The Hoot

My Father’s Orchard

“Move on,” he reads. “Seek not the low hanging, but the new blossoms,” he weeps, he remembers, he hears wind in the leaves.

“Seek new and look east; it is there, on the cliff of dawn, on the glistening backs of prospectors, you will find the world: picking and choosing between love and decease.”

Now, it is here, tumbled beneath dirt and sweat, between absence and illusion, a simple seed. From on high it fell, and the prospector, weary with old dreams, becomes a collector.

Finally, his hands laden with the weight of discovery, he trudges west; a proud son bathed in Father’s light.

The Sanctity

The wise father trained his son to show teeth,

as mother gasped in disbelief.

The wise mother taught her daughter heart,

as father’s eyes dimmed, like candle wicks, like forgotten art.

Families roamed the jungles with the beasts,

searching for distinction, to put troubled minds at ease.

All the while, offspring sensed trouble on the eve of the breach;

and in their own escape,

found solace between heart and between teeth.

A Room Where Books Are Kept

I’m waist-deep in a collection of nerves, farts, and explicative’s; absorbing a surround-sound of clicks, hums, and moans. I’ve lodged myself in level five, appropriately named: “The Mixing Chamber.” My chair is hard, but my posture strong, as I go about my business.

Is that man rolling a joint in the valley-like dip of his keyboard? No, I am mistaken. There is a whispering, and a woman rocking; there is security, there is pornography, and there is philosophy.

And in this room, where books are kept, everyone ignores them, and sprinkles their own flavor of the circus into the Mixing Chamber, on level five.

I am settled now.

Synergy

It happened. I sold out.

In hopes of wowing the corporate bloodhound interviewing me, for a dial tone job I didn’t want, I casually threw this word into my lexicon as naturally as taking a dump. But unlike taking a dump, I didn’t feel satisfied or lighter afterward; instead my gag reflex kicked in and, if we can be honest with each other, I realized I had no idea what the word really meant. Wikipedia says: ******* may be defined as two or more things functioning together to produce a result not independently obtainable. Well at least I used it correctly.

To an observer, the interview went extremely well. I demonstrated my strengths with situational examples, proved my value to the company with a track record of increased percentages, and kissed ass until my lips went dry. But I left said interview feeling like a used condom; filled with spunk and devoid of dignity. After shedding my suit jacket and paying thirteen dollars for parking, I headed home to talk to my fish about how things went.

The talk didn’t go well. I could see it in his black, shiny eyes: the look of disgust, the judgmental flip of that tail. My aquatic roommate obviously couldn’t stand the sight of me and retreated to his underwater cave. Who could blame him? I lay down on the couch to relive the events of the last hour, alone.

During this horizontal time of reflection, I realized that when I donned that suit jacket I also donned a pseudo personality and a top hat filled with bullshit. I penalized myself by skipping my usual post-interview coffee; my cup runneth over with bullshit, I made tea instead. As I sipped my watery tea and looked at the ceiling, I vowed to not only never use the word ******* again, but also to remain true to myself and most importantly my fish.

The point I’m trying to make here is it’s never right to whore yourself out to an employer, a common belief, or the girl next door. But it is right to take what you have, what you are, and flash the world with it.

 Oh, and I didn’t get a call back.

Our Season

It is the season.

The harvest moon,

barters with the lost,

with the hearts of the sailing.

Now weighs heavy upon anchor,

on ears of deaf minstrels,

the revelry failing.

 

Behold the seduction

aches of change

aches with sensation.

We smell of sweet longing,

perfumed with reason.

 

Calls from upon the heavens blue

Feel movement, feel song

Angels singing pleasure in tune

Listen listen, red Devil..

 

We are our calling.

In facts we think

knowing closings,

feigning love, continuing..

In fiction we desire.

To be daisys again,

oh innocence,

keep singing keep singing..

It is the season.

(4.24.2007)

Fiddle

Battlefields read much like my lady

Of the tears and rings she wears.

But in those lines the stray find safety;

I was once a callous there.

 

My lady knows much of eloquence,

but of this her medic touch belittles.

With mouth so pretty makes song and dance,

but with these I watch her fiddle.

 

Sometimes solitude she finds in them open

sometimes solace she finds in them clenched.

Sometimes cheer she finds in them swollen,

but for men they leave only questions, unquenched.

 

And for poets? Hers are stories and pen’s content.

It is for their reserved caress I poet live.

To touch and remember we underwent, and

persuading surely of life to give.

 

So continues war between lips and these

no kiss plays without fiddle.

Only I, unwilling, hold the key

If only in her hands,

love were simple..

(3.26.2008)

Reflections In The Glass

It happened over drink, like many epiphanies, and I chewed on it thoroughly. Not the craftily made beef slider, but the idea that maybe, sometimes, we accomplish our dreams without clearly understanding them. I swallowed the hunk of knowledge, savored the gristle, and thought: now what?

At a point, some of us lose sight of our passions. Perhaps it’s when we’re told they’re unrealistic, maybe when we’re told they are realistic, maybe we just do. Does there come a time when it’s too late to reinvigorate, to rebuild, reorganize and relocate? I think not. I hope not; this lost boy needs more time and times a-wastin’.

Which brings me to my next reflection: how have we spent our time? For me, it’s been a tricky balance of fornicating with expectations and flirting with rebellion. But lately, I’ve realized it’s just me now, and it’s time to give the world my gift of decision.

Don’t get me wrong, years of chasing, longing, and the pursuit of becoming have paid off.  I built my empire; paid in cash and fired anyone who slowed construction. But now as the dust settles, and the finishing touches, well finish, I’m left staring at the blueprints of the new.

Here’s to sharp pencils.

Cheers.

Conductor

The engine woke.

As I heard the chug

As I felt the grate

I chased you on that day in April;

I lay pennies on the track.

The rain warmed.

As I heard the distance

As I felt the wet

I brought my knees to the wood;

I saw carvings in the slat.

The seasons climbed aboard.

As I heard the tick

As I felt the clock

I followed you on that day in April,

without looking back.

If You Had Been A Bird

My city turned to garbage, in less time than it takes you to bring yours to the curb. My city knows nothing of symmetry anymore; there are no squares, there are no curves, only rubble.  My city is bent, disfigured with the will of nature, hell-bent.  There is music in the streets still, but the melody wails and sirens make up the sonata, I cover my ears.

We, the survivors, we breathe smoke and exhale hope, we walk in a haze. We know everything of crisis, know everything of epicenters, of aftershocks, we are the walking dead of the aftermath. We become search and rescue; we are “the lucky ones.”

I dug my toes into the ground; you were somewhere, lying on the same earth, and in that moment we were together again. The dirt felt warm beneath my feet.

Only the birds were safe.

I held myself, and I wept for you.

-Photo Credit: National Geographic

Pirate’s Blunder

I stood at the door, with a peg leg and a nightingale by my cheek,

You laughed at me and said: “Where is your parrot; your nightingale, he does not speak.”

So, I drew my blunderbuss, but alas, you did not shriek.

“Oh wayward sailor, please, just tell me what you seek.”

I said nothing, not a peep.

But my nightingale sang, sang of love, and sang of passion.

I turned to run, but my peg leg caught, and down I went crashing.

I looked up from my muddy spot;

I saw tomorrow in your eyes,

before I felt the shot.