Behind the hills of my eyes
they are wading into
something they will forget
so easily.
In the gulch they will
find parts and pieces and
torn fences.
So many chiggers.
When they get home
something will be on the table,
hot and steaming.
Mother smiling.
Happy that her boys
went out and got dirty.
Earned their little stripes
in high adventure.
Behind the hills of my closed eyes
she's wiping the sweat from their eyebrows,
asking about what life is like
in outer space.
They're smiling back and snickering some
because she's an alien too
trying to get inside information
to thwart tomorrow.
Summer lasts forever
when time out is a life time and welts
take tooth spans
to fade.
Tonight is dinner.
Nothing more.
Dad will square the books tomorrow. She will watch.
Today was adventure.
original works of parts
Hot Guitar
One two footed toward the hill top somewhere
around high noon and where
the sweat is coming up through my palms,
pushing skin away
into blisters staved
by cold water
last night when I held the pan until I cried
bloody murder.
Trying to forget mistakes,
the sting is familiar for its name and I wish
I waited a little longer to eat or at least
understood the food would still be good
a little charred.
One two timing it in four count and
crying for the view,
the view, the fucking view.
"Get there for me"
I tell myself
skip hopping over brush climbing
through sidewalks rarely walked and the trees
are breaking away,
but my lungs are too. I don't cough up blood
most days. Today is not like most.
I can count on two hands
the number of times I've cried
most years. This year is no different.
I am feeling in four cross four music
my limitations. The sky will not break
ahead of my engine. My engine is broken
before the sky.
I am not afraid, but today
I am human and it will be
a long walk home
to feed the ducks by the sand hugged river below.
Today, the Earth. Tomorrow, the blue sky.
Some day, the stars. I know better. It is not that glorious.
Another hamburger hill
in another war
no one will read about
around high noon and where
the sweat is coming up through my palms,
pushing skin away
into blisters staved
by cold water
last night when I held the pan until I cried
bloody murder.
Trying to forget mistakes,
the sting is familiar for its name and I wish
I waited a little longer to eat or at least
understood the food would still be good
a little charred.
One two timing it in four count and
crying for the view,
the view, the fucking view.
"Get there for me"
I tell myself
skip hopping over brush climbing
through sidewalks rarely walked and the trees
are breaking away,
but my lungs are too. I don't cough up blood
most days. Today is not like most.
I can count on two hands
the number of times I've cried
most years. This year is no different.
I am feeling in four cross four music
my limitations. The sky will not break
ahead of my engine. My engine is broken
before the sky.
I am not afraid, but today
I am human and it will be
a long walk home
to feed the ducks by the sand hugged river below.
Today, the Earth. Tomorrow, the blue sky.
Some day, the stars. I know better. It is not that glorious.
Another hamburger hill
in another war
no one will read about
Cool Devices
Every time I pick up
a chisel and hammer and
locking pliers, maybe a talon of carpet
knife and pry bar, monkey
wrench and needle nosed
whatevers. Ampmeter and alligators and bucket
head shop vac. Saved saw dust and
back saw and tennis ball socked. Every time
I pick up
I put down little passions.
The dream of sleeping in late
on my front porch and
watching the sun go.
The clouds come. Spreading
like my smile
before I tighten
my cap, stand up from my rocking
chair and find the long grassed trail
to the place where everything waits
for a little human touch.
The shed. The office. Call it
what you will.
In my retirement dreams I call it the mill.
Not you waiting there
for the nail gun and tube turn-it-wets.
But someone waiting for me
all damn day.
Me the kind sadist.
Patient for the end of the day.
Give me time, sweetness.
Give me time.
a chisel and hammer and
locking pliers, maybe a talon of carpet
knife and pry bar, monkey
wrench and needle nosed
whatevers. Ampmeter and alligators and bucket
head shop vac. Saved saw dust and
back saw and tennis ball socked. Every time
I pick up
I put down little passions.
The dream of sleeping in late
on my front porch and
watching the sun go.
The clouds come. Spreading
like my smile
before I tighten
my cap, stand up from my rocking
chair and find the long grassed trail
to the place where everything waits
for a little human touch.
The shed. The office. Call it
what you will.
In my retirement dreams I call it the mill.
Not you waiting there
for the nail gun and tube turn-it-wets.
But someone waiting for me
all damn day.
Me the kind sadist.
Patient for the end of the day.
Give me time, sweetness.
Give me time.
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