Turning 50

           “The Savoy Express rolls down track number 4. ALL ABOARD.” My last few days in the forties and memories of everything until now color my mood and fogs recall with soft focus. No single incident, but a continuous flutter of moments pass as if through the window of a passenger car. It’s a blur with occasion detail and color, unless I gaze further a field at the Grandest View or the Mother of all Delusion. Where did the time go? Did it matter and did I accomplish anything at all? How do you measure the success of your life?

           I am not sure if there are metrics for those questions? I know that material things never satisfy, but only wet the appetite. Desire is insatiate, and shallow comfort rewards complacency and boredom. All is vanity; it is its own worst enemy that feasts upon itself. Knowledge is a good cause, but it to is only the filter of someone else’s experience. Lots of people know lots of things that I never hope to nor would want to know, and they don’t seem any happier for it.

           It could be that I am asking the wrong question. A single lifetime is its only true expression, good and bad, happy and sad, or success and not. Does wisdom come from devouring as much experience as possible while clearing the filters that protect the self-journey or something else? I know it is the journey, but the mind must have its catalogue and metrics. I have succeeded at being exactly where I wanted to be; I just need to find a way to accept it. I am where I need to be at this moment on these paths. Where else is just so much wankery.

           So at 50, I have to finally throw off childish expectations and desires, move on with my life. I have to stop asking these questions expecting that I am going to find or figure out the answer. I have to believe that wherever my life may lead is enough.

slow whispers

Fog arrives with the fleeting sun
as a tempest of slow whispers.
Concrete lamp posts brace the mist,
gold bulbs pop the tick of the clock,
as a duty of light for the unfamiliar.

Far enough from the bay,
late crows circle and roost,
caw old friends to warm feathers,
gold eyes, black or brown,
beaks and squawks embrace
along the rank of the elders
and chat the happenstance.

Day is at its always end
open parenthesis to the present;
never future or memory’s past
only hard scrabble hunger
and the absence of fear,
to sleep through the night
and never dream of death.

Quiet, quiet, the rustle
fades into the scenery.
I watch and listen, quiet,
will my elders speak?
Will their whispers in the fog
banish the waking fear,
details in between (the future
and memories of the past).
Only the crows will visit Elysium,
deaf to what my elders never say.

small words

Small words and vogue winks,
friends and almost pugilists,
shot of vodka, whisky, or rye,
cheers, clink, clink, and salute.
The conversation begins, and
soon, all I am will take flight;
the noose is quick round my neck.

I’ll cross the line, go too far,
offend with rapier tongue;
two-step or twirl on the stool,
is an easy dance or swing.
First I lead then I follow,
give and take until
inevitable knots embrace
as regret and doubt are
consequence and contempt
for me, for you, for all.

Why does it always sour?
Our camaraderie and revelry
plunge to mutually assured
random acts of despair?
Then, farewell and convalesce,
in plastic wrap caves of plaster,
recycle temperate breaths
as the hollows blow in
on vehement invisible fog.

Smoke and Crackle

Between beliefs and sidewalks,
around corners and alcoves,
Indian summer and fog
sneak in on muffled steps.
A shadow more than history
from fresh abstract to old age,
the innocence of youth subdues
in subdivision and rational grids;
a suburb tame as tattered jeans,
more a feeling than a purpose,
more effective than form or function.

Autumn days of opiate rakes,
northern winds prick fervent leaves,
and whirls those resting peaceably
across curbs and asphalt, wither,
pooling in corners of common cause,
sloshing dry the memory of
a proclamation in destination,
a bonfire, brisk and rasping,
to and fro, to and fro;
as myths enchanted to the flicker
transcend to smoke and crackle.

murder of crows

on the wind
with a murder of crows,
time stops for a drink.

where relics float,
quiver reflections–
what might have been,
who should still be.

as water – cool, and clear
passes over tongues parched
from empty breezes,
along mortal wreckage,
hot, dusty, never-ending.

a smile returns in memory
and thirst induces desire
for flight, autumn bouquets,
and the touch of meaning.

on the wind
with a murder of crows,
time stops for a drink.