old

7emporal

New music

from an old favorite.

Suddenly

I am 25

again:

transported;

but,

like an accidental celebrity,

surrounded by minders,

I am quickly retrieved

from this reminiscent

revelry.

The realities

of reality

intrude

to move me along

this piteous red-carpet

of aged-fame

brought on by little else

but the passage

of time.

25 years ago

such engorgement

of emotion

was concurrent with

the ignorant belief

of destiny.

Well…

that’s been put-paid to.

Still, for 7 seconds

I was reminded of

the endless passion,

energy

and optimism

of a long-gone man-child.

That was illuminating;

…disturbing…

grounding.

Immolated insolence

We’re all old…

getting older.

Somehow

youth knows this

but is unaffected.

This myopia

lasts a long time,

but ultimately

yields

in a rending blow

across the bow,

sending a panic

through long-aching

bones.

It was never a secret,

it was well known

and well ignored

(long guarded

and feared).

Now it grips the soul

in a deaths embrace

of crushing truth.

Revealed,

in a harsh half-light

of our own illuminating.

Deep cuts

More on melancholy:

Listening to music,

tonight,

that was seminal

in my twenties.

The words

echoed back through memory,

trying to reinforce

the mood of those times;

they failed.

Time

and experience

have rendered me numb

to these prior aspects.

I’m not sure

that I can be reached,

not by music, anyway…

…anyway.

These albums I listened to

on loop

are all like old photos

of people I once knew:

I recall the moments,

But not why they mattered.

Sundays…… and so on

Some great songs

from 30 years ago

(thanks prime)

and my mind reels 

at the conversion

from youth

to ruin…

 …well,

drama aside, 

it feels that sudden. 

Yesterday I popped

that singular cassette

into my dumpy car 

(a car more loved 

than any “far-better” car

I have owned since) 

and watched the world

reveal itself  to me

while inviting me

to the glories of a youth

unfolding. 

Today…

well, 

my four-year-old seems intrigued

by the music

of yesterday. 

Old…

or older…

It sucks,

and the perspective gained

goes ignored. 

Fideles

Christmas is
too melancholy;
so looked forward to,
and so quickly passed
as to draw sadness
from the ether.
The wait
and anticipation
bring so much
sentimentality
and echoes
of youth
and past
that no present reality
can reasonably match
those fuzzy memories
(made sacrosanct
by time and trials)
or supplant them
with new ones.
Then,
with the soft whuff
of needle on vinyl,
Bing sings the Latin
of Adeste Fidelis
and I realize
that
my three-year-old son
has never heard
this gift
before,
and some hope
is restored
that new yesterday’s
are possible
and happening
now.