Ranch Poem – “Unfinished”



I wish everyone would move at my pace
and nobody would give me an ugly face.
I wish my questions would be answered directly
because my grief is not as transitory as the minutes and the hours.
I’m re-reading emails for offers, re-reading messages from missed lovers,
making risks with money and regretting the hand’s not taken.
We lean so far over our phablets until we are swallowed whole by growing gorilla glass.
Everyone has their own fucked perceptions of social class and what it means to have some.
House of Cards and True Detective anxiety attacks leaving me as negative as the windchill.
And I get my thrills staying up in a sugar coma until I can’t help but question myself.
And the siren song of a sudden significant memory
lures me away from the sea of the moment towards an island of sorrow.
And I wonder what our place would be like if I could shake my past, dig up these roots and tell ya it would last.
And if I had the album linings for everyone’s lives and login for everyone’s heart,
I think that I would still be ignorant to their essence.
My own nucleus keeps me guessing, keeps me on edge, gulping and sweating.
We are so alarmed and firmly carved into bluffs of concern and consternation,
yet all the issues and the protests and the uproar has a short shelf life.
How quickly we are distracted by the plight of a family member,
the changing leaves of a spouse outgrown,
the prospect of an unpaid FASFA loan,Β the next Netflix season drop,
the fear of a hip and heady boat missed, the sick satisfaction showing everyone up,
or the song or painting or poem left unfinished.



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.