We went to dinner, which apparently is what everyone else does on an ordinary weekday night. We sat in a booth, my daughter and wife across from me.
Dad look. Dad look,” pointing passed me.
a bald guy! you know, I say, some day I could be bald.
But I don’t want a bald father!
As you sit there watching the homeless man with carpet padding scarfed around his neck draping down to his feet flip through a magazine he dug out of a trash can, leaning against the trash can, legs crossed, you think: at least there’s always hope. . .
I’ve never considered myself to be a conversationalist, in fact I’ve beat myself up for being boring, for having nothing to say at the moment when something obviously needed to be said. Yet here I am writing poems, the written form of conversation.
I sat there with her
sitting on my lap.
Much bigger than
she use to be —
held in my arms.
And I’m watching her
and I’m thinking.
And I’m thinking.
I’m thinking, will
I forget this too.
And now I’m trying to remember
all those moments I swore I’d never
forget. They’re lost in some kind of
silence that somehow knows
there’s something missing.
That’s some scary shit. Because
I can see a future where I don’t
even recognize the love
that got me to that point.
There is, however, a little pin-
prick of light, a bit of
hope in the mess
I’m sitting in; I can feel
the joy. I can feel the remnants
of the joy those memories
held, in my bones, those memories,
they’re in my heart, and now
I think if I were to continue
this contemplation the feeling
would grow and my rib cage would crack.
Now I’m snapping out of it.
Now it’s clear; it’s no wonder
I can’t remember.
I’m not even here.
I thought about you,
when you were so tiny,
and how there was
no way I could
have imagined you’d
be the spark
you are today—
though why would I’ve wanted to?
you were perfect then, and
anything you turned out to be
would’ve been perfect too.
I couldn’t help
but realize, while
you pointed out
that a framed-collage
had no baby pictures
of you —
just you’re brother,
that at some point
you’ll take these kinds
of things and twist them
into the kind of pain,
that drives us apart,
and then I laughed
because that’s just
part of the process —
You’ll need that pain,
to bring you back ’round again,
and no matter
what I do
to keep it away from you,
you’ll create it,
as I have,
as we all do.
Do you hear that voice
that voice that wants to
break things apart, smash them up—
that’s the spark of creation creating
Tonight we sat down, just the three of us, to read a book; the wants and needs, the friction of life fades away; because all we have we want, and it really doesn’t matter which book we read -if it’s the one with the fallen leaves, or the famous steed – because the warmth of contentment fills our hearts, until it ends and we want another, again, and we have to say goodnight, or no, still we can’t let go.
“My loves, it’s not the book that makes it special, it’s just the willingness to shut the fuck up and listen.”
Now it’s time for everyone’s least favorite blog post…
OPINIONS OF A MIDDLE AGED WHITE GUY
where an average middle aged white guy pisses his opinions into the cesspools of society.
Culture is what we left behind in the old world
The new culture is the simple things
The things we all experience in one form or another
Birth, the vicissitudes of life, and death.
These are the experiences and facts of our lives that transcend
race, religion, gender, age, law, and politics and expand our
consciousness into the new world.
That we all have a very simple bond is the truest culture
So we can do without the wall building concepts of the old world.
We've worked so hard to be so proud of our individuality
But it seems to only have split us into further divide
Maybe we could at least all celebrate our love for being in love with
our own opinions?
Or like the great Jello Biafra sang...
We won’t destroy society in a day
Until we change ourselves first
From the inside out
We can start by not lying so much
And treating other people like dirt
It’s easy not to base our lives
On how much we can scam
It sure will feel good to lift that monkey off our backs (chuckles). Join us next time when middle aged white guy puts us on his lap and tells us how we oughta live our lives.
Edit: if you want to check out the rest of the lyrics to the song Stars and Stripes of Corruption by the Dead Kennedys check it out here
Like finches caught up
in catkins, my thoughts also
sing the same springtime melody
Last night I practiced
letting silence pervade after thoughts, or arguments,
where once there was meaning.
Moments of Awareness