The Fountain of Old Age

Time in dreams is frozen. You can never get away from where you've been. — Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin.

Somewhere my youth goes on

Another dimension

Or inside me now

As I go on

And I do

Those days when I was indestructible

When my dreams and future were indistinguishable 

Then

That was but maybe is

And I am still

The fountain of old age

But the search is never ending

But somewhere my youth persists

Still so sure of itself

Still fumbling, stumbling, shambling

But still my own

Me

Mine 

And I’ll reclaim it again

There there behind that dream

Next to that idea

Just to the right of that emotion

Somewhere my youth goes on

I love it

Pain

The sky shattered around me falling to the ground like shards of glass

I wept that morning

Dreams of vanquished scoundrels now forgotten

The lump in my throat genuine

Musings, hallucinations, dribbles of the mind and the endless pain of mortality

Never to recover from my own birth

How horrible to be here facing eternity

As the eggs boil and bask and break and bother 

The gumshoe squealed to the cops despite his silence Having been handsomely paid for

And what do you do when there’s nothing but poetry and your own falling heart diving into the ocean

Never to recover

Always to be a lover

Seems simple

But the pain says no

Pain

Pain is always the theme

So much of it (pain) coursing through me and exiting with every exhalation and returning with every inhalation 

To not breath might be the cure

Pure

Purity

Surety

There is none

Nor fun

Just a life in the shadows of pain

All I can do in response is to create

Never too late

And so I cannot cry

The simplicity of it all

All of it together here and forever and now and then and again and soon

How I strive

Stay alive

Crying in the darkness

Never more sure than when uncertain

Curtain

Not to be continued

It's 1966

Willie Mays in centerfield

Allen Ginsberg writing poems

My father driving his truck

I’m tossing the ball in the backyard

Or

Watching a silly sitcom

American soldiers dying in Vietnam

Or

Losing body parts

Lyndon Johnson on the phone in the Oval Office

Or

Lying about the war

Richard Nixon plotting his next run

The 49ers play at Kezar Stadium

Steve McQueen the coolest

Everyone loves the space program

Marijuana sales increasing everywhere

The Beatles put out a new album

Jack Kerouac still alive and writing 

Or

Drinking

J Edgar Hoover plotting against the New Left

Or

The Civil Rights Movement

Dr. King organizing

My Mom a schizophrenic shouting

Or

Making diner

The Viet Cong winning

England swinging like a pendulum do

The Iron Curtain tall and mighty 

And 

Oppressive

Skirts short on girls 

And 

Young women

Bewitched remains a popular TV show

Motown and soul music a happy marriage

Unions strong

The CIA schemes against legit governments abroad

I hate school but love books

Girls getting increasingly interesting to me

American cars too big

But 

Gas is cheap

Cigarette commercials on TV

More Americans protesting the war

The best and worst yet to come

 

Fading Light

The fading light of a November dusk

Wet leaves from yesterday’s rain

Cover the garden and sidewalk

The plodding steps of a passerby

The crows are quiet now

It feels soft and warm in the house

Maybe time for hot tea and a cookie

I’m ignoring my book now

Just as I’ve ignored writing

The depth of this moment tugs at me

It is another day waning

They are passing too quickly now

Their haste brings an emptiness

And I try to fill it with fading light

Never

Works

Recycling

I pulled the recycling bins to the curb
The trash bin too
A truck will come by tomorrow
and empty them
Then I’ll pull the bins back
to where they sit all week
Gradually they will fill up
As we take out our trash
and recycling
The process is the same every week
I like it
I like that we have so little trash
and so much more recycling
There’s also a compost bin
It wasn’t even half full this week
So I didn’t put it out on the curb
Once a month I clean the compost bin
with a water using the new hose we bought
The compost been gets pretty gross
So much of life is in cycles
That’s the way it goes

End of Night

That rugged
That tweed jacket
The cigarette smoke
The wallet full of ones
A scarf dangling
A shirt untucked
Toussled hair
Cynical
Yet laughing
The smell of bourbon
No gloves
Loafers and thin socks
Reciting poetry
Arrogant friendship
It is two men
There was a tall slinky blonde
She blew
The sun is rising
From the stoop
Shiver
Long day overlapping
Friendship
A manicured hand on the shoulder
Rise unsteadily
Time for coffee

I Saw

I saw a dust mote
Hello, I said
No response
I saw a fig tree
Hello, I said
No response
I saw a blue bird
Hello, I said
No response
I saw the Roman Coliseum
Hello, I said
No response
I saw a rain drop
Hello, I said
No response
I saw a beautiful woman
Hello, I said
No response
Finally I saw a puppy dog
Hello, I said
It barked at me
Sigh I sighly sighed sighing
And that's the end of the poem