(Poetry) Returning Home

Coming around the
hill, on the Interstate
at the Ridgecut,
the city sweeps into view:
the trees on the roadside edge
are only partly blocking
nighttime lights,
only partly
obscuring the upside-down skyscape of white streetlamps
garnished with red and blue from signs and towers
and the spray of light from cars in motion.

even talk about residing here:
not so much difficult as often inaccurate,
needing a sense of humility from the teller and
eventually the sense of pride in the hearer.
Sometimes this trick is handled with finesse, and,
sometimes, the results dwindle with regrets.
Even so, the land remains the same —
especially the view from the Ridgecut on I-24.


(Poetry) Speaking Up

Is this some lingering embarrassment
we hide
from ourselves?
there is no hope.”
I mean to say —
if anything can be right,
then anything is right:
and nothing is wrong.
And my hopes, my dreams
starving, dying, R.I.P.
(as if there were peace
when anything is true.)

I say, if life is just random chance
and we are bouncy white balls on the roulette wheel
and we don’t even get a percentage of the take,
then perhaps our lives aren’t special
or important, or necessary at all.
And without any absolutes in my life,
I’d be right
(as much as right is right
when nothing is wrong.)

Look, when I’m hungry,
I find something to eat.
And it’s no great leap
to recognize my emptiness
and my awkwardness,
my lingering embarassments.
Well, even a simple recipe
has a basic sense of right and wrong,
and that sense
makes sense
to me
(like when
the belief that
some things are always true
is food for thought).