Poetry

I regret growing up,
getting older and forgetting
the warm embrace of childhood.
I regret simply agreeing
that once I am a certain age
I must forget running barefoot
and climbing my favorite tree.
I regret even thinking
those hot summer days
wearing a sleeveless striped shirt
were ever even childish.
I miss the feeling of hot sun
and the combination of sweat and dirt.
The late sunsets and bittersweet sticky
fingers simply brought to a halt.
Those grand empty fields,
where I once saw great armies,
are now just empty fields.
To stick my head out the window
and feel the wind on my face,
to see the blue sky
and white clouds,
was once the thrill of a lifetime.
It is now just a forgotten memory.
I regret ever thinking
about how people would judge me.
I forgot about my imagination
and instead,
Gained some heartbreak along the way.
I traded the innocence of childhood
For a thing called “life”.
And yet,
I’ve realized
that my biggest regret of all,
was ever having a regret
in the first place.

The distance between loss and avoidance
is measured in phone calls
and the gap between visits
and the negative space between
each beep of the machine
and the difference in the smell
of sickness and decay.
Maybe they both smell like flowers.

Start in G, she said
standing before us on a plywood pedestal
no, that was a lectern, us on plywood
steps, no those are called risers &
choir practice has begun.
How do I stand?
May I jam my hands into my hungry pockets
of worry, of embarrassment, of yet
another class to kill the time from
seven-thirty to eighteen years of age?
Deep breath, she says. Deep.
All boys here, unlucky you &
wait for someone else to lead
because I don’t know the song &
I don’t know how to diaphragm
breathe, how to rise to my pre-
pubescent range only boys have &
no, I don’t know, have no idea
where G is.

On one side of the tracks
you sense the change of scenery:
the bones of branches, then the buds,
then the tents of summer green.
Not so on the other side. There the
chainmail bares its dull, metallic ribs
on the chest of its coarse and hoary hills.
You wake up on a train table among
a pride of purring Lionels.
You turn the dial on the transformer
until the conductor jumps onto the sleepers
with a megaphone to warn the world
that he is NOT from Nottingham.
He effs and blinds to the Plasticville walls,
and drops his darts
on tracks between windmill
and interchange
before shuffling off in a huff

I’m slipping on soap
in a vision’s shower.

The tiles look teary
through the steam.

Water rises ankle deep.
Sink and mirror disappear.

Snow is falling on the TV.
Fires are raging in L.A.

Now the kettle wakes
and whistles

just in time
for tea.

Rust spots stain
my faded chrome.

My handlebars
veer left.

Gears that slip
and brakes that stick.

A seat that wobbles
riderless.

A few loose spokes.
Both tires worn.

One peddle
sniffing dirt