wanderer passing through

Don  De Lillo, and loafers all around-

wheat field chino’s,

and a crowded summer in my hometown.

haphazard inspired: I wanna travel, ship myself, train hop

out ol’ Midwest

Kansas, Iowa, Nebraska,

    some nowhere town-

a cabin, and a lake

I’ve seen it, dreamt it, written it

before…

and perhaps out there’s a diner,

the kind, where old men meet, behind on rent

the bar: cold, metallic, water spots-

memories lined upon the conversations left

There’d be a girl, hair pulled back, all unkempt

eyes caught in a storm and oddly bereft

   Myself: Another wanderer passing through… 

and… I’d look to her to save me,

or maybe I’d want to save her-

but         ring on the finger

husband works hard, one boy, two dogs

struggling to upkeep the inherited farm-

I drink my coffee, read the paper, and my map

tip too much

and it’s off to Ohio, Michigan, Montana

in search of…another  ‘just passing through’

linen, and Sunday

White linen, and Sunday sunrise

 yellow light (soft,

with dust in the lines)

a slow dance performed on pale garment dyes

“Dad!!!  Mom!!! Wake up, breakfast!!”

Burnt toast, microwave bacon, and eggs-

Our toe head son, and his Sunday special

Well ,

dear, it’s seven years ago today…

and we’re still the best decision I ever made.

9 years ago today I fell (Cliffside, tempest stirred)

for the girl between the words.
*whisper, and a kiss on the forehead*

…sleep a while longer while I redo breakfast.

Better on paper

your wet snaked hair

riding hood under that

rain drop stare

 that back street light

cones a pillar of showers’ on the flooded night.

Oh, dark Raven with sometimes screeching green eyes.

…I do love you,

you know.

It’s just… hard for me to see

love isn’t really actually poetry

it’s not so much the same

as the subtle beauty of my dreams

at least…not always.

Not every moment

gets a thousand words,

we won’t always wake with the sun

balancing between our cheeks…

I mean, I’m not the man

my words often draw me to seem.

I’m not the lover I’d like to believe

…I’m romantic, nothing grand, just subtleties-

and seldoms, and few and far betweens.

Better on paper in all honesty

but if…you can see the me beyond that which you may read…

you’re more than welcome...

Dear,     I’m yours for the taking.

shitstorm back home

glasses, and laptop bound

In my parents’ guest bedroom

the night is clear as far as I know

there’s no rain on the window-

and all it took was a video clip-

memory flashes 2 years back

I was naïve, and curious, and

stepping; a child into the world.

Those first city streets…so new to me

My friend, we drove up the coast, and

flipped a coin for where we’d make our stay…

the Great NW debut day

We ditched the car,

lost ourselves, magnificent.

got pizza and drinks at some random bar

kids in denim jackets, and long sleeve tattoo’s

Graffiti walls, and brickredpubs,

oh, how I believed everything I was doing

all the people and things were wonderful and new…

and I suppose looking back.

I still kind of do.

(waking early in paid parking lots

Walking sun, determined to find that city flat

on no income, little pocket cash)

drunk on that birthday bottle irish whiskey

We slept 2 weeks in our front seats

of that jeep…

no ties, a life in between

the stories of love I’d left behind.

(trapped on a piano key melody off Morrison and 4^th)

Under a steady downpour

I soaked up the city’s lore

and erased my past forever more

glasses and nowhere but laptop bound

Back lost in my parents guest bedroom…

there’s no rain on this fucking window.

hell, it’s probably a shitstorm back home..

goddamn,           I miss the skies,  unowned

…the paths of so many streets still unknown…

A Great Discontent

Missing my first train

caught the 8:45 into work

I had cellmates on play

when I passed by old town salt lake

but what I saw instead within the window frames

my Portland streets a shinin’ rain.

three out of every seven days...

I glimpse flash book the only home

to which I’ve ever claimed ‘my own’

three out of every seven days…

an unsettling discontent-coffee shops, and café racers

Pendleton, and ash denim jackets.

I’d probably no more than a few bucks to my name,

and I was loveless and I was symmetrical

to the clouds in that Pacific Northwest sky.

(predictably somber)

three out of every seven days

A Great Discontent -I miss those days.

scattershot unsteady

Magic tee’s, and backward baseball caps

Widmer, and the Marlboro man

laughed about at the river’s ends.

my brother and I…we finally left behind those

Green screen tree’s and storm drain streets

back to the town that supposedly raised me.

                                   * * *

twenty two to twenty three

“this is gonna be my year”

and

“my goals won’t wait forever”

I ‘d try and motivate myself

from the covers of my bed

behind the apathy of my fantasy prose

and into the thralls of touring.

but vanity and the control of image

are an ever enticing and time consuming obsession

when the art is learned.

gyms, and fitness magazines

motorcycles, and tattoo’s

these sorts of things, I always thought to be no more than a ruse

for a man supposed to be of words.

but when inside a world not my own

I got told

there was money to be made…all I heard was

“there’s money to be made.”

 being poor, and being of sallow shade

I’ve let obsession take passion’s place.

(no route, no save face)

 But on some occasional irregular Sunday mornings

I’m woken to the sound of rain…

and for an instant I think of that time under the Northwest clouds

days when I knew myself; lonely, and honorable

and driven as the storm.  I would be the author who wrote stories

of heroes people could believe in again,

piano pieces to move a crowd

but then I listen, mutter                               ‘no, I guess not. even the rain falls different here

  scattershot unsteady.’

And here I thought I was ready…

I finish my coffee, and close the laptop then

put the baseball cap on for ol’ time’s sake

head to my gym to throw around some weights.

After all, there’s money to be made.

give me time

Dear,

my once upon a dream.

my motivation,

my patience holding

.still.

you know,

I used to have for you a name

but passing through years,

pen to page

there is little that holds quite the same

even the simplest of your hues have changed.

the only thing

that remains-

you’ll be a wonder to me

glowing even if only subtly.

poetry, without words

without warning.

this world is bland,

these days…

they’re Damned. right to hell.

I doubt if I’ll ever find you here.

but I’m closer. Almost ready.

give me time,

someday, for you…I too shall shine,

transfer worlds, love in kind.

just…give me time.