my mama's sleeping where the land is all heart there are sounds of trains and leaves and simple street din sometimes when it rains the st. joe river swells and opens its great communicator- splashing on the banks and sometimes swallowing up the wall. one year it flooded so badly the pier was washed away.
we used to sit on that red wooden pier and that's where i baited my first hook and first held my own sparkler. if hillary and i were feeling adventurous, we'd climb through the overgrown bramble forest up the steep bank instead of using the wooden stairs; at the top of which hung a white wooden sign that said "The Smiths." it seemed so far away- the hill was so tall- when we were standing on that pier, casting that first rod; it was all so far away.
my mama's there now, down the street from the house where she grew up, eating her mama's famous mashed potatoes and sloppy joes. but i'm here. out east. in brooklyn. the lights are all so yellow and orange and manufactured and it's so beautiful and it's so alive and it's so false that it hurts so much because you realize, five years later, that it's so false and it hurts so much and it's so hard to leave because you've been in love all along with a dream. the city, the magic, the energy, the pull- was it all a dream? not here, though, now.
L train
there is a pattern on the subway train floor tiny pebbles of red and purple and white as if the air we breathe was water flowing to the great manhattan sea, and we were migratory fish swarming under the bridge. it wasn't even noon and already the mournful moody blues were echoing through union square station- the man's voice seemed mismatched to his face and i was drawn over by the lack of self-awareness in each minor chord but when we made eye contact the man bore his story of setback and disappointment unabashedly his voice continued with the notes, still unintimidated by the eye's story- pressure of deciphering which was more true weighed on my mind like unspoken guilt. when the train came i dropped a dollar into the man's bucket and attempted a weak smile that was left unreciprocated- disappearing into the great unmarked grave of ignored or unsuccessful connection. so we'll stand clear of the closing doors please- because everyone looks like someone from a different time, scattered memory and the deep blue of the water has turned brown from pulsing traffic.
Frozen Lake
waking with cold sunshine pouring on the iron bed we rise eggs sizzle and the coffee is so sweet we dress for the snow and trek toward the lake, frozen solid our weight joins determined band of ice-fishers across the way. we stumble upon an abandoned concrete factory abandoned but not forgotten to children of the night- for those of us empathetic with these children it is a beautiful place if not in motive than in tags they have left behind. death will lead you to freedom, it says, but nature will never fail you. icy wind makes metal move and creek, icicles line the framing and squeal in the protest of their grip being lost we smoke and blow on our fingers to find feeling. in our silence we have found clarity. in a clearing, i leaned in front of you against a tree, and as you filled me the sun burst into color and sank into the sparkling snow. we chant in buddhist prayer and postulate constellations as they appear in darkening sky then cold enveloping night suspended over frozen lake.
