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jarjarrhinePoems
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper." I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too; I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously as I looked down at open palms spread to the heavens, illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare. I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine; I stood on that rickety old dock in my fitted and worn wool cap, faded denim shirt matching pants and dingy white tennis shoes. "Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper." My ego crestfallen as well, pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia withering, as the gritty gap-toothed leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor peered inquisitively into my soul. He saw the smooth hands-- ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints on my fingers; a musician! His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure, smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours, or, from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour, dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?" My eyes cast down again. But I know not of the city as my abode! I know the ****** and the farmer more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay; they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters! For I have lived on the water; I have eyed the vessels commandeered by the gritty, grubby, greased captains of my soul, as I float buoyed in their wake, eager to catch a semblance of the waters that trail before them. I live treading their wake, eyes open and pencil in hand. And lo; I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer! For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf; I drank its mother's milk, eggs fresh from the poultry den-- I squawked along with the mother hens. I took in the bucolic smell of the country atop the rugged tractor, eyeing squinting grimacing like a smile in the sun burning burning down upon stiff backs and leather necks-- I, the leaves of grass scattered in the wake of the farmer, I, the bails of hay furled tightly sitting patiently in the once golden meadow, I watched the tractors and their commandeers disappear in the bombinate horizon; the sound of insects ushering in the night sky like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet before the hazy late afternoon moon. I watched, I lived, waiting coiled in their wakes eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand. I lifted my eyes to once again hear his curt admonition: "Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."
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Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
City Hands
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper." I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too; I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously as I looked down at open palms spread to the heavens, illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare. I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine; I stood on that rickety old dock in my fitted and worn wool cap, faded denim shirt matching pants and dingy white tennis shoes. "Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper." My ego crestfallen as well, pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia withering, as the gritty gap-toothed leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor peered inquisitively into my soul. He saw the smooth hands-- ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints on my fingers; a musician! His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure, smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours, or, from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour, dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?" My eyes cast down again. But I know not of the city as my abode! I know the ****** and the farmer more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay; they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters! For I have lived on the water; I have eyed the vessels commandeered by the gritty, grubby, greased captains of my soul, as I float buoyed in their wake, eager to catch a semblance of the waters that trail before them. I live treading their wake, eyes open and pencil in hand. And lo; I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer! For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf; I drank its mother's milk, eggs fresh from the poultry den-- I squawked along with the mother hens. I took in the bucolic smell of the country atop the rugged tractor, eyeing squinting grimacing like a smile in the sun burning burning down upon stiff backs and leather necks-- I, the leaves of grass scattered in the wake of the farmer, I, the bails of hay furled tightly sitting patiently in the once golden meadow, I watched the tractors and their commandeers disappear in the bombinate horizon; the sound of insects ushering in the night sky like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet before the hazy late afternoon moon. I watched, I lived, waiting coiled in their wakes eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand. I lifted my eyes to once again hear his curt admonition: "Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."
To looking of the city but being of the country; wonderful tormented dichotomy.
#life#path#sea#country#identity#city#jaws#vessel#farm#quint
jarjarrhine
Written by
jarjarrhine
24/M
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
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