

the red hills stay clean

there was this guy

who set up a curio shop

in his garage

he had guns, swords and coins

i would stop by after school

but i never had any money

to buy anything anyways

i would pass by the chapel

it was on the main road

so it was hard to avoid

most days it was quiet, alone

the dark windows staring out

there were several small hotels

with names like shiprock and canyon lodge

looking back now, i wonder

who ever stayed in them?

our driveway was flanked

by two telephone poles

like someone wanted

a ranch style entryway

welcome to red hills ranch!

i built a terrible treehouse

not a single straight line anywhere

but i did it myself

it was nice to sit there

uncomfortable as it was

i hated those years

i was miserable, getting older

becoming worse and worse

everyday i stayed still

and the dirt and weeds

clambered over my young bones

blue is the color of the sky

this morning the color of the sky intrigued me

it was blue to be certain

blue, but not a dark blue, no

and not a washed-out halfway-living pale-blue either

this was a strong blue

although, i think the sky was also sad

as there was a hashing strong grey

a bleaky undertone, shading it darker

on the horizon, a fight against the dawn surely,

more so an inward looking calmness

facing the sharp reality

as the sun assuredly awoke

cold blue grey, strong and vibrant,

and there was some purple in there too

but purple is not a color to be taken seriously

purple is a dinosaur, purple is grape soda

purple is red’s inbred cousin in a clown suit

so the less said about purple the better

i wonder when i will see that color again

before a storm? as the clouds are still far

of after? when the heavens have been scrubbed

will i see it tonight as i drive home from work

and the headlights wash the sky with luster

get away today

how much time is wasted today, how much money spent, on wasted lives drawn out, quartered and portioned, sealed in a light celophane for all to see.  hollywood feelings, i wanna go there, be there, do it all.  palm trees growing out the pavement.  sunshine down the boardwalk, a sidewalk carnival show; look there is the freak, doing splits in his underwear and can you see the elephant woman in the bright orange bikini?   venice beach, long wide stretches of sand, the boardwalk jutting out into the ocean, can we get farther away?  you want to get away?  you can’t escape from the avenues of crowded housing, strip malls with sushi bars, spill soy sauce on your shirt, little girls riding big one-speed bikes past the showers, and fast food everywhere.  for a place as concerned about your figure as california there sure are plenty of restaurants.  too much money in too small a space.  everyone has an angle, everyone is unique, everyone is a soulless shell shuffling past.

would you want to know

how would you know if you were dead?

how could i know if i was alive or dead, living my afterlife?

maybe all i see and all i have is my reward for the life i lived

and this way of living now; going to work, weekends at home

and cleaning out the garage will go on forever

the occasional late night, seeing a red sky at dusk

and listening to a running river the compensation i’ve earned

and would it be so bad if it was?  yes there are sad moments

but all in all they are well balanced out by the happier times

playing with my daughters, talking with my son,

listening to my wife, if it went on forever

it wouldn’t be so bad

i have heard it said that we know the difference

between our waking lives and our dreams

by the consisteny of our waking hours

but by all accounts, eternity sounds very steady to me

so maybe, perhaps, possibly

would i want to know?

an easy anonymity

I walk down the city street in an easy anonymity

Keeping a tight, straight line, daring someone to bump me.

People usually step aside; occasionally they aren’t aware

Until it’s far too late, and then they tap and dance and twirl,

Gyrate to the left or right to avoid crowding me.

Blame it on the easy anonymity the city blesses us with,

But you know as well as I do; in a crowd you are innocent

You could slip away from murder, bump off your sister,

Play with matches and burn down the bodega, chances are

You wouldn’t be caught in the city

Blameless, inculpable, irreproachable, unimpeachable,

The city gives us this, the crowd covers us,

I walk a straight line, bump into little old ladies and kids,

Women with strollers give me ground with sharp turns

And immediately I disappear into the crowd.

six days before christmas

it snowed six days before christmas.

only three or four inches, but still enough

to muffle the sunday morning drive over murley mountain

(which really isn’t a mountain, really)

it was a good clean snow, easily packed

and so between the sunday meetings

i went out with the kids and threw snowballs

much to the displeasure of the irksome fusspot janice

after the services were over everyone–except janice–joined in

i hit jenny and knocked her knitted cap right off

clare-ann got me with a well placed smack

and some ice went down my shirt

making a silvery burning path down my back

the little ones laughed and ran around

even old man reilly got a snowball in the shoulder

as he made his slow way to the taxi

my hands felt like ice cold iron blocks

being pounded on with heavy hammers

my heart felt lite, warm and full of sunshine

my morning commute

my morning commute is an hour and twenty minutes long

some mornings it is a joy

jaunting down small country roads,

then joining the highway to race into the morning sun

there are the mornings i drive in silence

and watch the trees and rivers pass by

in fuzzy, glazed contemplation

i hardly ever use the radio

perferring to listen to my iPod

take in an hour long podcast from Radiolab

or two Tindersticks albums, back to back

my morning commute is an hour and twenty minutes long

and when i reach belfast

and the traffic picks up as more and more

cars join the cold throng

i kissed a guy

i kissed a guy once

he was small, had a nice round face, crooked smile

kept his hair in a strict part on the left

and wore oxblood dr martens with his suit

i did it on a dare

it was late, there were four of us in the apartment

they were staying overnight

in from coleraine, big meeting in the morning

it was a quick kiss

but not one of those pecks on the upper cheek

that was part of the dare, it had to be lips or nothing

and i am not one to back down

i found out much later–

years and years later when I found him

on some sort of posting forum–

that he was gay

funny how that works

now you and i both know that kismet,

fate, irony, and destiny don’t really work that way

but ain’t it funny

whip pop snap

 

it was terribly windy as i was driving to work this morning

and at a busy intersection i was about four cars back

when this man began to cross the street

he was moderately bundled up, it was windy, rainy and cold after all

and he had a small umbrella

he would hold the umbrella in front of himself, blocking the wind and rain

then the wind would catch it, flip it forcefully inside out

he would pull it back in front, and it would snap back against the wind

then he would take three steps

holding the umbrella, bracing against the wind

then the wind would catch it, whip it forcefully inside out

he would mangle it back in front, and it would pop back

then he would take three steps

all the way across the street, then down the sidewalk

umbrella popping in and out, back and forth

pop, flip, step step step

whip, pop and snap, step step

 

 

other people’s lives

the train slows,

hissing brakes and

iron rails sound out,

the platform

comes

into

view

how many towns

or stops in the city

have we seen?

perched at the window

looking out

how many people

live solitary lives

on the other side

of fences

of walls

of cities

and rivers?

other people’s lives

move swiftly past our own.

the train lurches

as the engine picks up

the rails cry out

as the platform

slowly

moves

past

the train slows,

hissing brakes and

iron rails sound out,

the platform

comes

into

view

how many towns

or stops in the city

have we seen?

perched at the window

looking out

how many people

live solitary lives

on the other side

of fences

of walls

of cities

and rivers?

other people’s lives

move swiftly past our own.

the train lurches

as the engine picks up

the rails cry out

as the platform

slowly

moves

past