Nebraska

lingering cold mist over the fields

a young buck bounds out of the dark

clears the deep ditch...gone

radio is laden with early Christmas songs

and talk radio spin

I reach down 

fumbling through an old tape box

Van Halen, Trinity Sessions, Nazareth...

there it is

Bruce Springsteen: Nebraska

SIDE A is almost worn clear off

starts midway through State Trooper

flip it and listen to SIDE B

flip it back over

sing every word of Atlantic City 

as I coast back into town.

sometimes

Sometimes its like someone took a knife baby
Edgy and dull and cut a six-inch valley

Through the middle of my soul

 

sometimes I play this song

maybe a bit slower, more meditative

less youthful passion...you know...I'm old

sometimes my soul is cut

fallen apart -  in twain

I picture lashing myself back together

binder twine

wire

a piece of broken mason's line

packing tape

sometimes I go out looking

for pieces long enough to hold the world together

songs - music

humour, a smile (with one's eyes these days)

a long form discussion 

a kind word

a mission of mercy

a campfire, and a tug of single malt

even a prayer...

...If I can muster one

heavy

i)

"you look like a man with a heavy heart"

heavy soul really

Van Zandt heavy

Kerouac heavy

renegade country music heavy

can't lift my hood heavy

parking lot sad heavy

tears could spill heavy

considering meds heavy

minor chord heavy

tired monk heavy

ii)

follow up piece...poem...

Why are you tired? Why are you the tired monk?

tired of facades

tired of deconstruction

tired of shaving my monk tonsured head

tired of girding up for fights

tired of lies

tired of platitudes - pinned up on posters

tired of hollow virtue signals

tired of meetings, emails, emails about meetings

tired of these tattered robes

tired of being the only monk

tired of this heavy load

tired monk tired

iii)

an anecdote

Student enters the vice-principal's office.  

He knocks on the door - three quick knocks.  

Delivers his line: "Hey I'm tired of this fucking bullshit. (pause) I'm outta here."

Student runs off down the hall.  

The VP pursues...a futile act.

The Student exits via the main doors, and hops on a downtown bus.

standing off

standing off alone

waiting? ...maybe watching

long deep Marlboro pulls

rolled up western cut Wrangler shirt

beat up cap pulled down tight

worn in (almost worn out) boots

standing off alone

waiting? ...maybe watching 

long deep breaths - slow and quiet

tattered edged flowing robe

hood pulled down low

worn in (almost worn out) sandals

long form

keep yer tweets
your little thoughts...

unless it is a blessing 

building me up 

I'll take that - sure I will

otherwise...

let's sit

dig in deep

connect 

construct 

savour this long form

free form discussion

aside:  the tired monk leaves the scene

           returns with a bottle  - two glasses

           proceeds to proffer a heavy pour

           the campfire simmers 

Flamenco - the Poem

 

No
...well most days

my super capacity to love can waver

sputter

start slow

it'll bounce back

maybe by Wednesday  - please check back then

you may even get a smile

tucked in under this black cloth mask

it take hits you know

unknowns, catastrophizing, tinges

of existential parking lot angst,

lingering sadness

anyways - you know 

i talk too much

i love you

Small Town Bringdown - the poem.

Swinging down the road
guitar, and a 12 of OV

nodding heads and smiles 

in each passing car

  they know

digging our style

long hair, plaid

Levis red tab jeans

(or the occasional Wrangler)

boots on feet 

big strides moving quick  

to the Friday night party

 

friends packed in type

just room enough to strum n'stomp

heat and cigarette smoke

flow out 

curling up and away

intertwined with chords

and laughter

edge

pulling up tight
rusty VW bumper "riding the ass" of an F150
swerves - horns - fingers n'fury out on the roads

parking lot brawls
hauling lone golf clubs outta the back seat...to get the message across
left over heat
from a near fist fight in the granola bar aisle

cities burning
masks hanging on rearview mirrors
blue glove in the ditch

we are
on edge

saint's prayers

just a thread
 a thin one at that
a torn shred of hope:
thinking about the saints
praying over this one

i too offer up mine
a tiny offering
one robe
one bowl
one tired monk prayer

peace

canines

shih tzu, twin pomeranians,
and romping sheepdog paw prints
 scattered all over
 the de facto dog park

from deeper in the forest
  coyote tracks cut straight
  through the new snow

Whisk(e)y Nights

delicate highland single malt
swirling in Glencairn glass
rich flavour layers
touches of peat and oak
sweet Scotch warmth
measured
savoured

...other times
it's a generous pour
of Jamesons
in a kitchen juice glass