When I was a child, I walked on my toes,
as if to be taller than the world.
My parents took me to a specialist
who showed me how to step normal;
heel to toe, always heel then toe.
When I was in the band, I rolled
carefully, from heel to my toes.
Body stiff to support the melody.
Each step to the beat; smooth,
as only a solid sound would require.
When i was a Marine, I marched again.
Slamming heels into the ground
with each cadence call. Punished
for mistakes, I stepped with others.
Always, our blows landed as one.
When I was drunk, my sister said
I stepped like a duck. Bent knees,
leaning through my hips over flat feet.
Small steps; churning through
every upright inch I could get.
When I danced, I had to switch
back; toe to heel for the foxtrot.
Kick through the step and slow
slow. Leading my partner in life
through the maze of turns and hold.
When time for the epic tango
the steps regressed on me.
Passion dictated by boxy frame,
high shoulders, as I looked away
from my lover along curved plane.
When I step no more, I can only hope
my footprints will be remembered.
Guided by innocence, illuminated
by hope, I stepped with a purpose
of living life; always moving forward.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
1.
Dear Penny,
Today I saw two sparrows playing underneath a tree
that is still naked from the winter. They hopped an
chirped and pecked at each other. They had no
worries, no cares in the world. I was envious of
them. I wished to be that free. I need to get away
from this place. It makes me hollow.
Always,
Milo
2.
Dear Penny,
Do you remember that night when we were in San
Tropez? We'd had too much Bordeaux, and found
ourselves laughing at the moon in the middle of the
night. We saw turtles laying eggs in the sand, their
progeny made to wait until being birthed back into
the sea. Why do turtles always do that? Is it
fate? Is it futility? I think it's because of fear.
Always,
Milo
3.
Dear Penny,
I'm sitting in a coffee shop, trying to relax. A man
sitting at the table next to mine has a tattoo of a
clown on his forearm. It is very intricately drawn.
But as I was looking at it, the clown shifted its gaze
and started to laugh at me. It has since stopped
laughing, but no matter how hard I try, I can't get it
to stop staring.
Always,
Milo
4.
Dear Penny,
Let's face it, all hope is dead. Free will has led to
abandonment. Good people go hungry, the troubled
are revered. Love has no bounds, adultery is
standard. Since we have fallen from the pedestal of
the scarred, fear lies in the hands of the just. Who's
to say why we were. We just are, and I'm tired.
Always,
Milo
5.
Dear Penny,
Consider yourself lucky you're not here. The
streets have become a fetid barrage of scrambled
and frantic contemplations. Am I a rogue, in search
of vigilant prosperity? Or does my face just lack a
certain boyish charm? I blame the church and its
benign stance on water purity. Nevermore...
Always,
Milo
6.
Dear Penny,
Please excuse my attitude in previous
correspondences, as I'm sure you noticed an
abrupt change in my demeanor. Sometimes I feel
weak. Sometimes I wonder if thinking is the right
thing to do. To act would be an adventure. But
worry not; the doctors have given me a clean bill of
health. I remain.
Always,
Milo
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
We flew endlessly, miles above the surface, engines humming.
I looked down through a hole in the clouds; saw emerald fields
and a dirt road seldom traversed. I found myself wondering if
someone looking up could see that hole I was looking through.
our eyes would meet in a nod of existential brotherhood, and
we would become eternally bonded as fellow humans.
I doubted it, though, for a slate of gray clouds loomed above yet.
Mother Nature saw it right to hide us in her own natural camouflage.
So we hung in limbo, between the layers of fog, neither here nor there.
I hate to fly, and my mind wandered to the worst-case scenario;
we'd fall down through the hole to smash upon the crops in a fiery heap.
Probably catastrophic engine failure. Or perhaps swatted out of mid-air
by a petulant giant swinging a smoked turkey leg. You know,
like the one's you can find at the county fair. I gripped my wife's hand,
noticing how painfully sweaty mine was, wishing to be anywhere else.
But, in spite of a few bumps and the useless rise in my blood pressure,
the plane narrowly escaped catastrophic engine failure in that brief
moment. I became excited for our impending arrival in Nassau.
The shining sun, blended drinks, fish fries; still assuming we got there
in one piece. Drum beats from the Junkanoo tattooed through
my fingers quietly on the armrest. We would dance deep into night,
then retire to the beach to laugh at old stories with new friends.
I'm sure if we were spotted from down below by all
the hard working humans, our freedom would be envied,
possibly even hated. I became a young Marine Corporal once again,
standing guard on a frozen winter's night to protect the secrets
of that quiet hole in the clouds, my fellow passengers,
and even the mean old giant with turkey grease glistening on his lips.
It was my somber duty.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
And Evergreen Buddha on the bedside table
Smoke swirls overhead
A slow drag on my cigarette
The zany places I have traveled
In search of personal peace
Quiet and unnoticed
I returned to find the home I left
Silently smoking
Alone
Thoughts as clear as water
Stockholm water
Not Delhi water
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC