Signs of life
Welcome to Journal of Hearts
Some have un-mendable hearts. These hearts are not malleable to change. These hearts count beer cans as solace. These hearts reach out only to reach back in. These hearts do not see themselves in the equation. These hearts will only be satisfied with one solution. These hearts cannot find a positive in a negative. These hearts rest on stone walls built for only one purpose. These hearts cannot be mended, only fooled.
November 26 (Journal, a long time ago…)
The sky of the Northwest is ever moving, ever changing.
Clouds form thick and heavy like a hand. Then break.
A sliver of golden rimmed light.
A painted streak of blue.
Together they dance and twist in to a grey shield.
The first drop hits the window on I-5…
…2, 3, 4, 5…
rain moves from clouds backed up
like the never ending traffic.
Fort Lewis stands, fenced, encased dirty tan white buildings,
army surplus homes camouflage fears of eminent danger.
Rain pauses. Dusk. Orange sunset, mountain peaks, Tacoma.
Denny’s holds hands with a cheap hotel butting against modular homes
(a quick fix to the American dream)
who lean over and kisses Winnebago’s that smile on
old people as they drive their Cadillac’s by.
On and on, darkness drops, a strip clock tells time and temperature
(for a quarter it will tell you your future).
Then the Tacoma dome. The breast.
The female icon curved and tipped with an American flag nipple.
Traffic on the other side of the highway looks like its charging
(a million raccoon eyes).
Sea-Tac flashes, air planes, ascending
and descending.
Someone in the car turns up the tape.
Tall buildings form.
No more sun bursts but green, yellow, red windows stare down.
The space needle gazes with unfilled promises of grandeur.
It’s sudden. City. Seattle.
LIfe Is (journal 1999 New Orleans)
FuneralsBirthdaysDreams…
Plummeted from a forceful sleep
I awake mid-afternoon to ride my
bike dressed in black carrying my
shoulders I notice pink petals looking
delicious as a late day storm approaches.
I can’t sleep and I hate February
But I just can’t.
February is grueling.
Cold. Brown. Cold. Snow. Brown.
I probably have one of those
seasonal disorders.
Another malfunction
to add to my
list of idiosyncrasies
and other weird OCDs, anxieties,
frustrations of the hearts…
blah blah blah
But I hate February.
And I can’t sleep.
I have said
I hate February 10
Times today.
Make that 11.
Even March
is better.
Give me rain.
Give me mud.
Move on to April.
Give me those neon
buds that appear on
trees over night.
Give me May,
give me sunshine,
and warmth, and
June, and
skirts without tights,
and tank tops, and
cold beer in backyards,
with the hum of lawn
mowers, and kids biking,
and outdoor radios playing
love songs way too loud…
And Give me You.
And you and me happy.
In the sun.
Truly.
Give me that.
Another Train, New Orleans, 2000
Weather changes
like my mind
dangling above
the trees outside.
My window glances
skystruck
at passing train whistles
that motions memories.
I’m headed backside
up, grappling
with metal
that bends and shakes
itself
beastlike
towards
destinations not so final…
Polar Opposites
I had all the makings
of a sweet child,
born of love to
hippie parents who
traveled in an old VW,
fighting for
freedom and
co-op food and
black panthers
and peace. Who
probably fought
in their rickety ride
over communisim
and changing
the baby.
Parents
who were a
Jew with black
hair from Long Island
married to a blue eyed
German choirboy,
who grew me and
named me and held
me that first year
until they split.
And I learned young
that nothing lasts
forever and that
cars and love
were things to
be traveled in and
for.
And as I was
carried back & forth
between these
polar opposites
like a magnetic ball
linking the positives
and minuses, lost
in the attraction of
differences and
similarities, dispelled
between point A and
point B, I was intent
upon sweetness.
I carried sweetness like a
bucket half empty
on my shoulder and
looked out from
car windows, growing
up in the backseat
of New England,
on the road, ironically,
less traveled.
Always moving,
always connecting
the dots of
condensation formed
by car heaters,
tracing dioramas
in the rain, snow, sleet
that kissed my
endless ride.
And I had all
the makings I
told myself,
all the makings
even if no else
knew.
