Ranch Poem – “The Contours of Time”


“The Contours of Time”

Looking at myself in a one way mirror.
I’m taking in the contours of time,
making faces at who I used to be,
plotting out where I’ll be going.
Dia de Las Muertos-Jesus, two Shpongle masks,
dueling elephants and a Texas flag.
I won’t be far from these things,
and I’ll sing like my fire’s nearly out
and dance against hot worry and cold memory.
Will I make an album well received or lost
within some dusty rack or bottom of a discography?
Has my hair ever been this long in another life?
You’ve said so much to me this morning without words,
we think through synaptic loops within this same brain.
This tree outside sways many ways, half lit by sun,
it looks good against the picking Bluegrass.
And after six selfish months, I’m seeing it clearly,
with a redheaded shamrock in bed beside me.
As we tumble toward singularity concepts,
Man still struggles with an inferiority complex
towards youth, competitors, physics, morality.
To be victorious, I just outdo from within.
I’ve lost count of the number of times in a day
that I plug an eighth inch into a jack
or the number of words that I type aimlessly
or how many weeks its been since I’ve shaved.
Is the Greater Boston a bastion of future thought?
It needs valleys, cultural upheaval and a later curfew.
But most of the world always does, I say.




Ranch Poem – “Between Arlington and Austin”


Between Arlington and Austin

A traveling stranger
taught me to move
my feet to keep
from falling into that circle
of anxiety–insane,
I would peer into his
strange eyes–shrinking,
widening, capturing, gleaming
like some purple
magenta square stone
long lost at home.

Now, as my mother sings
and firefly rain
falls all around my
hopeful excitement;
I wonder fully and
give half-assed affection
to those dispersed women
slowed by misunderstandings,
men mulligans,
and mazes.

And the road can be cold,
and the road can be hot,
but the road has my trust.
Be sure to miss the God rush,
catch the Incident,
bring out your Dead,
know shades of Grey,
spread Rothbury,
miss the Moon, hug Hubble,
embrace Barry’s change,
learn from Yasgur’s
and read Songs of the Doomed.

Already, I miss that last
bite, sip, or whiff
of my life’s morning
sun. Bright and golden
are the good times
we hold so close
that memory is our skin
is our thinning hair
is our racing heart
is our jeweled teeth
is the cracks
of crusty lip that we
bite, tear, chew
and digest unto our
bodies again and again.