Baseball

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I don’t want to live this yet, Springtime

For, every time the birds and bees and all manner of creatures and things -good sports and bad- migrate back

There’s the media storm, the tough talk, the hype, the great expectations placed in the wrongest of wrong places

So I will close my eyes and wait, Springtime

Shoulder

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It’s just my shoulder

There’s nothing inherently beautiful or strong, tempting or freeing

Cool or calm about it, is there?

It’s just an offer

There’re billions of others to stand square with, befriend or lean on

Swoon over or serve with, aren’t there?

Half

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This is the true face of sin

Eternity on a roundabout

Cut off from your roots

A single, static dimension

Reflections upon dirty glass

An ending most abrupt

W-E-L-C-O-M-E

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Let us not act our age one night in New York City. When the smoky underground Club’s strobe light distress-signals us, let us just say yes. As, for God’s sake, it is the one place that accepts us as we are and we refuse to notice that they spell it wrong.

The rainbow-haired, don’t care dance is ours and theirs and we were born this way, to steal away -the lot of us, the we. There’s no one who’ll make us go back to the where we once called home. The white-noise sizzle of this place will see to that.

The Recounting

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Maybe your next step will be your last, but you don’t “get” to know beforehand. And instinct is absent.

The floor under your feet will tell you after the fact whether it was ever, at all, true.

And truth, it has been queried, “What is truth,” but I ask you, what is trust? What is trust?

Trust, kept buoyed by hope, took forever to fall away, and these believing eyes with it.

Expectation is only of the coming eve’ and the promise of exasperated sleep, and I praised it more than once.

One morning revealed the night had stolen the vestiges of trust, breaking free all that hope bound.

The only evidence of either, some sense of un-nameable shock. Something’d been there, but what?

Then life’s replaying of horror: The all that was and the all that’s gone. Each breath, each day, each night.

Of Your Time

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Which is better of a tree? Which is better use of me?

To speak of its presence? Saying, “How strong its solemness, standing tall, withstanding all?” Asking you to close your eyes and opine on how it could be that such a tree only sometimes sways and creaks, whilst all creatures around it move about, busily in elsewhere mode?

Or shall I show this photograph…evidencing all my skill? See here my theft of light, my manipulation of mirrors? All the while holding my breath, knowing all I’d offer you was a lie to your eye, an insult to its blessed, innate sense of depth, of dimension?

Walk we instead, up to this friend and touch, even taste its barked bend? It won’t mind! Trace your finger to its roots-there’s solemnity! Follow, follow upward eyes, leaves dancing in the wind. Shading, singing as a friend?

California, Again

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It’s Winter when he does this, so I buy myself time and find flowers somewhere. Color-filled, with thorns that draw my blood which proves I’m alive and not here to stay quiet and blind. These flowers, I cannot help but clutch them in desperate remembrance that it’s Summer somewhere. I was born in the Summer.