Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Monday, December 28, 2009

Auld Lang Syne

ran into an old friend today,
to be sure.

you see,
I was sure,
he was long gone,
even hoped so.

a dreamer,
this one,
that won’t ever
amount to nothing
cept whittlin clouds
into snowflakes.

I was out
in an old familiar
place, hummin an old
familiar tune, from
an old familiar time.

the wind was right
the season sure
the clouds asleep,
just right for carving.

he dropped by
as I was cutting wood
under these here clouds.
he winked
pockets packed
and I wiped my brow
to his knowing.

we agreed to share a beer
and a stump
carved into chair
when January whistled boredom
from ten thousand feet
of day dream.

God, it was good to see him,
though he’s such a fuck
whistles out his ass
and calls it maple syrup;
a real
piece of work,
this one.

we studied the clouds
and weighed em out
like butcher’s beef
along the ridge line
while our fingers numbed
to remembrance
and barley brew.

we wondered
just how long those trees
have swayed
and if Yankee soldiers
ever silhouetted
the sky line
in no reason why.

I showed him the chicken coop
of simple family dreams
that were cashed in
for ten cents on the dollar

the murdered cedars
that would never
make a grape arbor

and the garden
by scorned neglect.

a killin field
only safe for
slum dog rabbits.

he never asked
about the family,
he always knows

we reminisced.
of winters past
and summers
that never were,
but might have been.

we never backslap
or laugh out loud,
we sideways glance
giving comfort.

he didn’t ask how I was
he knows what I am

he didn’t ask
what’s new
or hers past
I never could
draw a winning hand
cept in solitaire
and only if I cheat.

but we drank a beer,
and pretended
it wasn’t cold
-the day that is,
and it was enough.

we of tripped up dreams
and tangled ledger.

our failures hang upon trees in Mexico
like misguided butterflies
that couldn’t
spawn a maggot
in a shit pile.

but a shrug
a beer
a broken ridgeline
and an old friend
cures all today
and hides tomorrows
where I’ll pretend
not to look.

now, the clouds are
the beer is kind,
and the friendship,

a toast then
to another year
another ten penny nail
in thread bare tires
on a bus
comin in from Buffalo.

and a toast to him
and to clouds,
and to you,
and what almost was.

Happy New Year