The essence of man is in his drive along a dark highway on a summer night, windows down, 68 degree air blowing in from the Atlantic. The hues of the night's crimsonly orange sunset remain in the mind's rearview mirror. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.
The essence of man is in his trip to a Fire Island beach at nighttime, the grains of sand prickling against his feet like cool velvet lining the skin of the coast. The ebb-and-flow sound of the waves coming onto the shore soothes man into a lullabied trance, the stars and the moon become lasting images before eyes are shut.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
"Burning Bright"
Burning bright,
Coming from an easterly direction
I alone preside o’er everyone and
Everything with a dignity that is
Surpassing, like my shine over the moon’s,
That which is oft reserved for heads of state.
I, my young friend, am the head of this world,
Overseer of all evil and good.
Blink, and I am gone, only the imprint
Of me, reddish and glowing, still remains.
I cause living beings to grow taller
But in the same I willingly witness
When they are chopped down,
Mercilessly turned
Into a tall house or lonely coffin.
I illuminate the most clouded mind
Of the patient, whose cancer-ridden skin
My beams of light unfortunately caused,
The price I pay by fading in the eve.
But arise new day! Only the blind man
Cannot see me, though he can feel my rays
Billowing down on top of his bare head
Like the protecting shroud of darkness that
Follows loyally in my sleepless wake.
Awake! Poor scribe, Seek the light which you speak!
I am summoning you through your window.
The daylight it burns, and, though I see you,
You have yet to join me in
Burning bright.
Coming from an easterly direction
I alone preside o’er everyone and
Everything with a dignity that is
Surpassing, like my shine over the moon’s,
That which is oft reserved for heads of state.
I, my young friend, am the head of this world,
Overseer of all evil and good.
Blink, and I am gone, only the imprint
Of me, reddish and glowing, still remains.
I cause living beings to grow taller
But in the same I willingly witness
When they are chopped down,
Mercilessly turned
Into a tall house or lonely coffin.
I illuminate the most clouded mind
Of the patient, whose cancer-ridden skin
My beams of light unfortunately caused,
The price I pay by fading in the eve.
But arise new day! Only the blind man
Cannot see me, though he can feel my rays
Billowing down on top of his bare head
Like the protecting shroud of darkness that
Follows loyally in my sleepless wake.
Awake! Poor scribe, Seek the light which you speak!
I am summoning you through your window.
The daylight it burns, and, though I see you,
You have yet to join me in
Burning bright.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Fall of the Pasta
Cheese, sizzling,
Combines with its aroma
Sauce, wafting
Into my family’s eight
Nostrils, flaring.
Ziti: my mind, reeling
Back to last July
Second day, crying
About the empty chair
That left us longing
For more time
With she we loved.
So we drank beer
And ate where she lived
The ziti that fell from the pan
Into the oven, pre-heated
By Aunt Eileen, grieving,
Trying still to keep us pleased.
The ziti tray falling
Gave us the laughter we needed.
Combines with its aroma
Sauce, wafting
Into my family’s eight
Nostrils, flaring.
Ziti: my mind, reeling
Back to last July
Second day, crying
About the empty chair
That left us longing
For more time
With she we loved.
So we drank beer
And ate where she lived
The ziti that fell from the pan
Into the oven, pre-heated
By Aunt Eileen, grieving,
Trying still to keep us pleased.
The ziti tray falling
Gave us the laughter we needed.
"Terra Firma Latte"
Two rings the shade of cardboard
Encircle each other and form a circumference
That brings people together.
The mocha circle is a footprint
Left by a stranger or a friend
On a coaster, a table, anything with a surface.
The latte drips down the sides of the cup
Like an IV pumping through the veins
Of a patient on life support.
The caffeine attacks the bloodstream
As a bolt of lightning strikes a tree
Standing on its tippy-toes.
The black man with a suit on
Likes his coffee light and sweet
With nonfat milk and an ice cube.
The white woman with the mop and the broom
Likes her Columbian-brewed coffee black
With no sugar. No milk. Bare and bitter.
The beans are ground
The brewing coffee drips
The aroma like a zephyr blows through the building.
And two rings the shade of earth
Surround each other in a binding halo
That brings people together.
Encircle each other and form a circumference
That brings people together.
The mocha circle is a footprint
Left by a stranger or a friend
On a coaster, a table, anything with a surface.
The latte drips down the sides of the cup
Like an IV pumping through the veins
Of a patient on life support.
The caffeine attacks the bloodstream
As a bolt of lightning strikes a tree
Standing on its tippy-toes.
The black man with a suit on
Likes his coffee light and sweet
With nonfat milk and an ice cube.
The white woman with the mop and the broom
Likes her Columbian-brewed coffee black
With no sugar. No milk. Bare and bitter.
The beans are ground
The brewing coffee drips
The aroma like a zephyr blows through the building.
And two rings the shade of earth
Surround each other in a binding halo
That brings people together.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
"Un just"
Running through my hometown, rustling trees swaying in the wind, sun beaming down from above, dripping sweat, I passed a sight unseen to the common eye. An older man, gray beard and long white hair tied in a braid, wearing hiking shorts, a white collared shirt, top buttons unbuttoned, tan socks sticking up above his hiking boots, carrying a walking stick in the same hand as his dog leash--beautiful black German shepherd on his right side, following his every command--holding an empty Coors Light can in his other hand.
