I remember high waisted love
I had to try on
In summertime I was
A hopeless romantic singer
Sentinel at my perch
On the boardwalk of Whiterock.
Every passing and going
It was summertime affair
I heard wind blowing
Seagulls culling
And I out to my sea
On the boardwalk of Whiterock.
Now my vessel aboard
Sunglasses and a city of scores
Tide’s low sandy toes
And my voice crying out loud
For nighttime’s aglow
On the boardwalk of Whiterock.
Many things cross over the gaps developing,
Or rather the gaps closing
(Bridges close gaps but barriers remain)
But your heart yet remains.
Your heart reacts like the gates
Of a foreign city under siege,
Combatants awaiting orders with nervous sweat,
Clammy fingers gripping, reciting,
Losing breath, and faintly recognizing the boiling
Hearts standing alert and flanking beyond
Until the eyes drain tired.
Bridged gap?
Gapped bridge.
(In closing) lovers entangle.
I’m starting to lose focus on time,
Like the 99 heading straight to Nowhere.
The capital city of: I’ve never been there.
Anger, danger, regret, strength,
Oblivion in a massive entanglement
Of red arrows and pick up sticks.
There was some antidote
As time slipped it’s age-old
Abbra-cadabra magic betwixt
Reason and murder, holy truth and destiny.
I can’t pass this challenge
Even though my perfect pocket watch
Clicks an even tick at high-noon.
I love, but this is no love.
Entangled with soul and wisdom,
Heartbeat to a slow beat
With loose morals and fast cars,
I’ve come too far to remember
My dotted lines without headlights.
I am not a man.
I’m a ’69 Camero with hot love in the back seat.
With your heart beat –
Thundering through mountains,
Across crevaces,
Through valleys, full cities
And Oceans so far
An eye cannot see
But know, undoubtly,
That horizon lines
Only trick us
To believe your gravity is
Comprehensible –
My heart beats.
With your ebb and my flow
A unity gathers so strongly
That when left unchecked,
A wobbling and teetering
And quivering begins.
Thus, over this floating mass
Of carbon based matter
Quantum does exist,
Qi is your heart,
And my breath like every other breath
Is a slave to your every
Beck and call.
From the rooftop
I espied
A Devil glancing
Up my way
City sounds reverberate
Off multicolored baseball caps
And stuffed flower boxes
That blur vision when
Traveling at cycling speed.
But bypassing red light lines
In spinning fashion
Has a sort of air to it
That pulls hard on lungs
And makes the day feel alive!
Rhythm is a magic thing.
Ebb.
Flow.
It takes the heart
And encircles it with
Falling Autumn leaves
And afternoon window shoppers
Dressed in
Late-morning-sunshine-yellow polo shirts
And walked-a-mile shoes.
Rhythm is two steps
For every one breath
On a muggy evening
Along a windy, ocean view
Pedestrians only path
In a healthy city.
Rhythm is necessary,
Just as long steady gusts for big bubbles
And late afternoon naps are.
Because if the heart takes a leap
And forgets which beat
Is flip flopping around deep inside,
Then all mastery of any subject
Is floating lifelessly away
Amidst breadcrumbs scattered for ducks
In a sea of slugs on a hungry Tuesday.
It makes me sad to think of lonely people,
Especially in a big city.
A city so big that for every lonely thought out there,
There’s an equally lonely thought going right back out.
That for every lonely person out there,
There is another lonely person
Thinking the same lonely things,
Wishing that other lonely people
Could be lonely with them, lonely together.
It’s sad thinking about
The rate of lonely people leaving the big city,
How if their lonely souls would have connected
With other lonely souls
– To make a collective happy soul –
How close that did actually come to be!
Imagine, two lonely souls passing each other on the street!
Perhaps just one more lonely thought
Would have been enough lonely thoughts
To summon all the lonely people.
How many lonely people must leave the city,
For other lonely people to take notice?
Is there a lonely person packing their tiny car up
With all their precious lonely memories stuffed inside
Leaving this lonely city right now?
With Israel and his son Concordia,
The Conquistadors contemplated anarchy;
“No!” Yelled the city streets
Against windows of innocent glassy puddles.
And thus the lost voice: Arbritage.
So from inside the ancient gold plated doors
Swashbucklers leaned on their pole called history,
Singing songs that rolled off tongues
Like français of an unbroken heart.
The two shook their secret handshake,
Clasped each a moon of waxing gibbous
Deep within their full hearts of innocent desire,
Coughing on fumes leftover from the army
Who had rolled through these streets
To a machine named destruction.
So who was left crying?
Not the lost brothers, silently creeping along
Dead back streets, poorly lit.
No, not the dead brothers waving rebel flags.
Not the flowers, forever resilient
To tumult and it’s darkness.
No, it was the stone covered city
And it’s sister: splinters.
Our political agendas are nauseating.
They’re stuffed so full of capital letters
That the underlying messages of our society –
Hell, even our cultures,
Are suffocated with exhaust stacks and bottom dollars.
If I could have dreamed up a Heathenistic Hell,
I’d put city roads and destruction for progress
Right at the top of that scorched list.
I’d decree land had suddenly become a commodity
We could sell simply because we had a gun that said we could.
Just like young adults unable to find their righteous paths,
Explicit lyrics contaminating the innocent minds,
My Hell would be a prescribed better way, mothers.
Did you feel my heart as it’s ripped out every single day
When land mines help fight swollen populations,
Planted in a war to help save lives?
War to not war! Fight fire with fire!
And in my Hell, in my political agenda I call my country,
I would give us hope, every.single.day.
We would wake up to the smell of progress
And desire to capture it in any way possible
So that it could be shared with anybody we knew.
We would mutually feel good about the loss of our trees,
Because our heads were buried so deep in our electricity
Where we were collectively dreaming about
Ways to continue our progress.
For my simple pleasure I’d have dandelions everywhere
As symbols of true health and prosperity.
I’d pull up my old lawn chair, warm beer in hand,
And watch as all the sinners pulled out their organic chemicals
To spray the evil yellow root to death.
On the cold days when there were no death machines
I’d read my botanical books and let the rain
Wash tears into my Hell.
For me this is the saddest thought of all,
Because in spite all my attempts to rectify ignorance,
I would be a black seed living in my own true Hell.
I would be a puppet, inspired to raise my voice
And told that I do mean something to this Hell.
There I’d be, red faced eating my poisoned earth,
Handed another blank Party card
And told why I should be excited.
