“Those That Play Together, Stay Together”
She smiled
and told me that
those that play
together, stay together
and I told her that
wasn’t true,
that popular sports
teams traded away
players all the
time,
some do to age
or injury
or decreased
production
or even locker
room chemistry
but they traded them
all the same,
and she pulled away
and said she was
just trying to be
romantic
which is why
I told her I had
no plans to trade
her
even though
we were in a
contract
year.
what my tombstone should say
watched a woman
with down syndrome
flick a booger onto
the carpet of the
waiting room at
the doctor’s office
this afternoon
all the while an
elderly couple were
arguing about if their
daughter was out in
the car waiting for
them
i whispered to my
mother this is why
i’m killing myself
i also told her i
thought of what
my tombstone
should say while
in the shower
earlier
found the pleasure
in the pain
the woman i love falling through empty air into the arms of no one
all afternoon these faded attempts at sunlight
these starlings circling bare trees
children crying in frozen side yards where the
dead are as useless as the dying and i am
moving through this maze of abandoned factories,
i am beneath the bridge at the end of town
near the palace of leaning bones and
i am twenty five years too late,
still dreaming of the other elizabeth, the
patron saint of regret, and i have stood in the
center of every lane of the freeway at
midnight at noon at 5:30 in the evening and i
was there when your brother jumped from
the overpass, was walking back from chrissie’s
house and it was october was the end of november
and fucking cold, saw his body briefly against
the bruised green sky, heard the squeal of
unseen tires and then it was twenty five years
later and i can’t even remember his
name anymore, can’t remember the warmth
of your body or the taste of your kiss and
all afternoon these failed attempts at
disappearing
this ice spreading through the veins
poison in the water, or on the
tip of the tongue
tastes too good to just spit out
and we thought that when the war was over, the blood would all flow
backwards, and we were wrong
or living like a wounded animal, which
isn’t really the same thing as living,
but there you are in your collapsing hole
with your open wounds and your blood trail
here we are after 25 years of winter
½ a lifetime spent digging at the same
small patch of frozen ground with bare hands
low tide
faulty compass
and what i find out too late is
that anger isn’t enough
is that silence isn’t an alternative to
suicide, but a slower version of it and so
we scream
we make ourselves such easy targets
open the door and all of that pale, blinding
sunlight just blows holes straight through you
because you’re not here
two hawks circling up high in the
bitter sunlight, over the great sorrow of
empty fields, of rusted cars and silent
trailers, children nailed to their own
dead-end futures and, if you were here,
these would be my gifts to share,
these pale grey realities,
these silent accusations,
and i would pull you closer along
the edge of some two-lane road,
would breathe you in as the shadows
of clouds swallowed us then spat
us back out again
i would promise you nothing more
than all of the pain you could
hold in your small perfect hands
would tell you i loved you
if it was what you wanted to hear
stab wound blues
bluegrey taste of blood just
coming up to the top of howard
hill the empty fields the ruined
shells of burned out cars screams
of crows & of children not leaving
not arriving and this is where the
body of someone’s wife was
found and then down the other
side to the trailer you lived in
twenty years ago and i probably
told you i loved you at some
point and i probably thought
that i meant it but the sense of
urgency is gone i can count the
number of people whose pain i
care about on one broken hand
while i steer with the other and
it’s been raining since yesterday
afternoon & shows no signs
of stopping
the frightened child, always
this january sunlight on december snow,
all dim blue sky and frozen clouds,
all washed-out colors like
memory or dream
you are here
despite everything
you are loved but seen only
through dust-streaked windows
distance is the key
i am never close enough to hold or i am
always pushing you away
and we mistake confession for apology
mistake solitude for escape and
the days are all filled with long lists of
gods who would like to see us dead
the air thick with the
memory of gasoline
of cold engines grinding
themselves into dust
such stunted minds,
such crippled dreams
so many hungry saviors
with the heads of crows
only the warmth of burning witches,
but it’s better than no warmth at all
Sunday April 29th, 2018
I am on the side of a mountain, looking straight up at the top of Mount Tam looming above me, much larger & closer than I’ve ever seen it. It is about mid-afternoon, clear sky, sunny, 60 or 70 degrees: a perfect day. Yesterday evening I set out, on foot, from Greenbrae, carrying a backpack, bag of groceries, tent & sleeping bag. My original quest was to make it all the way to the top of Tam by tonight. I told Jim to think of me & wave up at the mountaintop this evening around sunset. That plan has proved slightly overambitious. Burdened as I am, & not having brought adequate water, I am settling for the spot I’m at now as my bed for the second night — within sight of the summit (& how!), but still hours of steep hiking away from it, no doubt. I guess that I am on the crest of one of the neighboring slightly smaller mountains; not King Mountain but the one flanking Tam on the other side. Fair enough. I’ll come back, better prepared & hopefully in company with friends, soon to achieve the pinnacle. For now, this is a dramatic enough view to enable me to gain some perspective, as was my hope before setting out.
