Chasing Planes

just found this hidden today, from May 2010:


You know I was sitting on the porch swing with my bare legs placed high on the chains, and across the summer-paleblue sky ripped an airplane. And I chuckled to myself, feeling nostalgic. And I reached my right hand out and held on to either wing for a couple kilometers....

And I flickered open my far long-tired eyes and there were trees blurring past in such a rhythm that it felt like accelerating and sighing all at once





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Poem - "It's Cosmic"

This is quite an oldie of mine, but an old wintery memory with an old friend


Have you heard the sounds made - 
When a thrown log hits the iced coating on a lake?
It bounces frozen wood fibers- into molecules of coming snow - 
It bounces against the seasonal death of our other-selves, 
And all that "yes" can make. 


When it was that our limbs faced opposite lanes;
In the centerfold of a midnight street - 
In the forested pit of what it is, I'll still use - still have - 
After we've sat for seconds so much longer.
'Cause seconds move far away...


From kissing the taste of merlot on eager lips; 
The molded words that form broken bodies.
Phasing one December night into tropical palms - 
Clasped upon the distance;
Lie back on the cracked dark concrete.


"It's cosmic" he said as he looked to the stars - 
And I traced the line that he made,
Across the ravenous terrain of a full-moon heart;
A folklore farewell with crochet goal posts - 
On the blunt head - BLONK - And there we were - 
Rolling delicacies of nothing serious








.

Mute with thoughts

I feel the distance now that there is between the graves of my ancestors and myself. The bones of my lates.
The place where my namesake lies.
And it wears with guilt.
When I feel them long for me.
When I feel it's time to go home.

So I've grown mute lately with thoughts.
Such thoughts, and all the others...
Far too many to converse much.
It lingers on my search for replies and repertoire.
The short years, they've really changed me.
The old letters to myself taped up; I hardly notice them...

Crack. The lightening shudders with - a thunderstorm in January.
The strangeness of it.
The plains must be thinking of the same past.
And of the coming spring too soon.
And I must be long dis-acquainted with my mind.



.

Shifting the time again

Sometimes this city just gets me - in that great way - walking the quarter block over the icy bridge West,
as the cold wind
whips by with the people;
and the snow is falling…..

And sometimes this city just gets at me - and aches all hollow -
when everyone is packing up
again
and shifting about in ways I just don't quite understand.

And it's time to go.

Cause I twitch
the same way. 

And seek to throw it all in a truck
again
and just drive.
Drive
across the heavy weight of this country, teaching
my new eyes what they learned once.
And then forgot.

So if you wake with me tomorrow I might just whisper
"I'm leaving" .

Guess we're figuring it's just killing time.