I think I’m like a firecracker
Just less impressive
In a moment I can explode into a creative fervor
But it only lasts for a moment
And I’m left lighting more and more matches hoping that the ashes will spark and take flame

I guess I’m waiting for that big moment
Where the whole truth is clear and everything changes
That big moment will be my big moment
But the problem with this waiting is you miss all the little moments in between
The little moments that give the big one context if not meaning
You can’t be a movement if you’re always standing still

The chasm between thought and action is wide
And although I tell myself I can make it, I never seem to have the energy to make it across
Or is it simply that I’m never sure if I honestly intended to try

Tonight the sky is a dark grey
It rained all up to this point and you can still see some collected puddles on the ground
But the temperature is perfect
Except for the breeze you can’t tell where the air ends and your skin begins
I hope the beach is like this
I wish it could always be like this

I suppose I should say
It’s 5:30 on a summer day
The temperature is 82 but it still feels nice

When José Martí chose to return to Cuba did he know he would die?
Certainly not, but he knew that he might
It almost certainly crossed his mind
But still he returned to die on horseback forever immortalized in New York statues and mediocre poems
I feel I’m ok without that level of courage
I feel I’m ok with where I’m at right now as long as I’m aware that some day I’ll be moving forward
No sense in rushing in to free fall leaps of faith
They don’t often tell you this, but in order to be a martyr someone has to see your life as important
And don’t take that the wrong way
But I don’t see anyone raising any statues if I died

The students from May ‘68 look back upon the events, 50 years later, and claim they never expected it to become a revolution
And they were right, because it didn’t
Oh what fiery idealism drove them
“The Communist Party saw the Workers for who they were”
The interviewee states
“The students saw them as what they should be”
And in my eyes there lies the fatal trap
To hold any earthly thing as sacred is to build upon a foundation of ice
When things get hot ice tends to melt

When Nestor Makhno fled to Paris did he feel that he would ever return to Ukraine?
It had happened before in February 1917 when he was released from prison, but certainly he must of knew his anarchist revolution was over
I look at the pages of how the Makhnovists said this and Trotsky said this and I’m much too tired to take sides
Makhno, Trotsky, Lenin are all dead now and the wheels around us keep turning
There’s no use dwelling on the past when the future creeps up a second at a time
I could end here on an optimistic note
And say something about the strength of the human spirit or the power of us working together or something you have heard a million times before
So instead I’ll leave you with this

It’s 5:47 on a summer day
It’s 82 degrees, but it still feels nice

And maybe I haven’t felt alive since those summers
When I close my eyes I can feel a warmth that is not quite sunshine not quite nostalgia not quite bittersweet heartbreaks so long removed from my thoughts
I was so much younger then
Or at least I feel older now
And though I’ve never moved from this room or this house I’ve never really felt at home since then
Memories flash through before graduations both college and high school flashes of me at my desk on a laptop long since deceased
And I remember Death Cab for Cutie of all bands
Grapevine Fires and that song that made me want to wear cardigans
And I remember Fanfarlo trumpet fanfare, Decemberist Crane Wives, and that moment that the song Little Lion Man first felt new
Maybe I haven’t felt the same because I’ve never been in love quite like I felt in those days
But that doesn’t explain the more recent, the drives with Jazz and beat Poet souls, long after romance had faded
Black and white footage of Pull My Daisy and all the familiar faces in New York apartment and you could almost hear Dave Van Ronk or Bob Dylan in the background folk alleyways
Oh the emotions I had then
The passion I had for life
It didn’t seem much then, but now it’s like I hide in the shadow of it
I’ve considered giving up writing because the words don’t come
It’s taken me 3 poems to get this emotion right and I still won’t be happy with it when I end up reading it
But maybe I’m remembering because those parts of me are not forever gone in long past memories buried by political odes and the need to be serious I tell myself I need to be serious all the time because I never could take myself seriously
I always saw myself as a parody of what I wanted to be
A parody of the Doctor a parody of Guthrie a parody of Dylan, of Ginsberg, of Kerouac, of Lenin, a parody of the parody that is myself
But hopefully that is all over now
Hopefully I’ll be able to feel the warm heart deep feelings of those summers past
Without anyone’s help or anyone’s sympathy or well wishes


And maybe I haven’t felt alive since those summers
But I sure as hell ain’t dead yet

It’s time for me to leave this place
But then you walk in with glasses and curls
(At least that’s how I remember you)
And me, too inebriated to remember but I remember talking to you about poems and liquor licenses and a request for return but only when I could be present
I thought you were cute but never said and would’ve never said
But C’est la vie
Such is life
You can’t go back to that party again

