Am feeling a little
Han Solo
this morning.
It’s a bad feeling.
Already, there’s
trouble in the cantina,
and a firefight
has broken out.
Would love
to get you a passage to Alderaan,
but the hyperdrive
is down,
again,
and my shift doesn’t end until two.
This came up in today’s reminders on the FaceSpace. Looks like a day for blog posting.
This is a song directly after a break-up (two months or so) to the point where I was moving on, I think. There’re some themes that have traveled to other songs and poems, but I like this. I don’t recall writing it.
As an added bonus, there’re some Dark Tower references here.
Enjoy!
glad to be a part of something bigger
when all I can think of is myself
I would like to stop thinking of her
but I’m accustomed to this hell
flames lapping up about my feet
as she pours on gasoline
how I tied myself so tight to this tree
no wonder I cannot be free
oh how the fire it keeps on burning
oh unto a crispy black
all these things I should be learning
if I could only have her back
all the while I’ve been plotting
how I can triumph from this test
all these hecklers are a’watching
as I dance the dance of death
throw upon those useless branches
as smoky ‘membrances rise higher
there go my bridges with my chances
as my vision’s growing tired.
oh how the fire it keeps on burning
oh unto a crispy black
all these things I should be learning
if I could only have her back
calling out across the courtyard
calling out across the square
as my breath escapes me so hard
calling up into the air
someday soon I shall be born again
like a phoenix from the ash
I plead for all the help that you can send
so I can let go of my past
Shuffling, shambling
down the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
The glitz and the glamour
and the people passing by
as quickly as my days
upon this earth.
I’ve been down these streets, before
beckoning, begging me
to come back.
A taste, a try…
a titillation?
And somehow
I get lost along the way,
the world
has tugged at my heartstrings
stringing me along
making me think
that I want more.
Stars in the sidewalk
losing their shine
as the sun sets,
hides behind the clouds
from me
the things He wants me to see.
Pitted and cracked–
watch your step!
–you’re skating on thin ice.
Deeper and deeper
into the maze of the city
walls mugging up around me,
beating me up,
closing me in.
I run
even if not sure
why it is that I do so,
nothing of the sort
that the big black empty
can hold.
Driving down dark alleyways
losing my way
time, direction…
stumbling, falling,
crying, puling
in a corner.
God knows
where I’m meant to be.
This is one nostalgic jaunt
I can no longer
make connection to–
the roads have changed
and there are
more pressing matters
upon which to attend.
THEN
At four and three, respectively,
keeping our eyes peeled
the Tipton/Grazierville exit
Bland’s Park (how much fun could it be?)
the amusement park rides by
now given in to
corporate branding,
much like my past.
Stories related in circles
as if on an endless track
gander past geese,
biting the hand that feeds them.
Cafeteria and library
are side hustles of your grandmama,
as is getting your peeper caught
in the zipper of your footie pajamas
and the Incredible Hulk
standing in for Jesus on the cross.
Heroic, indeed.
LATER
Following these low roads
keeping tabs running, open
to the nagging voices:
past the TYRONE of a booming black man,
the Armaghhhh…of Joseph’s dying words,
long, lonely drive with jaws wired shut,
the shhhhhh of the lisp and roads beneath you,
riding partners of Mitties and Pearl.
I never was a cat person.
LATER STILL.
THE NOW.
Even if his ears bother him,
the inclination, the pressing need
listening, little man
smitten by what I’ve written
of ancient shipping systems
a train in the distance
carting new dreams to these way stations
smile curved up like a horseshoe
at the crossroads. Still
making deals with the devil
nailed above the door.
Good luck with that.
INTERIM.
OVER, UNDER, AND THROUGH.
Yet, it always spins back to you.
I pine for what we
once had, if only
because I know it was
nothing.
I long to understand
what these songs meant to you,
us, the tracks missing
love letter liner notes
teased in disappearing ink.
Sun-dappled memories,
a magnetic menagerie
of Ouijiac proportions
ghosting in the gaslit paths
never getting close enough to touch
intestines, spools
pooled about my feet,
lay bare by the pencil eraser.
Spirits from beyond
these lyrics that won’t die.
Dear you,
remember me forever.
walk on the water
fisher of men
capsized, baptized
in a puddle by
the side of the road
is enough
for shallow me
shuttled through tunnels
like so much spoiled meat
snuffling and a-snarling
the beast upon two feet
Minotaurian presence
half-man the body shared
double the size of normal men
if anyone dare care
he had no strings to tie him down
or keep him on the path
this city was a festering sore
’twas dim and dark and draft
it was another of their tests
this smarmy grim cabal
no twine, no map, no lights down here
felt along tepid tiled walls
Talismanic totem
your name stands tall
riding on the shoulders broad
of the great chiefs
who have come before you
gone before your time
robbed of the land
within the circle of
the Great Mother
who has called you home.
traveling back and forth
between the people that i love
not knowing where i belong any longer
no signs from above or
below
and it would mean the world to me
as to where I’m meant to be
I’d like to know
the sun goes down
and the clouds roll in
it’s getting dark now
could this be the end?
rain begins to fall
it comes down in sheets
when ever will the sun shine again
and show its face to me?
these wings lift me higher and higher
farther and farther off the ground
I can’t seem to say a word
from me there is no sound
Mother Moon wanes, hides
in the moments just before dawn.
Hanging on to the last
perched
at the horizon
bushes and fog obscure
her once stately features.
The night clings to her
sings to her
birds heralding her retreat
pigeons, pecking at
cigarette butts,
the destitute
grasping
for one last drag.
Father Sun
bookends the beginning
of the day, subsidized housing
in the vaults of heaven
shoring up the infirm
and impecunious.
Characters of stories
both husband and wife
shine upon
shadows, wistfully
waft from the throne
a corona of smoke.
And they do not speak during their morning constitution
but signaling
as she beats her rugs
that he has long stamped upon
and shorn his stately visage
carrying younger than her years
yet he shall always remain in her.
