This stuff used to be easy...
word jots on paper, in a notebook,
on the back of a shoebox --
And it flowed -- because the rhythm
of the Ocean tapped my soul
and the hum of the busy-body's
filled my days with romance and sand...
you, the few, who knew me well
grew to tell, the ways of what
we might call silly and sweet
turned sour meat --
and yet the memories of sand in your feet
defeat any lost love or jaded beats
who wandered, alone
holding hands with zealous,
breathlessly beautiful, silently
passionate and radiant flesh and bone.
you, drew me an angel of your pet dog
and I cherish the burn in my mind's eye.
when dry of words
and perhaps even good thoughts
or simply that something
you passed in a wink
I drink a glass of wine
to numb the pain of nothing to think
when what seems fully realized,
perhaps passionate, yet turns lost
to a winter's dream of summers sums
I taste a drop of grapes divine
and pray to memories of venice beach drums
when I slip, or fall, or cry in my sleep
from running too fast on lucid icy streets
from bad things i don't want to remember
I slowly sip my vino sweet
and relish the cold of a
The Good Stuff
I remember more than anything
about that little town, on the prairie...
the terrible, yellowish, drinking water.
Kids from there...drank it just fine.
We were clumping down the highway
near the border of Canada
in a bus that was no longer yellow.
I was in the back seat, craving water --
Jason and Joel had the good stuff...
Cherry flavored "near beer"
and for 10-year olds,
they chugged it like professionals.
I wanted some...
We hit a pothole turning into Portal--
Salty water from my forehead
hit my lip,
I licked and craved more...