We build mountains
from increments of time and motion:
timetables and places, placements,
placemats, play dates, the peripheries
and spaces where we keep the instruments
of living, sleeping, weaning, cleaning,
cluttered cadences and frequencies;
the sinusoidal blip of the commute, drip
drip of that annoying tap that’s never fixed,
forever fixed as a nostalgic milestone;
the friends we keep on promising to meet
and decades later still keep promising;
the turning moons and spinning constellations,
quantum clocks of choruses and choirs,
catechisms, cradles, graves, procrastinations,
precious rituals of likes and leftovers
all generously layered upon layer.
We build a mountain,
living in its shadow, even as the
other side is redolent with sunset.
Once, we hike up to the crest to see
the horizon before it eats the evening sky.
There was a time when boys would rush to light your cigarette.
Now your relatives come brandishing serviettes.
And there is no reclining torsoed demi-god
To feed your coy reluctance sugared wine on Tuscan bread –
You’re calmly feeding your reluctant sons instead.
And sure, there was a time when Sundek’d sailors
Would come to hang from your strings in the summer gales.
Ahh, those burnished torsoed demi-gods –
They all wanted to drown in your treacherous dreams.
But you’re in too deep now for such trinkety things.
And afterwards you’ll sit and reminisce a little
What had gone right and what had gone amiss a little.
But you’ve no need for the lies of demi-gods.
You have the ear of angels instead.
And I am opening the wine and cutting up the Tuscan bread.
– O –
Written on occasion of Francesca’s birthday.
Some read into my lines.
Some think I’m getting old.
Some think, to faithless barons
My faithful heart I sold.
Some think I’m like the others
All mired in shit and gold,
With wistful eyes recalling
Oh! the heady days of old…
For sure, the city lights
Delight in me no more
And youth’s so sweet delights
Are now another’s chore.
Much simpler daily pleasures
Comprise my daily bread
As morning crickets measure
The seasons shifted red.
But still I fly with naked muses
I still enjoy the spoils of love
I carve out time from daily toils
To carve my legacy above.
I draw up maps to secret beaches
And harness winds and waves
I take my leave of lords and masters – and
Walk free among the slaves.
I see right through those pretty veils,
I see the worlds out there are many.
I know no single truth prevails –
But I’m at home with any.
I’ll take into my pantheon
Whatever gods I feel
As long as they all answer to
The one god that is real.
I write between the lines.
My friends are getting old.
And every fucker’s trying to get
His teeth into my soul.
And Father Time is getting cute
And Lady Luck’s on hold;
But me, I break into the hour-glass
And take those grains of gold.
I break another hour glass
And store those grains of gold.