I read a poem with the line,
when I was twenty,
and I wanted to start a poem,
with the line, when I was twenty. . .
until I soon realized that
when I was twenty, I wasn’t
much different as now, in
my late thirties. Still, with
the same afflictions, the
same passions, the same
arguments in my head.
Mt. Olympus is a little more
real, but the gods just as
fragmented. If I had started
that poem, it would’ve ended
the same way it began. . .
Orion, who use to be the Archer, now the kid livin’ in the slums shootin’ slugs Just beyond the reach of his glock a spray of stars Eyes of the partygoers; the school kids; the fool kids; everyone tryin’ to get a piece. But his momma taught him how to aim for the throat, and his papa showed him how to disappear.
Speak what you think today in hard words and tomorrow speak what you think in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said today.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance
Out for a walk and I realize that everything I know to be fact, through careful scientific observation, has been told to me. The things that I assume to be true, through my own experiences and observations, are but a myth.
So in a weird-cool turn of events the team at Prometheus Dreaming decided to use my poem Morning Commute in their Thus Spake Prometheus series.
A strange feeling as I never thought about hearing one of my poems read aloud by someone else, always in my own head, in my own voice. However, they did a great job with it. Read by Brian Liebforth, who did a fantastic job. I was curious to know if the inflections and tone would be translated in others reading and it was.
You can follow the link above to hear it at their homepage. Or here to listen on the YouTube page. Thanks again to David and the team for the unique opportunity.
It’s lunchtime and here i am sitting in my van parked in a grocery store parking lot, blowing my nose in a used napkin. A napkin previously used to blow my nose. Homemade vinaigrette sits on the dash
in hopes that the December sun is heavy enough to break through the overcast and liquefy the coagulated coconut oil. It won’t. And I realize that if I were sitting in my Prius, instead of my work van I would satisfy so many generalizations right now, with my pony-tail, writing poetry, drinking kombucha. Maybe I don’t need the Prius after all. Maybe the Prius needs me. And the high-schoolers yell at each other across the parking lot, desperate for attention, and the stay-at-home moms sit
in their vans, just a little longer, enjoying the silence that comes from an afternoon car-ride nap. If i listen closely, the traffic swells become fingertips of the beach, trying to pull me back into her, while the douglas-fir gently wave goodbye.