My Urban Pt III

That roll played long ago:

The fantasy of streetside hangs,

And easy drunken mornings turned day long

Charades

Of downtown ownage.

.

We had that place.

.

We always had the itch

Of corporate daytime fate,

And sometimes wondered longingly

About those people..

.

But she showed me how to shoot up in the park

And the shadows never turned again.

.

Now I wonder these streets,

Those tenth floor lights,

Of some monster corporate outpost tower:

Why should I cry a tear?

When I missed that place completely

In the fiction that memory so elaborately crafts.

That time

That place: Spent

Wondering elsewhere.

.

Age is just an ability

to revisit old places

With the remembered energy of youth

And that largeness still stretching out

Beyond and back then,

Found.

.

The anger never happened,

The stroll is easy,

And the park is a shady break,

From the early August sun,

Casting its heat across everything

I ever knew.

Day Two at the Astronomy Office

Not sure where this experimental astronomy series is going quite yet but wanted to move it here to keep tugging at it…

The eyes of a fish tell all:

Where time is patient and easy,

Measured in long, deep stories,

And every truth,

No matter how awkward,

And probably still unsettling,

Swirls into some great closure

Not yet arrived.

.

Take, for instance,

The hotel lobby:

Shuffling lights of the metropolis,

Hub of travel,

And humanity lost touch with real places,

Like the warm sunshine of its own design.

.

Here, chances not taken

In the tenor of youth

When confidence was still seeded

Under unbroken earth,

Not yet turned to flowers.

And the wilted regrets that often follow.

But that’s time’s story to tell,

Obviously.

.

Outside:

The city,

Painted from afar,

In hard grays,

And street level stains,

Where the lives behind a million drawn blinds

Are scarce and fleeting imaginations:

At least that’s what the eyes might tell,

And the awkward split-second lifetime shudder,

That ensues with a glance,

On another Saturday night.

.

Shared purposes?

Or….

Different and far?

None of it really,

They will be quick to tell,

Not here,

Before I dare look again,

And see the stars so clearly.

My Urban (pt 1)

I can see hands from here,

Pulling years away from the reach of all these new places,

Savoring tarnished doors,

Held open,

In the wet air of night avenues,

Smoky corners

And back seat make outs.

.

I can see your mom on Sunday,

Toiled indifference to our follies,

Our moves to a life so big,

Deftly held in a trembling hand.

.

“Can I see you again?”

Like the buses at the intersection,

Moving to scheduled vistas

Taken like snapshots

From another overpass

With trains underneath

And billowing April clouds

Against the blue velvet of a painting

Hanging on the wall of a house

On some street at the edge of town.

Mixed Urban Sketch from an Upcoming Life

This time,

We played baseball,

A Sunday routine sprawled under cool gray skies,

In the grassy corners between brick buildings,

Backway into downtown.

Effervescent afternoons,

Mingled in fantastic stories of love and laughter,

Pushing away the winds,

Stalking crosswalks

And small, empty places.

Company, sometimes, on the way to cheap drinks,

Rattle of ice,

A creaking barroom door,

While glitter rains down from the sky.