Night Walk

The moon, which has long been my confidant,

has grown tired of my wistfulness and my complaints.
A faint afterglow on the horizon—a light 

like distant sea waves—surges and recedes

into shadow, into oblivion. I look at the dizzying immensity,

the panorama of stars, with its circus/menagerie

of constellations, and think: The universe is a glass house.

One slip of the foundation, and all comes crashing down.

Meanwhile, crows caw overhead, their beaks bloody

with the flesh of some nameless dead.

 

 

Youth

I rushed out of the gate, expending all of my energy all at once, uncoordinatedly, stiffly as it were, without grace. I yearned for greatness, pushed myself as if impelled by some devil, grasping for pleasures but always coming up short, flailing madly in the dark, striving and yet not daring to hope, risking nothing except my own mind. I was lost, and I didn’t know it. Now, I find myself alone, my senses dimmed, with just a small flicker of hope—enough to get me out of bed in the morning and to go through the motions of the day. I am defeated, broken, and still lost. Only now, I take pride in the fact that I know that I am lost, as if that might mean I were not lost, at least entirely. It’s a fool’s pride, but it’s the only pride I have. My youth is gone, and with it, a litany of possibilities for majestic sensual pleasure. The fruit has fallen from the boughs and has already begun to rot. I taste the bitter juices because they are the only nourishment I can get. 

Irrelevance

The liberals don’t want me.

They think I’m too conservative.

The conservatives don’t want me.

They think I’m too liberal.

My curse is irrelevance. 

I walk around. I’m just another familiar face.

The only people I know

are irrelevant too.

They sit alone, waiting for someone

to talk to, someone relevant,

but sure enough, it’s just me,

another irrelevant human being,

filled with old news and stubborn views.

We never laugh together.

That would be an obscene display

liable to get us in trouble.

The things that we say

have no relevance.

We are stuck in the past.

Everyone looks at us as if

we were passé, as if we were children

who were stuck in time-out.

And maybe that’s just what we are.

Nobody is interested in the old ways.

We stand our ground, though,

refusing to budge.

We’re tired of feeling dragged along

like old mules. On our backs we carry

all the thrown-out junk of a society eager

to build what’s new. They are leading us

to the dump, and by the time we arrive,

we, too, will be old junk to be disposed of.

In the meantime, I’ll sing these stubborn songs

just to let the people know

that the past is not completely gone.

Wandering

You wander in the fields before sundown

to calm what nerves you have left.

The blue birds are singing in the giant oaks,

and the sea-green sky shimmers

in fading sunlight. 

The moon is a sickle, or rather, a fang.

You drink in the fresh country air,

though perhaps it makes you insane.

Go and ponder the past as you make your way

up this hill toward the future.

It seems a charade, a masquerade, just play-acting

in preparation for now. You’ve been busy

hollering at the winds in every direction

all your long life. Now listen for an answer.

The song of the blue birds ties bows in your mind,

gift-wrapping the places where memories 

otherwise would remain. You have so much to live for.

Dreams cascade down the rocky river of time.

You wander these hills, alone.

There is no going back.