This is a bit of a rewrite of my previous post “On Sled Dogs and Memory”. I wouldn’t mind a bit of feedback regarding which one you like better…
Familiar places fill thoughts in frequent dances
such as street signs of choreographed scenes
that haunt intersections,
the years crumple up in tin foil, un-recyclable
balls of faded patterns,
memories as friends
but memories are more present than past
and the past no longer exists.
take the number 38 and climb from 35th to 30th to 25th,
and I’ll never be surprised again
to see someone I know
stumbling out of a by-the-week, moth-eaten
motel of $10 rock smoke and semen-soaked carpets.
Memories are more present than past.
and the past no longer exists.
In an oak-less city
of garbage strewn empty lots
and night time bike rides
a crooked house to the east
crowned me queen to lumpy-futon love making
knee scraping chest beating.
The purple house birthed home-grown marching bands,
we feasted freely and named ourselves
from role-playing game characters
A city where couches burned in intersections
guitars and amps tugged in all directions
A place of rooster crows, dirty hippies, pit bulls
cracked blow jobs and squatting hipsters.
I felt the wind through my fingers in this city
memories are friends.
but this boy died over a blood-saturated, ammunition soaked shirt
the past no longer exists.
another crouched under machine gun explosions
My oak-less city now peppered with 5-0 and fire power and desolate hordes
a metropolis metamorphosis and so
this past is an old friend who’s moved on
and my memories are more present than past,
the past no longer exists.
