Sunday, January 7, 2018

Another Walking Poem Buckle Up

maybe being a writer is just being or
or deciding 
to be like a snake
being a shedder I’m thinking something slimy
a layer that needs to come off some layer
that absorbs
and they all just slither into situations that they think
will make for an interesting shed?
all I’ve got right now is the weather
the exhilaration of California in January
it’s like cheating, honestly, like hokey
the waiting rain here, the polar vortex there
it’s really something
and it’s bigger every time, the sidewalks, the sky,
everything grows when I go and I always forget
how far you can see

the light sheet of clouds
the room temp breeze
my most comfortable clothes
plus Tyler’s earth shirt


is today a sensitive day?
I feel every pore has grown an inch

someone’s birthday balloon out the window
banging weightlessly

small grandma in Burberry pants
I smile at her for real, nearly followed by
a dance move

package delivery boy
singing Rihanna
I sing quietly too
both our songs


if only I didn’t resent my notepad so much
aka my phone, can I practice gratitude 
towards my phone?

man walking his two teeny dogs like
he’s carrying two heavy buckets
his elbows high

maybe church got to me last time
I’m seeing…god…everywhere
in my earth shirt
I could flop on the clear mountain
and blend right in


does aging feel like a song slowed down?
I try to track it
in the smallest possible increments, aging,
checking my song does it feel
slower or lower as I crest the
familiar hill


I love feeling like a boy on a clear day
baggy clothes flapping pleasantly
against invisible form

is it the synesthesia that flares up
with the pore expansion, the being
in step with the scene
feeding myself the sound amount
the light that matches my…
and I’m afraid to say soul
because then what else

the music in my ears is just melted
no expectations moving forward
just trust in the next beat,
trust in this walk for every car
is a piece of my mind and therefore


one day I’ll look back on this gush and feel
sickened by the delusion of synthesis
I gotta slither into something other than
weather-walking, gotta shed off some crazier shit
than this pretty album ending, the street lights
blooming with the hymns

dead bird or…flower?
the dog-sized wild cat that crossed my path
makes me think life is crazy and that there’s
good luck
don't wanna take my eyes off the mountain but
I need to write it
but dead squirrel later