Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Tuesday, June 9, 2009

I know the time

because my skull is caught
on fast-forward,
on tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow;
on skin and wet air and drinking the sun;
on the music we brush
from each other
like rubbing cricket legs.
The river swells
and so do I.

It is the start of another summer
and since last these stars
were overhead, I’ve dragged
some thoughts into focus.
That sleeping alone isn’t so bad.
That sleeping together isn’t so bad.
That I am a gradual being
with a (sometimes unfortunately) large mouth.
That if you have a poem,
you should write it.
That I do not bang drums
I do not wave flags
and rarely do I shout.
That there is a quiet piece
in all of us,
central, free-standing, autonomous,
and I need to listen to mine.
That I can drown out the consistent
white noise of self doubt.
That I carry love in my hair,
my heels, my freckles.

It is the start of another summer
and we have come together
like the exact botanical ingredients
that make june roses bloom
for a few weeks and no longer.
(Perhaps because I make a habit
of watching children grow,)
I see change coming in far off days
like the widening sinkhole
that will swallow my childhood home
like roots stretching
into untouched earth.
But I can feel the curve
of our life’s movements,
our variegated ambitions,
and I know:
It will be all right.
My brothers will hurl
themselves to the wheel
and my sisters will be lost and reborn,
lost and reborn.
We will eat
and drink
and fuck
and make merry.
We will burn ourselves
and make shit choices
and battle illness
and cry buckets.
We will lose each other
for days and years
and even always.
(And holy shit,
some of us will have children.)
But we will be all right.
I have seen it.
I can see it.

And these imaginings
matter little now.
The party on the path
to the precipice is always
rollicking, how else would we shake
ourselves all the way up.
The nights are shorter
but we will ride them long.
We have liquor
and when we don’t,
we have each other.
(We have each other
and when we don’t,
we have liquor.)
What hurt we own now
will sweeten over time
like the soft-vision lens
on the babbling tv lady.

It is the start of another summer
and my bones are singing.
Box the knowledge of potholes
and boulders
and share a word with me.
We will jitter and jive
to infinity;
we will rest in the hot hours.
And the minutes will add
between us like growing drifted
piles of fallen spring blossoms,
cushioning the road.

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