…And all the wars that brave men refused to fight
…And the last minute of your birthday
…And a fire’s dying ember
…And the echo of a dog howling beneath the Manhattan bridge
…And all the colleges loans deferred like dreams
…And the symphony that was never composed
…And the false promise of an honest man being paid what he is worth
…And the worth of reinvented mathematical formulas
…And when a baby first discovers that she has toes
…And a boombox jettisoning salsa beats across Jerome Avenue
…And that time that we climbed Montserrat
Or was it El Yunque?
Or was it Erciyes?
Or was it Bear Mountain?
…And whenever she hums while washing dishes I am converted
…And you missed the assignment because you were too busy drawing frogs
…And he lived happily ever after in the meadows of Northern New Jersey
…And then he says, “The Aristocrats!”
…And one part hydrogen makes water
…And Thaxton and Terry and Kerry and Steve and Quinn were all there
…And then that kind of fear that leaves you oddly curious
…And there will be an age when our good deeds will be the only currency
…And once the sky departs us
…And soon were are intangible
…And the unknown is liberated from its bondage
…And the tide recedes
...And
…And her bag of marbles were lost in the cupboard
…And when she found them again they had become microchips
…And the horse that hailed a taxi
…And the unsaid is soon our wallpaper
…And a snapping turtles wades
…And every curse is birthed into cotton candy
…And my knee has never felt the same since
…And those Roman columns guarded the coast
…And where a ravine of sound divides the hemisphere
…And hiding in the closet with imaginary friends
…And his Zidjian cymbals
…And the Stratocaster carves notes into the hillsides
…And the Nationalists claim victory
…And the almost thereness of silence in a damp Chicago alley
…And we laughed at the silliness of the matter
…And what a poor man says suddenly mattered
…And our abstractions were extracted into matter
…And we pressed further on into the jungle
Searching for shelter from the rain, we pressed on
…And on
…And on
...And
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3 Musings:
I rather enjoyed this piece. Perhaps, because I know who the writer is, some of the images, thoughts, and feelings easily conjure up some wonderful memories. You really get such a warm and broad sense of reflection in this poem. I can see you seeing and searching the catacombs of your existence, your experiences, your essence of Toro. It's a simplistic in design and form, yet very deep and full of varied emotion. Great work, I'm glad I had the opportunity to read this one.
So pretty! ...and then he finally, definitely, without a doubt or even the most minute drop of hesitation, most assuredly, boastfully, happily, euphorically knew that he is a poet.
P.S. Check out the crazy comments left on my blog recently - I had to pull some punches and guard our boy, Drew!
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