youth

past vessel travel

when I catch myself drifting
into an inanimate object, I’ll
snap out of it, kinda like when
you’re driving and all of a
sudden don’t remember the last
ten miles.

in these times of lost time, I
like to think that I have traveled
to a previous memory,or, more grand,
turning up in my anterior vessel,
always younger, thicker hair and
most assuredly an idealist.

back in: driving the wind up laurel
canyon, the wind brushing by both
warm and cool. weave up that
hill, the lights of the valley
flickering and calm. the verdugos, a
shadowy cut-out reaching and
painted above burbank. a right
onto mulholland, the cliffs tumbling
down on both sides, the sun beaten
hustle of the day now a soft hum.

back in: eyes searching the atlantic
ocean, the surf glancing your
shoes, groups of bubbles disappearing
into the sand. the lighthouse moon,
creating that angelic and sparkling
tunnel that goes out to everything and
all that is. head drifts up to
hurried clouds, heading out to a ship’s
lone light and a thunderstorm far
off over open water, rhythmically
flashing from top to bottom, seemingly
never ceasing, like your youth.

back in: stomach getting warm at
the sight of heather, your eighth
grade crush. jealous of the wind
twirling her long dark brown hair
about at the bus stop. excited about
the moments before sleep so you can
create stories about how and where
you’ll kiss her the first time.

when I snap myself out of it, the
lost time spent in a tabletop
pattern or a plant on the desk- I
like to think that I went back for
the briefest of moments, to when
everything was pure and
providential.

you on a patterned blanket

you’ve seen potassium nitrate lift and
hang, and you’ve seen the gunpowder ahh.

you’ve seen this thirty three times
before. sure, the first several are
shadows and blanks. one a cerebral
squint cannot even pronounce, but you
have seen this before.

you have laid on patterned blanket on
this night in 1989. your older sister
pestering you most likely. your
parents quiet, save for, “it’s a
good sized crowd.” you on your
back on a pattered blanket.

the first lifts. the trail seemingly
on its way to the moon but it
stops short and curves down. the most
brilliant red circle expands, and seems
to envelope you. then the bang seconds
later. at first it frightens you but
you know you are safe on that patterned
blanket in 1989.

then in great succession, more
colors expanding together, crackling
and booming. your older sister has
even stopped pestering you. you on
your back on that patterned blanket,
head lifting up to see the colors
mirror on the river just below a
dam.

and

now you, in future, an impossibility if
you think about it. you, alone, sitting
on lifted concrete that encases
flowers. you, alone, observing this
quiet small town, everyone else at the
lake. eyes pacing with a union pacific
chug on the tracks that cut through. but
then that first one lifts, seemingly
to the moon. it drops and
awakens that boy on that patterned
blanket again. a tear mirrors the
colors,
hangs and

curves

down.

cartwheels

there is a young girl doing cartwheels
on a beach somewhere. her hands and
feet taking turns on the dampened surf
driven sand. the

sun beams above, watching. the few
wispy clouds moving quietly to the
east, watching. the seagulls bobbing
in blue tub, watching. the marram
grass on the sand dunes, watching. the
splayed shark eye and sunray venus,
watching. youth and wonder- watching.

lands for the last and turns to
face her family. one busy reading an
airport magazine,the other
dozing with reddened belly and empty
busch can. she sighs and

dejectedly looks down. but with a burst
of confident breath, she lifts her head,
her freckled shoulders and takes
cartwheel form again. she knows who

her true audience is.

you look sad

solo in
some hip logan
square bar. everyone here should
be on a magazine cover. the chatter
and laughter lift to the raised
parquet ceiling; it

hangs there in youthful grace then
slowly flutters down like halo’d
snow. feelin good for the first time
in a stretch. order my whisky and scan
the room for beauties- fuck that you
are here to observe. take
notebook outta
back pocket and ballpoint outta front to
scribble what I see. what I see are three
fresh cheek blush brushed world beaters now at
the bar
next to me. I scan the brunette closest; heels
up
to legs to

hips to peach halter to eyes and
shes looking at me, smilin’. feelin like I
got some legs now, some confidence finally
blooming so I say,

“how are you doing?”
she says,
“you look sad.”

I down my whisky, exit the photoshoot quickly
and hail a yellow.