Ma$e Double Up

So I feel like doing a double post. Look at Dunston up there with Jason Alexander. Such a touching scene in a beautiful movie. I am going to post a poem I finished tonight below. Check it out and let me know what any of you think. If not I will just be vain and think it is good.



Sunday Dinner


There goes the flash of the silver –
Aluminum and wrought iron
Passing with coffee indigestion
And the quick touch of blue eyes,
Blonde hair and the grey striped parka.

One tuft of blonde hair is reminiscent
Of one that is more familiar,
A head shorter than you and
As equally younger but
No less filled with love and anger.

She doesn’t dictate which way her heart moves –
Everything moves in a million places,
Everying shatters and comes together again –
The words she speaks on the computer
Will splinter into an hour’s worth of tears.

And there’s a black quilt spread wide
With curling hair from a rhyming story
A song underneath the chapel’s juncture
The apse and navel of form
No temple and not yet a woman.

But there’s an overgrown beatnik
With a Lost Generation haircut
Who relies on words from an alpine cabin,
White pine memories that gave him happiness,
Which doesn’t mean anything at 5 AM.

Where we once saw the sun rise
We now find ourselves alone and sore,
But no shoulder pressure and mistaken passion
Will make us fall and give up –
Misunderstanding and patience give way to love.

One morning you’re a young professional
With a quick stride and an overcoat,
Pomade ambition staining your shirtcuffs
And that night, you’re in boots with beer
Stomping a wood floor in honky tonk reverie.

But the drizzle will straddle the two.
A dinner underneath the mounted wolf’s head,
Someone forgotten but loved once again,
The girl by the stone wall in a purple dress
The one who makes you a stranger to yourself.

What sadness does that blonde hair know?
What line will she read in blankets
So that everything will feel like it is OK?
It’ll take more than a green dress, a concert ticket
Or the love of the next man to make it true.

And you’re in the passenger seat
With champagne on your back and leather
Driving shoes halfway up your hands,
Passing them to a girl who drives at night
Looking for the ice, something clean and sharp.

What will you give her? A vacant stare?
The want of that engagement dinner
The steps you skid on the way to love
On the way to death and taxes and
Sunday mornings with music from the movies.

There’s no going back to the room filled with letters
The dusty rain soaked carpet of green.
There is only your cooking that burns my nose
With the strength of black pepper at dusk
And that’s all I wanted in that room with letters.

Anything you read on Wednesday morning
Is not serious or written in stone,
It is fluid like your love is.
And I’m in love too, maybe with you
But maybe with something that I could’ve been –
A time when knowing one thing was better
Than knowing so many others –
My friend taught me that with dinner
So I can never repay him or his images
Of forests and a firepit with friends.
No matter how hard I try, I will never repay
You either for letting me know exactly
What I wanted for just a time.

Now, there will be curling hair and blankets,
Missteps, guilt loneliness, but freedom.
Because my hands always fit in my pockets
Because the sun goes down and lights the porches
And stairwells of my life where I walk,
No longer defining love or your tight hair,
But feeling them within me – making my way to the door.