The Tribes of New York

A green wilderness I once lived in
Picked anon and lush all over
It carried cubs through seasons tried
Into a ragged winter of their lives

Was it a windfall or a huntsman’s bait
That led us to the city’s edge
We heard the calling of the Island tribes
That made our wild seem second

The river forded icy fears awoke
Realized the past is damaged
A new beast awakened in the hearts
As in the new tents a pact is made

Never are you to return your love
To the gentle tribes across the water
Into this slow massacre you will submit
The blood scored palms are sealed as one

Courage to See Small

In all of creation
I notice the little shining button
A pebble in Death Valley
My neighborhood for the first time

Eyes are deceiving in their natural state
In the glaze of night’s woo
Fleeing tears leave salted residue

Not for year’s do the colors reveal
Retinal apparitions
I stand sighting my rifle
Paper targets people taking
Thousand yard stare
In the winters white glare
It all can seem
But a likeness of a dream

In the opportunity for abyss
I settle eyes on the smallest thing
It’s all and everything I ever wanted

Learning to Fly Without Loving to Crash

I can’t imagine going back
To dodging the booby traps
After flying low to scope the landscape
After scraping treetops on the descent

It’s been a while since the last crash landing
Losing bearings, instruments failing
Natives rescuing with bucket brigades
I loved when gravity took over

When I signed the armistice confession
The civilians ceased to starve and burn
In justice prevailed the open hearts
Into the wild blue yonder they ran

Now I’m left with this sensation of falling
Not in any particular direction
It’s more of a freedom pitched flight
Leveling to the upright postures

I’m learning to fly again
Without the weightless flex
Without a net
Without the deep love of crashing

The Port Authority

The bus is a rough way to travel–rough on the tires, rough on the mind. It’s rough on the tired mind. This port has full authority over the hard reality of every departure–every flight–the transient lines, the commutation, the brutal architecture. I am still enamored with any film from the 70s starring Steve McQueen. I’m still amazed by the vintage struggle of every beating wing in the Port Authority.

The Water Knows

Crying windows
Letting out the sound
This house was built to tear down

I’ve never known this kind of love
That breaks apart the silent shroud

A deep deep well that remembers
Every ripple every stone
This is the place that echoes home

Bursting levees will never hold
The tears of years ago
They will raise the water’s spirit til the story’s told

Holding doors
To guard the flow
Of everything that wants to pass below

Behind eyes
Of glassy proof
Rising waters tell the truth

Step Aside

The grand pedestrian entitlement
Gleefully charging through intersections
Never imagining a world where footsteps may lead to concussion.

If I follow the signs, salvation awaits
On the sidewalk safely traffic abates
But still the mindset of bipedal involuntary muscle reflexors
Overpower the well planned urban order

Step aside stroller step aside wide man
Step aside judgement of myself
Step aside this morning to believe
The step inside is difficult to take