You are here.
Looking for a place to happen, making stops along the way
Sing it to me Gord, you know how it has been.
I have been chasing Rabbits
down dark alleyways on the wrong side of town after midnight.
Which band is it tonight?
Oh I don’t know, I only heard their hit song on the radio like five times today.
Seriously. I memorized the lyrics.
The audience is a teenage girl personified.
The unified screams of enthusiasm reverberate.
Wisps of an encore drift in on the sweet smell of fabricated fog.
But they don’t see you like I do.
Did anyone even recognize you at Walmart?
And at the end of the night or is it morning (oh I don’t know)
Orion rides shotgun and I pick up groceries at the corner store again in the A.M.
The frogs are singing just for me and the stars and I roll down the window inviting the early morning in.
You can see my breath and each exhalation is concrete poetry.
The radio in the car is just for show.
But wait, that’s right
I have been waiting, sitting on roots and stones even dinosaurs have known
Watching the water wear away the Rock.
The rain is just as applause when it hits the leaves in the trees.
I snap a photo.
You cannot see me but this is where you would find proverbial X as if on a map
you are here…
and there and everywhere.
The more I see the more insignificant my life seems to be.
From the mountains kneeling at an ancient lake to the sea and here in between
This is my waiting room
I take a number, take a seat and
there is a lot of taking when I should be dedicating my life to something more.
I need a baptism of sorts
A burial at sea or setting a fire to set me free.
Maybe those are too good for me.
Discreetly shed my clothes as a chrysalis and slip beneath the surface to find myself.
I have been flirting with the frigid water, but I cannot seem to wash my wounds clean
lick your wounds anxious for the next one
It isn’t Holly, it is an Oregon Grape or communion with nature and my God
Oh how I love to feel the dirt and listen to the ferns whisper.
I smelled the sap dripping from the cedar
and the cedar smelled like me.
You are here.
This is your mundane life.
The rushing of the water carries you off to dreamland.
You make a list of things you may never see again and revel in the beauty.
You are Spring, fleeting and then gone.
Such is this life.
One day I will have roots too.
And my plants will no longer grow in pots.
Hit the road and I’m gone, What’s my number…