(posts) a real poem, another good one

Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?
—Robert Hershon

Don't fill up on bread
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are huge

My son, whose hair may be
receding a bit, says
Did you really just
say that to me?

What he doesn't know
is that when we're walking
together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand

about being attached still at the roots

The blonde-headed young man slides self-consciously into frame. His eyes are pulled twice to the camera, furtively each time; he nods hair away from his face. He knows he is being seen but denies the seer. Finally, a casually intentioned look toward the camera's eye--mutually frank, unwise, and uninvested.

Recording themselves downtown, the boys were making memories, however forgettable in the grand scheme. It is that association between memory and place, time and space, that now leaves me missing home. My hometown: flawed but well planned grids of city streets; tree-heavy suburban neighborhoods where kids get excited about spending the night at friends'; where the beginning and the ending last until I die.

about how I probably won't see you anymore

Just like that, our friendship is over. I let it grow—forced it to grow, maybe—to ridiculous proportions in my mind. Rationalizing what I now know were disparities in how we felt about each other, I told myself our friendship was so great that I could only glimpse small parts of it at a time. But it was just never that big to begin with. I was getting all of it, and I just assumed there was more. But it was out of sight, out of mind for you.

about being attached still at the roots

The blonde-headed young man slides self-consciously into frame. His eyes twice pulled to the camera, furtively each time, he nods hair away from his face. Knowing being seen but not acknowledging the seer. Until he does acknowledge with a casually intentioned look toward the camera's eye--mutually frank, unwise, and uninvested eyes.

Recording themselves downtown, the boys were making memories, however forgettable in the grand scheme. It is that association between memory and place, time and space, that now leaves me missing home. My hometown: flawed grids of city streets; tree-heavy suburban neighborhoods where kids get excited about spending the night at friends'; where it began and the ending lasts until I die.

the inherent tension of waiting

Sunlight churns this day through, generating a good breeze in the doing. We stalled on the durable iron chairs--my elbows on the mesh tabletop, and you, adjacent, cycle through phases in umbrella shade. Do you feel this tension? Do you feel the reason why I can't think of anything to say? Or, for you, maybe this fine slice of day is enough. The umbrella blooming over the nearby table stutters; ours holds. I imagine a wild iris flower: grows so heavy it tips over.

(posts) "Golden" by My Morning Jacket

My Morning Jacket
  -Golden

Watchin' a stretch of road, miles of light explode
Driftin' off a thing I'd never done before

Watchin' a crowd roll in, out go the lights it begins
A feelin' in my bones I never felt before

People always told me
that bars are dark and lonely
And talk is often cheap and filled with air

Sure sometimes they thrill me
but nothin' could ever chill me
Like the way they make the time just disappear

Feelin' you are here again, hot on my skin again
Feelin good, a thing I'd never known before

What does it mean to feel millions of dreams come real
A feelin' in my soul I'd never felt before

And you always told me
no matter how long it holds me
If it falls apart or makes us millionaires

You'll be right here forever
we'll go through this thing together
And on Heaven's golden shore we'll lay our heads


Note: from the "Late Show With David Letterman"

about being without you