In the woods I am distracted until I make eye contact with a deer
You are probably 8 feet from the trail just laying there and all of your herd are there with you scattered around the foliage
I talk to you
You do not talk back
But in my heart I wish you did I wish we could have a connection that no other human can make I so much want to be a part of nature apart from all the things that make me human the things that tell me to consume without feeling to be forever without feeling to love for the sake of making the next generations work force to eat so that big corporation bosses can pocket the money to buy buy buy until the planet is dead and the rich ***** like Elon musk are living among the stars
But C’est la vie
Such is life
You can’t win this fight on your own

And so here I sit
11:54
Still kinda drunk
Writing this poem for the next time I can read it
Read it for you cute girl at a party
Read it for you revolutionary soul disillusioned by the Spectacle of it all
Read it for me drunken poet who begs himself each night to write but whose life is so serious so serious with State and Revolution and Lenin and Bookchin and Stirner and Ocalan and can I be vulnerable?
Can I love again like I did in high school with the one girl and the one girl only?
Can my heart blaze in the fires of Lenin and Bookchin?
Ocalan, Stirner, Connelly and Mao?
Or is it simply time for me to sleep?
C’est la vie
Such is life
Maybe I’ll convince myself I’m home

I was told you can’t go home again
But a wise man once said to me
“If home is where the heart is
Then I live in my upper chest”

The noisy clothes dryer has made me fall back in love with the quiet
Now even the hum of the air conditioner is painfully noticeable
And the ticking of the analog clocks scratch at my brain until I retreat somewhere anywhere else

There are ants on my bathroom floor but I try not to notice them
They don’t bug me all that much and I don’t really want to see them killed
Maybe it’s the wilderness reclaiming my lower middle class suburban home

I’m getting better at walking in the woods with my headphones off
While the words of some green anarchist or social ecologist compliment well with the feeling of dirt and branches beneath my boots
Sometimes it’s nice to hear the birds or the footsteps of some unknown animal at other side of this wall of brush and bushes

There are many days now where I want to escape from the modern world
Maybe if only for a little while
In countless poems past I threaten cabins in the woods
I threaten retreat from society
I threaten quote “primitive” technology
I threaten an escape I’m afraid to make
And often I’m afraid to say all this
For fear of being compared to Ted Kaczynski
So for now I’ll just search for the quiet
Far from everyday life
And then...

I know that one day I will die
As all people must
And I have learned not to fear it
Not only because I believe in an existence after death
But because I am getting over my fear
Of being forgotten by those I’ve left behind
I hope I have left seeds of hope
Some shred of understanding in this world
I hope my life will be seen as an expressive moment
Of joy
Of strength
Of compassion
And if I am to be forgotten
I pray I am not left in a grave to rot in a cemetery
I pray that I am buried beneath a sapling
So that the roots will surround me and the tree will grow from my decay
And then one day someone will look at that tree
And compliment it’s long branches
It’s sturdy trunk
And I will find peace knowing my greatest contribution to the world will be this tree about my grave

I know that one day I will die
As all people must
But that day is not today

Close your eyes now and you can see it
A quietly flowing stream
The sunlight through tree limbs
You are in the mountains again, if only in your mind
And if only for a moment

Time and time again I would think about it
And other times I would write about it
I’m in a cabin in the woods alone and nobody knows and I’ll come back to civilization when I want to if I ever want to again
I will grow what I need or steal it if I have to
That’s my dream I guess
The kind of solitude that drove Kerouac to Big Sur
“Something good will come of all things yet”
He whispered to me
“Golden and eternal just like that”
That’s the dream I hope to wake up to
But for now I wake up to closed curtains and toilets that won’t flush properly and all the weight I have gained since high school
I’m a wanderer but not in the way I hoped
I wonder down aisles at work
I wander back and forth from my living room to my bedroom
And my mind wanders every moment
The words that leave my mouth are never what they were in my head
I wonder if anyone takes me seriously
And sometimes I’m afraid to write it because I don’t want anyone I know throwing back any validation I don’t need
I’m a **** good man but I sure as hell ain’t happy
Happiness is so fleeting regardless
I’m not happy but I am content
Let that be my concern
Don’t fret over me
And don’t remind me who I am or tell me what I do
I know that
I live that
Let me talk **** about myself if I want to
Let me pat my own back by myself
If I need I’ll ask
Just give me the space I need
To introduce myself
Give it Time
You’ll understand

Close your eyes now and you can see it
A quietly flowing stream
The sunlight through tree limbs
You are in the mountains again, if only in your mind
And if only for a moment