Beauty spots
don't look so beautiful
after sixty years of hanging out on your face.

Elastic skin
might not snap back so fast
after half a century of stretching and pulling and tearing.

Jupiter eyes
most times seem to dull
after decade upon decade of seeing things they'd rather not.

But if anybody bothered to look
And I'm not saying I have
(my skin's still got plenty of snap left)

But if anybody bothered to look
Maybe the sparkle our grandparent's eyes had
in those old black and white photos
from when they still road dinosaurs to work
and lived in log cabins with no internet
maybe that sparkle
didn't really leave
even though we haven't seen it
since Aunt Betty passed
and the house got forclosed on
and grandma had to retire
maybe it's still there
even though grandpa can't feed himself
and it embarresses the bejezesus out of him
every time he has to ask for help
to eat his asparagus
maybe it just went
inside
where the world couldn't get to it
put it out for good
maybe it's part of their retirement plan
kinda like putting money in the bank
they're putting the sparkle in a safe deposit box
so they've still got it
and it's safe
and nobody can take it away
Not Aunt Betty
Not the government
Not the doctors
Not anybody

Cause, heavens!
if you loose the sparkle
well, I don't even know.

like I said.
my skin still snaps back.

I am from too long grass
that left muted green stains on my knees
From rock gardens overrun with punny yellow snapdragons
which delivered into my care all sorts of fascinating creepy crawlers

I'm from ash grey two by fours
which were all together fun to climb on
but gave nasty splinter when they were mad

I'm from the woodchips and sand
that provided me an elaborate landscape
in which to house my boundless imagination

I'm from the tail of sulfur smoke
that burned white hot through the crisp October Sky
and propelled my rocket to high heaven
or so it seemed to my eger eyes

I am from Thursdays
from green and red rhubarb leaves
and dirt under every fingernail
I'm from hurling half-rotten tomatoes
at the fence accross the ally
and running haphazardly from angry neighbors

I'm from lasagna and jell-o
candels on Christmas eve
and the squirt bottle of water
my only defense against ants

I am from obscure old families
who came over like so many others
and played the ***** in the secret choir loft above the church
I'm from woodwinds and piano strings
and never a silent moment
From reading aloud and reading alone
and from those who did the reading

I'm from the future and the present and the past of a million different stories
And I've always been headed towards
Where I'm from.

I want to get on a train
and look out the windows with you.
Man, that’d be something.
We’d get high
and appreciate the **** outta those landscapes
as they rolled past our windows.
You’d make some joke about valleys
and I’d make some weird noise
and the middle aged business woman down the row
would scowl and put in her ear plugs
when we started talking about
that girl we saw back at Union.
****, we’d have a great run.
And when we finally got off
and blinked a couple a time
it wouldn’t really matter that we ended up in Portland
when we were trying to get to Seattle
‘cause they’ve gotta have
at least one Thai restaurant in Portland.

Once the woods turned grey there was no going back.
He watched it happen with disbelief clouded in his eyes
as the trees turned ashen and age crumbled up their trunks.
The leaves at the very top were the last to go
They held out like a prayer
seeming to stretch a little taller, cry a little louder
but soon they paled
succumbed to the frost that claimed their brothers
The soil too had turned to dust
He knelt and tried to hold some in his hand,
but there was nothing left to hold.
His empty fingers cupped his empty ears
as he realized a silence
he had never heard before,
that no one had ever heard
before the woods turned grey.
He ceased to notice time
when the wind could no longer move
and the branches lay still as ghosts
The whisperings of life that marked each hour
were now forever tacet
and without them
he could not know how long he knelt
huddled in the ancient dust
of the woods turned grey.
He stayed there,
contained in the color of his last breath
Those greens and browns and blues
He had breathed into himself just a moment ago,
just a second
Before the woods turned grey
He stayed there
until the ash covered up his feet.
It followed the creases of his fingers
and crept up the lines above his clouded eyes
It took all the time in eternity
but that isn’t very long at all
And when it reached that last breath
the living air he held so close
it gently, tenderly, lovingly
helped him crumble
into the woods turned grey.

When I was a child I fancied that the songbirds sang for me, because I loved them so.

A young man saw my pleasure in the melodies and stopped by my side.
Do you like the birds? he asked.
And I said that I loved them with all of my heart, and that they sang because they loved me, too.

Oh,
said the man,
Oh.

I loved a bird as well.
She sang for me and I loved her with all of my heart.

Then, I said, she must love you, as my birds love me.

The man only smiled and furrowed his brow and told me
The birds don't sing for you, son.
They sing for the love of their song.

I think I'd like the ocean, if I went there
They say it's deep and wide, and runs as far as you could ever see
and I'd like that consistency.

I'd go out in a boat
a small wooden row boat
and lay myself down in the bottom.
I'd stare up at the sky, gray as the sea,
and let the wind kiss on my nose.

Instead of oars I'd bring out memories
of a girl I knew one time or other.
I'd drift with her across the ocean.

We'd lie in the bottom of our small wooden boat
with the wind kissing on our noses,
and get lost on the endless horizon.

I think she'd like the ocean, if she went there.
They say it's deep and wide, and runs as far as you could ever see.