Yesterday I hiked up through Madrone (or Baltimore) Canyon — barely resisting the urge to stop by M’s house along the way (she whom I have nicknamed The Madwoman of Madrone Canyon) — marveling at the beauty of it &, I must admit, envying those who make their home there. I was filled with the conviction that it is the most enchanting place I’ve ever been, as far as places where large numbers of humans make their home. I mentally compared it with the most astounding neighborhoods I recall from my wandering days in San Francisco (Diamond Heights, Grand View, Mt. Sutro, Twin Peaks, Noe Valley, Liberty Hill), but even they fell short, I felt. There is just a kind of celestial tawny redwood glow to this valley that is virtually indescribable.
I followed Dawn Falls Trail to the point where it became steep; then, since it was already dark anyway, I bedded down for the night. Couldn’t figure out how to properly pitch the tent (which I borrowed from someone else), so I just zipped myself & sleeping bag inside it as an extra layer of protection. I did not hang my food bag from a tree branch, but stashed it some distance away, so that on the off chance any tough forest customers with the munchies happen by, they would hopefully direct their energies that way & leave me in peace.
I was left in peace. Indeed, it’s a bit ironic that I lay awake with anxieties for hours — fearing animals, fearing rangers — because last night was by far the quietest, most peaceful, most utterly still & undisturbed night I’ve had in… I really don’t know how long. The deep dark hush of the canyon was complete, a thick black blanket, undisturbed even by wind, which was blocked by the towering stone goliaths that hemmed me in. Deep in the night when I awoke to listen, I literally heard nothing at all, beyond the softest noise of birds & tree branches creaking. It was so still & calm, it almost kept me awake, in a backwards sort of way, dreading a noise that would break the silence & signal an intrusion — an intrusion which never came.
“Is he kind of Jack London-ing it?” I heard a couple joggers say early this morning, when they passed me still laying inside my improperly erected tent. I think that’s what they said. I’ll have to Google that.
Allison Grayhurst
Walk on Fear
It appears in the grip
of ecstasy, in the
idiot abstract of failure,
and sometimes, love.
Illusions coating
the sides of eternity
with shrieks, illusions
crawling out of the mouths of
of gods and myths. Trains
pass all night through offices,
apartments, trains packed
tight with a cargo of dreams.
No one is strong enough to say goodbye
to the world, shave their heads
without feeling. No one is here
to shout spontaneous, to endure
the striving tongue and bone. Electrical
flies on the wall. Cockroaches scanning
the fridge – oxygen, dancing couples,
standing naked
before a window, skyscrapers
stretched towards
a crippled sky, and then
long ago, a child
sitting in a forest,
singing
to each tree.
Lately, it is has been hard
to hide – undressed,
divorced from direction.
Lately, I’ve been watching
the furniture, screaming
aloud when there’s a knock
on the door.
But my house is forever.
And the urgency and hunger
that overpower my pulse
has never cried for peace.
The Fighters Logic
A warrior is only good for the battlefield. When not killing or healing his wounds he simply lives to die. Drinking, fucking, thirsting for endless combat, and sharing stories with those who understand. To walk upon the edge is to understand the frailty of life itself. Apart from that he dies long before his last breath. I understand the battle but I am useless without a fight. The grave is already dug its why death is not a fear just something I except and move on. When you know that which others simply read of in stories you can never explain the loss . The pain is something to haunt only your dreams and those nights that find you alone . I no longer live I simply exist and wait . Drinking to forget and wishing to know that thrill no one person can give me. My brothers who fell before me were the lucky ones . For they died in honor as I just waste away. When a fighter no longer has a reason to fight it’s simply a matter of time.
Just The Seagulls
I found myself burnt out as always alone on the beach . Why the hell was I drawn here I cannot say . Maybe I was a junkie for the pain maybe I just was unoriginal . And maybe it just reminded me of you . Either way I was here blown out of my socks as usual . The ocean is a force unto itself . It held many a man’s soul as once I held you . It wasn’t a game or a line it was my life and I was tired of giving my soul to get nothing in return . If I was paying dues then I must of had a hell of debt my friends . A blown out liver and bad heart always on the verge chasing a false promise stuck in the sand while others simply passed me by. I lost it all and gained shit in return keep your slaps on the back. Give me a paycheck and a corner booth let me die with my vices . But time is a cruel bitch. But no matter her intentions here I stood always hoping the sunset would find more than a closed door and a swift kick in the ass. The seagulls lived a second at a time on the verge of starvation . Waiting for the tide to bring the next meal. I questioned many things in this life . My direction was not amongst these questions. I watched the sunrise for free was the view. Cause you couldn’t tax nature’s beauty. When I left the beach i noticed a parking ticket on my windshield . The tide brought in many things and the asshole with a badge killed my buzz. Full circle was something I was beginning to understand . The seagulls thrived on nothing as I did the bottle . We all need something . I just needed enough to buy another bottle . Dreams are for the sleeping.