6 Trees

There was a band of brothers, six of them all living together in the big city, all suffering the harshness of its society. In the city the nights were bitter cold or feverishly hot, or sometimes both.
These brothers were flexible and quick, healthy and strong, fruitful, almost majestic. And with their fierce eyes they looked at their lives, at the nature of their days and they said, "That's enough." They would not stand for whatever undeserved stones this city would throw at them, day after day, and they were strong, and they were together, and they would stand only for something better.
So they walked away from the city one fiery morning, with no desire to look back, with relief at being out of the way of its mean winds, whipping in tangled spirals behind them.
They climbed whatever hills were on their path, suffered whatever storms they passed through, tired but grateful for the challenge. They were exhausted by the end of every traveling day until they found what they thought they were looking for.
The air was calm, there were many streets with many rows of houses, many driveways, many cars, many parks and many benches. And the air was calm. It was gentle, slow.
And so they stretched and they sighed, they looked at each other and they agreed, this is it, this is peace. Home at last. They stepped off their rocky path and onto the grass, they looked around and took it all in.
From then on their days weren't so tormented, and they lived with ease and everyone there stayed out of everyone's way, like they were all tailing along in a circle, all part of the same neverending monologue.
They grew so attached to this lifestyle, so accustomed to it that eventually, all six of them began to find it hard to move around, and this was because their feet became rooted to the ground. They could not keep walking their circular lives but they could not escape its confines. Their skin began to darken, their fingers turned to brittle, bare twigs, and then they were stretching, reaching out into emptiness, and then they were frozen solid. They were six trees.

jan 1 2011

Just some advice.

And if you were to turn your world on its side? No, not upside-down. But take this view, take it with your hands and turn it over. You'll see all your flat lines are upright now, and maybe the dust is sliding off their surfaces. You would lose your footing, there's no doubt, you would slip down the ground and wildly try to grab something. You'd be falling. But sooner or later your feet would find something solid and then you could stand and look around at this new world where everything you used to be able to stand on is more like a wall now, which you need to climb. Which you want to climb. Because you were tired of your lines being flat. You were tired of horizons.
Who hasn't dreamed of walking on walls and climbing the floor?
The earth keeps rumbling, quaking. Pull it from under your feet and brace yourself for the fall. Do it before it splits open and you fall in.

jan 1 2011

New Horizons

I took a breath and the time to loosen that chokehold my heart has on my eyes so I could see without a tint of red. I looked out my backyard door to whatever platitudes are always planted there. Flimsy sheds in all the backyards, divided by slightly crooked crosswire. But through the hazy winter sky, in the distance, there was the silhouette of a tall bulky building, which I never noticed I could see from where I stood. What building is this? I don't know my hometown enough to know. It's a building that must be far to walk to, with my jelly legs and twisted back anyway. Yet I can see it from my home.

dec 31 2010

To the Tree at the Foot of our Hill

Do you remember me? It's been a long time. My cheeks aren't so rosy anymore, my thighs have grown, my eyes don't have that sparkle. On the way up the dirt path I could see through your tangled, brittle branches our old house perched on the snowy hill. You're sleeping now because it's cold out, you're not in your glory. But I remember you when you were green and pulsing. I remember sitting in your shade.
Do the kids who live here now use you as the safe spot in tag? Did they give you a name? Do they climb your branches, or carve drawings in your bark? Do they trade cards below your leaves? Do they take turns telling scary stories in this grass? Do they argue, yell and shout? Do they split their heads open on your trunk when they roll down the hill? Do they laugh, sing and dance? Did they forget all about little Anthony's sixth birthday?
I've come to see what secrets you hold for me, to brighten my grey adult skies, and make my clouds look like teddy bears or trains.
Twisted tree, I thought you looked funny as a child. Now you look ominous and foreboding to me, your curves like snakes, your branches like long, slender thorns. If I reached out and touched you, would you prick me, bite me, or would you be funny again?

