Any sad reminder
of the change of seasons
doesn’t come at once:
It sends its foot-soldiers ahead,
to soften the blow.
Things like:
Replacing the batteries
in an illuminated curio
that fights the increasing shadows
with the fulminant vigor
of a kitten.
Stay; drifting shadows,
pull back your declinations.
I still want more…
more sunshine,
more warmth…
a little more summer
for the soul.
Tragedy is foresight
mixed with wilful
ignorance.
So moving, this simple park:
Its grassy frame
conceals families,
lovers,
friends,
confidence….
Time will pass,
and this pretend divide
(earnestly defended)
will again flow
with the shared blood
of its connected peoples.
Still;
this exists
in a new space…
in time,
a miracle
…
so, now what?
Divisive
dissonance
decides
the dance card.
Tumult and alacrity
compete for truth
while cadence
and caution
are cast to the ditch.
It’s our stamp,
our mark…
we alone wear it,
while hiding from it
all the same….
We are all slipping away,
(Hans Gruber in mid-fall)
watching ourselves tumble,
and wondering,
“Where did I
fuck it all up?”
Sometimes life
does this weird thing
where reality
actually enters
into the scene.
(Awkward!)
We laugh as this occurs
(we suddenly see ourselves
in our shame-y nakedness!)
That’s it. All our flaws,
set before us,
as if in a banquet.
Worse still,
we’re the only guest.
Life feels
empty…
sometimes.
Age, or its equivalent,
saps the will
of even the most resilient.
We will fight,
for the most prescient
narrative…
true or not.
Don’t…
simply don’t.
Is it objective?
Yes.
It is.
Life is a story you tell.
Make your stirrups
dig deep.
Cut hide, or fall behind….
Right?
Out of touch…
asynchronous.
My son uses language
that used to cause bruises…
I must recall
that I was ruined
by youth once,
too.
I am aware,
more and more,
that nobody thinks
like me…
though it never mattered
before these vicious times.
Contrarian was a badge
worn with pride.
I find
an anchor where it once lay.
I retreat
to the shell of solitude
crafted from memories
and acceptable modern variants
of the respected ideals
I once cherished.
My boy explains his position
in terms reserved for friends,
and I allow it.
Life moves onward,
I don’t want
to get in the way.
We’re all talking
the same language,
we just don’t know
the exchange rate.
Looking back into my memories
and seeing these events, once again,
I (for the first time)
feel like an interloper.
These are my memories,
but, that’s not significant.
This was a young man,
firm in his prime,
and my presence
soils
his sanctum.
He says,
“Get sleepy, old man…
your slumber is the only place
where dreams are negotiable.”
What we are doing
is not what we are.
It is
what was done
to us…
for us
by us.
We made this,
our hands are dirty.
They will get dirtier.
It’s what we want.
What happened to what was?
I’m going to sound like
an aging whiner
who cannot handle change,
(I can, it’s worth noting)
but not
as swiftly
as this.
I want to wrap myself
around some bit of our flotsam,
some gesture of “the before”,
and wait with worried pause
that the right lifeboat comes along…
otherwise I’m floundering,
drowning under the weight,
of words without purpose.
Ink (flows, stains). 