twenty springs babe

poem II, untitled

If I could only tell it so as to be a film for you,

so you could sit and view

the brightly painted roofs atop the hill.

If I could spill this story out

so you would know the way it felt

beneath the water over the rock,

the way it stopped our lungs and stole the air

and how it left us lingering there.

If I could say it like I saw it,

if I could draw for you the faces,

the way a crooked chin and gapping grin lit up a room,

the hips that looked like they were laughing when they moved.

If I could play a note to sound like distant roosters

and pretend to let you in on all of this

it’d be a lie,

but not to try? I’ll try

and paint the picture of the coffee brewing

or of my mother cooking at the stove

but how should you ever know 

the way the storm clouds smelt

rolling over the mountain before dinner?

I’ll try to tell it how it was

and if not for you, then just because

its nice to remember again. 

hungover thoughts in writing (excerpt from journal)

I want to meditate more, get drunk less…cook more, starve myself less…love more, look for love less…read more, talk about needing to read less…sleep more, run more, stretch more, call my Grando more, draw more, walk more, pray more, laugh more, do more, see more, be more…more, more, more, more, more. I want more of life like a horny teenager wants more. I’m in love with this life. I’m infatuated & smitten with it, with me, with being and see other beings be..

It’s interesting how many feelings we are capable of. How one day the world is like an inevitable event we try to wish away & the next we just can’t get enough of it. Today I can’t get enough. I’d order (for lack of a better word) a fuckload more of these days if I could. Life’s been sweet to me, damn sweet. I’m a ball of orange energy and I know fun like a brother. At least for today anyways.

untitled poem, written March 8, 2012 in a library

I watch the outline of a wave
shift into longer stretches of pearly foam and then
lift to form newer strips of itself until it
shifts again.
It drifts,
entering in and 
out of itself
like a thousand silk worms weaving together.

It’s as if the tide never turns,
but re-turns into itself.
As if time is never spent,
only re-spent,
and my footprints in the sand 
had been waiting for me.