It’s a glorious February day
and the morning glory morning is perfect.
I eat pizza from the night before (no need for a big breakfast)
just black espresso, molasses brew.
I’m a suburban bear, hibernating in the sunshine.
can’t be known, or understood, if you are worried about work
or your weight, or anything.
It boils down to details, noticing details
like a painting, that has come alive.
Some of us, are not meant to be great
in the usual way
We are decidedly unusual
and if you can appreciate the strange,
you might be strange yourself.
weigh on me
like caught dragonflies
in my golfing sweater.
I want them to fly away—not to get stuck there.
I try to shake them loose
they belong above the pond, diving between snapping trout
but they get stuck on me
like dead things, that don’t belong there.
I have been searching for something strange, most of my life
this is due, to my failure to conquer the obvious
How awful, to conquer all, and be obvious
there is no sublime subtlety in that.
Walking over green hills, with a gentle breeze blowing Cat Toolies and clouds
causes me to forget
the train schedule in my mind—harkening back to a different time, when there weren’t trains.
I have been poisoned by things,
though, I’ve tasted sweet fruit
like glistening apricots, dangling next to poison ivy.
If you retain your face of stone
you become harder, covered by toxic plants.
It’s best to be as soft as a child
as wise as an old man
who loves and receives love
who participates in the glorious game.
It’s warm, and the Canadian Geese walk in perfect lines across the fairway
I strike my ball, perfectly
feeling, the course
smelling, the fresh cut grass, and rich soil, mixed with geese guano
hearing the sound
of my ball
I plant my flag in the green, like a conqueror
in my imagination.
Purple and Pink hews
planes and exhaust fumes
like the Sistine chapel
How many times have I played this course?
I watch a mother and her son
I see myself and my mom, like it was yesterday
I wait, while the boy tees off.
I lay-down, sinking into the soft earth, reading poetry
I am perfect
like the day, I am living in.
As beauty fades, the sunset catches fire
I join a retired man
“Are you going to watch the Superbowl?” He asks.
“Hey, that’s why nobody’s out here!”
“What planet are you living on?”
“My own, I guess.”
He finishes his round,
and I walk on
into the darkness.
I picture the flag, and put it within two feet.
I’m back, if only for a moment.
It’s a sublime shot in the dark. Nobody can take that away from me.
And the more often I do it, the better able, I can leave the things of this world behind.
I have something