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Kendall Mallon Feb 2013
I feel the breeze of purple skied nights
sirens fading out down the street
taxi horns blaring impatiently
tungsten, incandescent, fluorescent
lights bouncing off brick walls
bums curled up on stone ledges
with a waterfront, riverside, view
towers stand *****—giant *****
of steel and mortar penetrating
the sweet pink innocence of the
clouds reflecting the light below
tourists meandering with companions
obtaining a glimpse of the night
life pushed aside by hurried natives
young college students starting their
***** trips at vibrant, overpriced, clubs
bitter grizzled men starting their
***** trips at dull, weathered, local bars
both shaking off the buzz moving
onto complete drunkenness
the taste of food and sewage
mixed into the humid air
live music playing in Millennium Park
while children play and laugh in the
artistic structures unknowing of the
value and beauty attributed
looking for amusement
the city’s reflection vainly warped
by the curved polished metal surface
of the Bean, crowds mesmerized by
simple tricks of light reflecting the
twisted narcissism of those caught
up in the city’s hedonism
warm breezes roll into
the shore and marina
from the sea-like lake
well-to-do travelers
recording through the curved
lenses of expensive digital cameras
their trifling, yet
extravagant adventures
Kendall Mallon Feb 2013
The colour red strewn through the rocks
Iron rusting over years
Untainted by The touch of man
With exception of tourists
Oils slowly eroding, but untouched
By our prided advancements
Miles of peaks attracting the world
Though, still wild in the sense we define
A refuge from the bustle of life
We ascribe ourselves to
At least to me, it is a place to be alone, to meditate
With acres of trees, existing and feeling with them
Pulling from their ancient wisdom
To sit high upon a peak
With notebook in hand and a pen in the other
My only defense against the human condition
Peering out as far as my feeble eyes will allow
Clouds paint elegant watercolours
With the rays of the sun
Storms creating drama and feeling
But I am above it all as Zarathustra was
But I am compelled to return
As was he, back to the hives of my birth
To the city that Jack and his cohorts
Loved so much, as do myself
This place that has more sun
Than the marketed beaches of paradise
It may snow here, but that is the beauty of it all
The variety of seasons, it is not all-arctic wasteland
In the winter months
One day I may be swathed in layers
Against the cold, the next
I can walk around open to the elements,
What other place is the weather so differentiable?
A couple hours’ drive and you can be
In a winter wonderland or arid city
An arctic paradise with acres of fresh powder
That many do not take the time to sit,
Just sit; in a supple seat.
Perfectly formed to the contours of your body
And look out; simply look out.
At what is surround you; high above everything
Too often do we become obsessed
With the tiny oases of ski resorts
And forget the solitude and beauty of its telos
It’s not the resorts I love,
But the mountains themselves; that is my attraction.
A place to carve your own path, to find yourself
This is my home, a sojourn for the Beaten
As they traveled this country,
for those on the trail settling from sea to shining sea
Facing the fortress of rock, ice, and pine
I may stray for spans of time, travel the word and sea,
But I shall always come back to pay homage
To the place that has sculpted me
And given me sanctuary from society
Colorado
Kendall Mallon Feb 2013
Orange dots litter the horizon
Little incandescent pockets of life
Content American families
Enjoying a peaceful night
Glad the fire is has not spread
To their homes
As I sit high above the city,
A silent observer,
Breaking the law
Even though I am as safe
As I am in my room
A few miles away
I feel the world up here
So clean and sober
No need for alcohol or drugs
I am in control
Free of everything
No substance but
My own mind
To govern me
Unlike those below
With this star littered canopy
I know what Gary meant
Kendall Mallon Feb 2013
I
I have many impulsions and desires
Oft not in line with those surrounding me
'tis in these moments I miss you the most
For you would eagerly follow

II
I saw the trees in bloom
Today, white pure blossoms
I thought of you...

III
I saw you today...
In the orange crocus cups
Peeking through the Earth

IV
Daffodils opening up
In a golden sunset hue
To you, these natural beauties
Turn my thoughts

V**
I almost did not notice
You signed with my surname
It looks so natural
Kendall Mallon Feb 2013
Golden mountain sunset
Gently feathered kite
Thanks for the beer
--------------------------------------------------
Tarnishin­g bronze statue
In front of Old Main
How many cigarettes has he held?
--------------------------------------------------
Sprawled­ under a tree
Ignoring the earth
Plugged in
--------------------------------------------------
Winter trees barren of leaves
Yet still, they remaining green
Lo the Irish moss
Kendall Mallon Feb 2013
I hear the song
of this street
a happier song
than the blues of Denver
destitution with gaiety
more hope and love,
worn souls and bodies
hoping for the
loose change that
usually ends up lost
between couch cushions
in exchange
for a simple show
instead of begging
for sympathy

carefully arranged
planter boxes
to match the seasons
and jubilance of
passers by juxtaposed
with the whitening beard
of a ***** old man
hustling for a buck
for **** or food or *****
you will never know
except for the few
honest cardboard signs

the two a.m. ***
happy and ******
eagerly striking a
conversation with
lone students
out for a simple walk
looking only for
someone to talk to
because no one
is a desert island,
we need imports
and exports of
thoughts, ideas,
and emotions
to keep the small
piece of land bearable

the man in a mask
with no skin showing
playing congas
on a hot Colorado day
hoping for a
pocket full of change,
face hidden; like
his beaten past
he is humble—
anonymously playing
for a dollar
or few without
shock or pizzazz

adults buying a drink
while a block down
children buy an
ice cream cone
both a vice

modern jazz, which flows
over the red bricked street
guitars, bongos, violins,
Home Depot bucket drums
melding together into
one, spontaneous song
improvised by the ebb
and flow of tourists
and natives with

changing verses of
a woman’s opinion
strongly voiced to a survey
while her husband
keeps the beat with his foot
—never allowed to sing
the chorus of children
shrieking and crying
in the dissonance of youth
reflected in early couples
sing infatuations
short and fleet, struggling
to keep a foot hold, but
fading like pop songs…
the experienced couples
creating movements of
pain, joy, and maturity,
dynamic blues riffs
full of emotion only
those who have felt
could understand

— The End —