Dirigible

What the hell is up there,
in that attic of yours.
These asphalt sands are keeping me immobile,
along with everyone else.

5/14/08

I remember those drives up Route 1. The soft snowy corporate buildings and junky diners half covered in ice. The drive set to 'Joga.'

From there it went to the lushness of Spring. Touring the Choir college set to 'Unravel.' The Wedding, being Best Man. Driving home set to 'Who Is It.'

It was a quick Summer. Unmemorable.

Then the shit hit the fan. My coworkers were let go, and we were shipped to Lincoln, Nebraska. That golden city, with the ivory tower, and the adventure on the street that Thursday night. Sometimes, it's nice to feel wanted.

Winter came, and I got ... portly. At this point, I've come full circle from my drives up Route 1, and what does this winter bring? A pen-pal. An amazing person.

Inevitable disaster soon follows. Things get hairy, but we pull through, as humanity often does.

-

Epilogue:

But it's different now. Why.

I sometimes look at January, February, APRIL even... and I think, what the hell happened to the person I was. I've changed.

Is it growth? Yes and no. Growth in the sense of a better self-awareness, and in meeting new colorful characters, the self often comes into a better focus. An awakening, lessons learned, a sense of clarity. Continually growing.

But in some ways, I've lost bits of myself I'd had hoped to keep, and now it affects those I care about.

This time of ... change, is not without its pain. Poor Jen lays in critical, yet I feel more alive than ever. I sometimes wonder if someone's having a good day, another person somewhere is getting shit on.

Life is a ridiculous mess. I feel like one of those chemistry sets, where the liquid in a test tube keeps changing colors. It's exhilarating.

Why am I writing this... it's not like anyone gives a flying shit anyway. Just let me PMS for a little bit, thank you. You know I love you.

In Traffic

Pot sucker.
Alloy and emerald cage wires
baking in the sun.
Big nose, staring at your bumper sticker.
Drive!

What the hell is up there,
in that attic of yours.
These asphalt sands are keeping me immobile,
along with everyone else.

Metal trees have lost their branches.
The silhouette of a factory glimmers
in the radiating heat waves.

Not New York; not Philadelphia.
Somewhere in-between.

Lime Wash 2

Blue haze to golden shower.
The blinds filter triangles of light,
which stretch. Curtains in the still life
of another morning robbed
of color. Green passes,
returns, outside the smattered smokey glass.
Twitters outside. It's morning.
Spring, the creator.
Winter knows how to drain.

---

Dribble taste on soft earth.
Fashion heat on sun flare nodes.
Can you feel merry old England
while you're ditching your nephew in Harlem?