Reassurance

 
Well hello there everyone. I apologize for the week-long absence from the world of blogging, but apparently my house was giving off wireless interference and Comcast had to shut down my Internet. Yesterday they finally came and fixed it, so here I am.

This is a poem inspired by the recent passing of a friend of mine whom I knew since the fourth grade. This is the end result of a lot of different (read: unsuccessful) attempts to write something about it.
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Dusk, a drive-by
And a salute.
Memorialize where he lived,
Not where he lies,
And the crickets sound.
Louder,
Louder,
The epicenter of an insect hurricane.
I tell myself he’s still here,
That this must be his doing,
But I don’t believe me.
I know the truth;
Saw it with my own eyes,
Cold and still.
Expected an image
Burned into my brain.
Isn’t that how it always goes?
But instead
I faced reality,
And emerged unscathed.
No lasting impression,
Just a memory,
Set to fade in time
Until the crickets
Sound off again.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The Animals, The House of the Rising Sun

Chatham Station: Welcome Home

 
The mind plays tricks,
but this of course you knew
after see and saw.
No one won the series,
but a champion was crowned,
nonetheless.
This must be destiny,
I thought,
as I was dragged inside.
Sat in the swiveling chair
and stared at the walls,
clean metal statue in hand.
He spoke from behind horns
that curled to infinity.
You're so far
from where you belong.
Welcome home.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Foo Fighters, Monkey Wrench

Chatham Station: Years in the Dark

 
The gears clicked neatly into place
like they were tied to strings
and swung wildly by some deity
who couldn't care less
what happened after he was done.
They coincide and I feel the rush,
the stupid, bemused emotion
fizzling up my spine,
landing with a horridly satisfying squelch
deep in the frontal lobe.
It's nothing so significant, she said.
A feeling, yes,
but of a smaller caliber.
I couldn't help myself to answer,
not after the chase, the back and forth,
arms fired by the emotion
until the acid burned no longer.
Passion stemmed from one heart or another,
but never both at once.
Some lovely summer flower
lopped off, petals bent in anxiety,
killed in the shade.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Portugal. The Man, Kill Me. The King

The Prospective Homeowner

 
My house is already built.

I've seen it, inside and out, and it's beautiful. In the early morning of the spring, sunlight bleeds through the soft curtains that are a color of blue I have never seen before. The light gathers in pools on the glamorously red carpet, which, despite being quite lovely, is far too flashy for my tastes. I will probably rip it out and have it replaced by a more sterile gray color.

In the evenings when you sit on the porch, so long as it isn't overcast you can see just about every star in the sky. Oftentimes this results in a stiff neck, but the heating pad in the upstairs medicine cabinet takes care of that in a jiffy every time. Quality stuff, that heating pad.

And if you're a light sleeper? Not even a single worry. In the winter the whole area is deadly silent until people start getting up for work in the morning, and during the summer the crickets and katydids are fantastic at lulling one to sleep. And don't even get me started on the beds. Whatever they are, I'm keeping them, because when I wake up in the morning I always have the loveliest restful feeling.

The yard is full of small gardens along the property lines. In the spring you can watch the buds open day by day, the vibrancy of the environment growing much like the young blossoms that contribute to it. Having viewed their vivid colorings through my high-powered binoculars, I can safely say that the soil mixture here must be exquisite.

In short, this house, this yard, this neighborhood: all perfect. It's pretty much a dream home. Like I said, my house is already built.

If only those people would hurry up and move out already...
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Billy Joel, New York State of Mind