Bent and Beat

all of these things, like the sun
fade away and grow more distant as the seasons pass
and the longwalker sparks up his arrow point
and aims eastward at my heart
at the soft and green grass

all of these things, like the moon
come out at night
cast their glow on unlikely places
and obey a cycle beyond my ken
just beyond my porch

bluegrass notes and homespun phrases ease the chill in the air
chanting the litany of things unforgivable,
even in the name of pilgrimage
sins of a father

if only our memories were like an old wool hat
that we could pull them out and wear them in comfort
when the need arise
or otherwise fold them roughly and tuck them into our back pockets
until the climate better suits them

nothing spreads out in every direction
all of the giants are dead and gone
their home left to decay and blow away across the scrub
tumbleweed debris in the texas desert
the night is cold and the rest stop is empty
the coin-op binoculars steal my quarters
and there aren't any lights for miles around

lately i find myself longing for

the loamy soil of home
that soft clay under your feet as you walk
dark and rich as my grandfather's black coffee
as cool and distant as my mother's gaze

the smell of summer rain upon furrowed fields
the sound of the drops upon the leaves of corn
the drone of cicadas, steady and constant
the communal rise and fall of bullfrog songs
the trees hung with the lights of thousands of fireflies

most of all i think of a particularly sweet scent
that always seems to rise out of the trees
as i child i learned it was honeysuckle
and we would pull the long stamens from the flowers
to enjoy the dripping nectar
as i grew older, i learned the vines were not native
introduced a century before and our forests were choking upon them
their pervasive perfume was the smell of one species
destroying another
just like this evasive nostalgia, choking the potential out of the present moment
sweet and thick, like wild honey
but dangerously misplaced

so fade off into the distance, eastbound train
racing headlong into the dawn
to the green grass, across the muddy rivers
through the oaks, birch, and sycamore
crickets and lightning bugs
and bear along with you
these honeysuckle dreams of yesterday

i play the same song twice
while watching a shooting star herald the dawn
the sleeping town doesn't notice, just rolling over and blindly groping for the tranquility called "snooze"

what yesterdays are hidden in songs so old, popping vinyl memories of childhood?
old songs, songs you've not heard since you were so very young are so much deja vu, strange familiarity
the meaning of the sounds of things we knew before we understand meaning
and the chain of memories they evoke
her face, her face, and your face

perhaps we are nothing more than experiencers of songs, the places where they live and grow

i play the some song three times, three dozen years
a song that reminds me of the same street
and the same porch, peeling red paint, wrought iron rust

and this all mostly goes nowhere, just like listening to old songs
random flicker of yesterday and today, impression and repressions
and like the songs, it will come to pass quicker than not
that i will forget all about this
and perhaps come to find it again some distant day

she asked why?
and what do i say, what answer can i have that she could understand and that would justify the guilt?
so many little words that mean nothing strung together in response
someday, i promise to explain
someday has probably come and gone and i have nothing better
and for us, tomorrow might as well be yesterday
for all of the closer it brings her to me
which brings us to where?
a place we have never been i say
which is no answer
but mostly it is there
in that is is not here
she tries not to cry and asks when?
we know the answer is now
a now that has come and gone and a now that has yet to be
but a now that never was then
and we are both crying
she comes back to why
children ask circular questions and adults respond with circular logic
she seeks to understand and i seek to evade

on the telephone, her voice sounds older and stronger
but it's a facade she and time put on for my benefit
and i wonder if she can her in my voice
how old and weak i feel?

we suffer through common themes
drawn from separate perspectives
with years and miles between them
the plot line though was conceived by my hand
and these characters that i've created
you and me
they feel the pain that is upon the pages
they have paper hearts that bleed in the rain
and though we may pretend to use it to suit our moods
the rain comes and goes of it's own will
some wounds never heal
just allow the paper to cut more deeply

have you ever seen
been to a place
where it seems that fall has slipped in a bit too early?
green and brown
jade and decomposition
the river in white and blue strums a tune
waterfall arpeggios,
a bobbing lodgepole keeps time
in a grove, between four pine spires
near a grey picnic table covered with a tablecloth of moss
the four of us seem suddenly so young
small
and even more
a part of everything
and each other

yesterday is a stone that floats
solid and porous
unchangeable and movable
it is buried in the soil, beneath the stream of thoughts
loosened by tumid waters, it floats back to the surface
its buoyancy is resonance

as she falls under the fever and darkness
she sees him
standing upon a floating slab of earth (that is not of this earth)
in a place that is not at all (more aptly, a nonplace)
a nearly infinite blackness, spreading
punctuated by swimming energies and swirling lights
he stands upon a path like a ribbon of crimson light
hair blown by perfumed winds of distant origin
flames crackling around him
hands in a threatening mudra, mind struck tight upon its object
feeling for the unseen
seeing the veiled
keeping the undying things lurking in the darkness at bay
a quiet war for the human soul waged unnoticed
hidden in the cracks between realities