The death of a moon cowboy

I am a somewhat-youth with ideas and thoughts and too many dreams that sometimes overflow as these little dribblings from my fingertips. I guess you can try to collect and capture them.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

The red stain

On the ankle of an old sock,
faint and red like sandstone dust,
a borrowed climbing shoe left its mark,
its memory, a reminder of that night
in December when it snowed silently,
and we stole some midnight
hours in the closed gym--
lights on, music roaring,
we scaled artificial walls and laughed
and discussed the future and his
impending departure to warmer climes--
a relocation to the western coast,
divided by scales of land and road,
desert and mountain ranges and
straight-on highways that
connect us like
pinpricks of light in a grand global constellation.

--- ---

In late December a good friend of mine moved away. Beforehand we spent some good time together--some of it climbing at The Quarry in Provo. He's an expert climber and showed me a thing or two. One night we climbed alone until 3 am, enjoying each other's company before he moved on to a different part of his life.

Monday, February 09, 2009

And so the new world

And so the new world
chases balls down the street,
searches the distant sky with manmade probes,
follows small gangs of revolutionaries
cross-globe to other small events--
all of it tiny leaps and plunges in a universal heartbeat
that doesn't seem to matter to anyone,
but over time amounts to all that should matter.

It sews synthetic hammocks and
sleeps during the day,
diurnal life inverted. It
opens its eyes at night and
sees only voices,
synethetic hallucination.

It wears a turban over a yarmulke,
bakes in the sun,
skin black as night and white as daylight,
as varied as its own terrain,
desert and frail rainforest,
tundra and mountain and valley--
lightning synapses firing perfectly
in an imperfect world,
an ellipsoid world
barrelling slowly toward eternity.

And so the new world
finds hope in a new symbol,
a stranded figurehead strapped about with ancient chains,
laden with filled crates,
noosed at the wrist and ankle--
only this silvertongued magician
has the key.

--- ---

A bit of a strange, random poem that came to me quickly. It may seem meaningless on the surface, but it's rife with meaning--at least to me. It was partially inspired by a trip my siblings took to Obama's inauguration toward the end of January. So humor me by letting me post this.