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.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010


Still half asleep, opened eyes barely;
woke at two, three, four and so on.
Packed snowdrifts stream by in subfreezing weather.
Fogged eyes and rear windows.
The motor hums and warms and
spit little bolts of fire inside like
fresh sunburts propelling a new day,
a new tired string of hours,
some chorus of immaterial voices fixed
like ornaments in a Christmas tree--
seasonal and fleeting we hope.
So static and typical--these displaced
priceless things that glitter and gleam
where we've set them, waiting to
be appraised by a future which may never arrive.
We wait for a decisive indicator
that our choices have been good and correct,
that we're working and will work
hard like those tireless spark plugs
until the day our job is done, engine retired
or dead
or maybe a moment sooner.

--- ---

A random poem I wrote in January regarding work and working, routine and monotony. The way things like this in life ebb and flow.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Snow on your day

On your day it's snowing,
wet and pale like your first moment,
all wide-mouthed and noise and glistening
new life.
So small, your tottering form
has never been enough to contain
all that spirit and raucous laughing
innocent joy.
It's more than a little paradoxical.
Except smallness you will outgrow,
and still you'll enliven me,
quicken my purpose and intentions,
and it's surely a wonder
how you smile
your three-year even-toothed grin that
hasn't stopped
since you first looked up
those opal eyes into mine.

--- ---

Happy Birthday Orion. You inspire me.

at the living planet aquarium

Tuesday, March 09, 2010


My little girl, while dreaming last night
I saw your Baby Kitty
sitting collapsed and formless,
mostly black now from exhaust and dust and bits of asphalt,
black plastic eyes still shiny and intent
as if she has been waiting--
That day, inch by inch we searched the meridian in vain
and finally pulled back out into heavy traffic,
you in disbelief that after all these years
and second chances she was gone,
your eyes were full, mouth set and angry,
and the white dashed lines on the interstate flicked by
as you thought about putting
your hand out the window and letting go,
and saying goodbye.

--- ---

I wrote this last October, after dreaming about Bella's stuffed Baby Kitty, the one she had for five years, lost and found numerous times, across state lines and in movie theaters, always resurfacing. She loved her so much, and one day we drove north on the I-15 and Bella held her out the window and let go. It was accidental. We went back and searched and never found her.

Thursday, March 04, 2010

The west valley

Watched an airliner cut through fog
over the west valley.
Children play nextdoor
near the parking lot,
shrieking in their
loose-fitting uniforms, ties untightened and
rolledup unbuttoned sleeves.
They jump about their small asphalt schoolyard,
cold chainlink fences enclosing
squat brick buildings.

The bald youth at the front desk
buzzes me in, and I wait and then make
my way to geometrically set chairs
and halfwalls in a back corner.
I sit and stare, speaking acronyms
and cryptic jargon, proving my worth first
with words alone.

Midday, past the parking lot children roam
the broken sidewalks,
clutching their stacked books and hunched over,
edging to and from this industrial-block private school
through mixed-zoning--
the Latino market complex and 7-11,
rows of dilapidated apartments, their
rotted front lawns littered with faded plastic toys.
We park near an old factory and eat Thai.

The mixed blazes of
neon brakes and blinding headlights mingle
like stars twinkling through the atmosphere,
like twin lanes of peppermint red-on-white
or a barbershop pole churning
in endless monotony,
screaming racetrack traffic across the freeway--
is it such an enabling way of freedom,
wandering us home
under a foggedover full moon at night?
We clutch our notepads and thin computers,
ready to close another hazy day of
the same frantic, purposed nonsense.

--- ---

I recently started working up in West Valley City, a long drive, a true commute, next to the airport and its continuous takeoffs and landings, in areas and neighborhoods once completely foreign. There are many ordinary and strange things that transpire--it's just life; they're just kids and people going about their daily routines.