And I thought to myself, "Who is this vagabond man, roaming the streets of Farmingville like a wayfaring pilgrim in search of something more?"
To your eyes or mine, this man and his canine may stand out, and questions inevitably arise--'Is that his beer can, or is he helping to keep our streets clean?' "Is he homeless and walking all day long in search of shelter, or is he retired and just a nature-lover, enjoying the day just as I am?'
And I thought that my critical eye--and the many eyes that incorrectly judge this man everyday--is an American injustice, resembling e.e. cummings' poem of a similar name. "In just spring when the world is mud-luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee," cummings writes. His balloonman is similar to my wayfaring pilgrim, unjustly stereotyped as being an eyesore in a springtime teeming with sunshine, treeswaying, and cool zephyrs rolling us towards nighttime and a seemingly endless summer of starblasted open skies and unending felicity.
.
.
.
Who am I kidding?
I'd want to walk around all day, absorbing it all...in just the same way as my wayfaring pilgrim and his canine companion--to do otherwise would be unjust.
And I thought to myself, "Who is this vagabond man, roaming the streets of Farmingville like a wayfaring pilgrim in search of something more?"
To your eyes or mine, this man and his canine may stand out, and questions inevitably arise--'Is that his beer can, or is he helping to keep our streets clean?' "Is he homeless and walking all day long in search of shelter, or is he retired and just a nature-lover, enjoying the day just as I am?'
And I thought that my critical eye--and the many eyes that incorrectly judge this man everyday--is an American injustice, resembling e.e. cummings' poem of a similar name. "In just spring when the world is mud-luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee," cummings writes. His balloonman is similar to my wayfaring pilgrim, unjustly stereotyped as being an eyesore in a springtime teeming with sunshine, treeswaying, and cool zephyrs rolling us towards nighttime and a seemingly endless summer of starblasted open skies and unending felicity.
.
.
.
Who am I kidding?
I'd want to walk around all day, absorbing it all...in just the same way as my wayfaring pilgrim and his canine companion--to do otherwise would be unjust.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Remember Two Songs
Driving through Wyoming, glorious mountains to my west; Lake Yellowstone to my east, straddling the Continental Divide, tuning into this station and that, some country here, some soft rock there, my sleeping passengers oblivious to it all. I first heard Chris Stills “When the Pain Dies Down,” a beautiful opus by a relatively unknown soulster, when the windows were down and I was winding through the Grand Tetons National Park headed towards Jackson Hole. The landscape was all blue and green, tremendously breathtaking and titanically overwhelming. I think about the formation of these monstrous creatures and how man is absorbed by their shadows. We are but a tiny sapling sprouting from the dirt floor, shaded from the towering edifices in the distance that were there way before our seeds had ever been thought about being planted.
Freshman year, walking through the Stonehenge campus at Albany--if cement could personify dying, it would happen on this campus--listening to “Float On,” the first song I had ever heard from Modest Mouse, I was not worried. I knew that things would get better and I would leave that place that constricted me, and like a balloon being held down by an anchor, one day the anchor would be released from the balloon’s string and “we’d all float on.” Alright?
Freshman year, walking through the Stonehenge campus at Albany--if cement could personify dying, it would happen on this campus--listening to “Float On,” the first song I had ever heard from Modest Mouse, I was not worried. I knew that things would get better and I would leave that place that constricted me, and like a balloon being held down by an anchor, one day the anchor would be released from the balloon’s string and “we’d all float on.” Alright?
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Prufrock's Pears
Sometimes when the heavens, the clouds, and the stars pour fourth from their luminous eyes myriad tear drops, little boys on earth become crestfallen and yearn for a time of sunny days and cool breezes.
And on nights like these, with tears falling from the skies, I rejoice in the succulent flavor of the second pear I've ever tasted in my life. And I question myself, Do I dare eat a pear? as if I am J. Alfred Prufrock in search of a peach and some eternal happiness.
What is a pear?
What is a tear?
That which grows from some other grower.
That which is produced by some other producer.
That which is created by some other creator.
I can create a tear by thinking of something despondent.
Yet pears, when they are created, are something ripe, new, delicious, nourishing.
I want to create something enriching. I want to be able to produce something ripe, something new, something delicious, something nourishing.
I want to create something that will enrich others, like the grown pear to crestfallen boys on nights when the sky is crying and the ground is reaching up, catching the fallen tears, the wind blowing in between, consistently asking the sky, Why?
And on nights like these, with tears falling from the skies, I rejoice in the succulent flavor of the second pear I've ever tasted in my life. And I question myself, Do I dare eat a pear? as if I am J. Alfred Prufrock in search of a peach and some eternal happiness.
What is a pear?
What is a tear?
That which grows from some other grower.
That which is produced by some other producer.
That which is created by some other creator.
I can create a tear by thinking of something despondent.
Yet pears, when they are created, are something ripe, new, delicious, nourishing.
I want to create something enriching. I want to be able to produce something ripe, something new, something delicious, something nourishing.
I want to create something that will enrich others, like the grown pear to crestfallen boys on nights when the sky is crying and the ground is reaching up, catching the fallen tears, the wind blowing in between, consistently asking the sky, Why?
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