This place flattened
And stretched
The trees and their shadows
Into one long dark path.

They used to run
And plod
Through this brilliant grass,
Now combed and pinned tightly to the ground.

Silly tradition,
Moving that tassel
And flashing I Love You’s;
Flashes snap; smiles fade.

This place used to be
Filled with you,
Stomping, shouting, whooping,
Climbing these trees and their shadows.

The grass longs for your feet,
The trees long for your weight,
I long for your little emergencies,
Your collective eyebrows, Your elbows.

I miss your bruised knees,
Your endless complaints,
Your excuses, your wild voices,
This place is flat.

It stretches the trees
And their shadows,
Pins down the smooth grass.
I’ll sit on the steps and wait.

Frustration

We came with notebooks and pens.
These are not weapons.
Not on purpose.
We came with our ready hands.
Not to fight,
But to talk.
We came knowing you.
Knowing you don’t listen,
We came anyway.
We stayed to watch you:
Make a phone call.
Change your mind.
Wander off to get cake.
We stood when it was our turn.
You stayed seated.
We watched you draw a bell
And delegate our feelings to the edges.
Between bites,
Your corners stained with frosting,
You told us to love you.
You told us we are appalling failures.
You told us you cried.
Someone asked you for honesty.
And crumbs fell out of your mouth.
We left knowing you.
Knowing you didn’t listen,
Unclenching our fists
And sweeping our laps
With our palms.

Strangers

When my mother closes her eyes at night, she is visited by the faces of strangers. Her mind relaxes and faces appear and slide over, smiling faces; sad faces; all of them new to her. She watches their eyes as they drift by. They watch her back. In the morning, they crowd around her before fading into the deepening red background of her eyelids. The light seeps through her window shades and the strangers laugh, or cry, or turn away. My mother wakes up each day with company. She never faces a day alone.

My Tree

A trick of light that only happens in autumn, late autumn, sets this tree on fire, every afternoon as I get in my car to head home. The sunlight completely ignores the other trees and hits only this one with it’s high beams.

It is good to pause and stand in utter awe after the day bruises us with it’s ridiculously tiny fists. It is good to stand transfixed in light and color, shaking like branches off the frustrations that make life so beautiful and so silly. Shedding the little things we shouldn’t worry about: Those shattered pieces we pick up every day; those streaks of color that fall just outside our vision; the stuff we can’t keep intact and shouldn’t try. The things we cling to, hold up, compare, rename, classify, judge and collect.

Today, even against the stark snowy backdrop, the tree looked cement gray.  I am reminded of Bukowski and Hinton and the reality of magic.

travel

This Morning

The sky fell down and bumped her knees against the horizon
The blood pooled just under her skin
And spilled
Transforming the deep blue night
Into a violently hued morning

I skewed my mirrors up up toward her
Ignoring the too-bright headlights
Driving too close behind me
I upturned my eyes
I aimed myself at her shins

But she slipped out from behind the hills
Howling in pain
And set the clouds on fire
Before I could reach her
Blue night to blue day

I lowered my eyes and my mirrors
Raised an unfriendly finger to
The headlights behind me
And drove on.

Music and Life

“We thought of life by analogy with a journey; with a pilgrimage, which had a serious purpose at the end. And the thing was to get to that end: success or whatever it is- or maybe heaven, after you’re dead. But we missed the point the whole way along. It was a musical thing and you were supposed to sing or dance while the music was being played.”

The Blue of Far Away

“Where are the blue leaves?” I asked her when we stood in the woods of changing autumn, “If green is yellow mixed with blue, where does the blue go?”

She laughed and the trees shivered. A fleet of yellows, oranges and reds sailed around me and harbored in the dirt. “Blue is only for the Far Away. Everyone knows that.”

“But it had to be here to make green.”

“The plants feed from the Far Away and it lends them their color, as it does to the sea, in reflection. But it is not Here.”

“And the Jays and the Blue Birds; the blue butterflies and the dragonflies?” I listed.

“They are merely singed blue, from flying through the Far Away.”

I thought. “Where is Here?”

She laughed again and the glowing carpet of leaves rose up in a twirling dance. “Here is where you are. It always is. There is only The Here, The Near, The Horizon and The Far Away.”

“What about There, Yonder, Hither and Thither?” I tried.

This time she laughed so hard, whirling leaves left bald spots in the trees. I was standing waist deep.

“Those are funny jokes,” she said as I climbed out the leaves and sat down on top of them, “They are other words for Near.”

“Where is the golden sunset?”

“The Horizon.”

“Where is yesterday?”

“In your mind, of course.”

“Tomorrow?”

A cold silence followed my question. A sudden intake of breath chattered my teeth and constricted my lungs. My ears stung. “That,” her voice, a hailstorm, “is none of your business.”

The sun shone through the cold branches and I moved to a brighter spot. I waited.

“I am Here.” I offered as a sort of apology

“Yes, where you always have been.”

“Yes.” I agreed.

“Well?”

“Well!” I attempted.

“Don’t you think you’d better get started?”

“Huh?” I gave up.

“You’ve been Here. You’ll always be Here. But you must try to get to Near. Why don’t you know any of this yet?” Her words were chiding, but kind.

I looked around me. The fallen leaves had cleared the view of a bit of sky an rising hills at The Horizon. “Will I ever get to Far Away?”

Of course! But don’t get ahead of yourself. You can’t get to Far Away until you leave Here. And you can’t leave Here until you fail to get Near, find yourself Here again, but only long enough for you to reach the Horizon. Then you can follow gold, real gold to The Far Away.”

“Ah. I see.” (Although I didn’t.)

“No you don’t,” she laughed, “now get!” And leaves flew at my back. I walked out of the forest.

I trudged on, rested, and pressed on again. I picked up a staff for walking. I pulled the leaves that were still tangled in my hair and wove them into a crown the color of fire. I cast my eyes forward, just in front of my moving feet. And I watched them walk.

The Opposite of Friend

What is the opposite of friend?
A dangling question;
Drowning fishes;
The Arizona Desert.
Unexpected silence.

Growing up in my family
Was much like hiding.

When I was little,
I owned a microscope set.

As it turns out,
I am all-seeing but not all-knowing.

When I close my eyes,
I hear a song:

‘Cause there’s a Continental Trailways leaving local bus tonight, good evening
You can have my seat, I’m sticking round here for a while
Get me a room at the Squire, the filling station’s hiring,
And I can eat here every night, what the hell have I got to lose?
Got a crazy sensation, go or stay? now I gotta choose,
And I’ll accept your invitation to the blues

I am not interested in geography;
What I want to know is,
When?

What is the definition of friend?

Sexy Sex and Juicy Fruit Gum and Titles That Don’t Match Posts

It has now reached ridiculous levels.
They are not only the kind of people
Who care more about the X in the box,
Not a check, an X!
More about that little tiny box
With an X (not a check) in it,
Than what it means to educate.
They care more about punishing
See? I took care of it! Aren’t I good?
Than teaching.
They have no idea that they are a joke:
The laugh of the district.
They think they are modeling positive behavior
But I can see the skin is starting to stretch thin
Around their mouths.
I am waiting for it to tear like wet paper
And for the ink to run
Down their chins.
I am waiting for rain, for the circus,
For Something to Happen.
I am waiting for Truth.