the nostalgia is strong with you
the nostalgia is strong with you
Creating through memory
is like beginning
to ruffle through a dumpster
on the cul de sac
of a dead end street,
“How did I get here?”
But it’s at the bottom
that the only place left is up,
sunshine filtered through tree leaves,
the smell of rotting debri,
and your shirt sleeves
rolled up leaving your hands free:
ah, POETRY.
A family portrait
standing on the edge of it,
getting put in
a basketball game
just to be taken out,
a shot in the dark,
a stanza isn’t the same
when the part of your life
that you’re supposed to be building
is an afterthought
while the rest of the world
is worked up into a frenzy,
“Did you hear
what the President said today?”
“He just doesn’t give a fuck,”
I respond.
It might benefit me
to do likewise,
but time
can feel like a uniform
to take off
when we get home saying,
“Honey, that was a long day.”
There’s something about
driving a 28 foot truck
through a different parts of LA
that brings out
a thought of
what you want,
should,
or need to do.
Down Crenshaw and over El Segundo,
life takes place
in three different tastes:
Past
Present
and Future.
A point-of-view
that simultaneously
looks in the mirror,
into the soul,
and through the front windshield,
a Trinity of thinking
realizing that each story
has to be written daily,
but not knowing the ending
is a cliffhanger
that we can’t stand.
One foot
out of the truck,
one hand on the wheel,
while the current me
is seat buckled to the seat;
1st, 2nd, or 3rd person thinking
in an omniscient world,
all-knowing,
but still practicing
the unwritten rules of writing.
Is it Manifest Destiny
to believe
that the words will come
or is the lesson learned
when she realizes
that all
of some
history
is supposed to be
repeated?
Openness has to be
the secret,
but
if I’m willing to let things out,
then stuff can also come in;
the sin
is in
trying so hard,
because we
can’t,
couldn’t,
shouldn’t,
force it.