dec 20

Judi on the Deck

I have a picture from a couple years ago, it seems it hasn't been so long but it has and much has changed since then.
It's a picture of my dog Judi when she was just around a year old, I think, because she was still so small and my bare toe at the bottom tells me it was summer. She was born in the summer.
In this picture she's looking up at the camera, sitting like a teddy bear like she does, and her face is big and out of focus. There's such a long hard shadow in front of her on the pale grey deck. The deck's light pink in real life but in this picture it's grey. The sun must've been behind her. The shadow on the left must've been my mom's and it came in the picture by accident.
Judi's looking up at me and there's a big white teardrop-shaped patch of fur on her nose. I can remember my Uncle Danny seeing that patch of white on her nose for the first time when she was just a puppy and he said, "Oh, look at that. That's cute." It surprised me because he really meant it, and he was never a big fan of our dogs. I've loved that patch of white on her nose more ever since. Even more now that he's gone. I think I love it like it's a part of him for me to hold on to. Sometimes it's not easy for me to hold on to him.
Much has changed since this picture was taken. My Uncle Danny's not alive anymore and Judi's not so small anymore. It's not summer anymore either. The place that processed this picture doesn't process that kind of film anymore. I'll miss Judi when she's gone, and I'll miss that patch of white on her nose. And I think I'll love this picture like it's a part of her for me to hold on to.

dec 20 2010

Elliott man you played a fine guitar

Plainclothes Man


Take your curled strumming fingers,
nails chewed off ,
and pluck the strings of right now.

Turn it into a melody for me.

Sing to me the songs of tonight’s wet streets,
sing to me their mean, dirty chorus.

You grip your twisted bed sheets,
your stained coffee table,
your empty bottles,
your stupid mistakes,

you mold them into a symphony,
frail voice quivering
against the soft earthquakes of your words.

You lower your eyelids,
but you carry the disaster
time and time again.

Usually until the end.

Help me gather my neglected, nameless thoughts
that persist, that throb in sync with my breath.
Lend me your pen and I’ll number them.

Help me sweep the spider webs and dust
from the far, lonely place
where I once buried my dissonant chords.
Thanks for the roses,
I’ll bring them with me.

And thanks for the lingering lines you wrote
to soothe even the pain of your leave;

“I’m never gonna know you now,
but I’m gonna love you anyhow.”

weeknight and oct 2

This night is so stunning, it feels like I'm looking at the world through lilac-colored lenses. The orange sun's head struggles to stay above the horizon, but steady minutes pull it steadily down. I watched it drop in the west sky all the way home through finger-smeared windows, it looked like a radioactive orange. Now only its final screaming rays remain, then there will be nothing and this violet world will be black.
But how I love the fall. This is the climate I was meant for, when the air gently nibbles at my skin.
In the fall, any sound is melancholic, any scent is fragrant and rich. And it always smells like an apple tree is just around the corner.

Autumn is the most beautiful season of all. Season of terror and adventure, or of somber contemplation. Everything is poetic in autumn. Everything goes, anything goes. In autumn,
pain, suffering, confusion, fear, discomfort, cold, hunger, aches, spiders, demons, stenches, dirt, blood, death,
it's all poetry.
Autumn takes my problems and turns them into golden leaves, red leaves, green leaves, orange leaves, and I sit on my porch in the afternoon and watch them fall to the ground, fluttering in gusts of cool wind, with my pen in hand and there's nothing else I'd rather be doing.
Autumn turns my tears into freezing showers that I have to run through on my way to school, holding my coat over my head but still getting soaked, and I don't think I've ever enjoyed a sunny day stroll more than I enjoy running through the cold rain in the fall.

Leonard Cohen is the epitome of bittersweet. His words are ugly truth, and he writes like he's painting a picture, and every stroke makes you want to cry, avert your eyes, but then he says wait, look, this is beautiful, and it is.