The Backstory

Commissions Committees and Councils
expert formulators, creators of stories
conscious banners of testament
providing neat explanations
packaged, palatable, and positive

entire libraries devoted to deconstructing such stories
peeling off layer by layer
of elaborate exposition overgrowths
hiding dung heaps.

We each have a council proffering
monopsonic truth
seashells chattering under the surf
deciding memories.

so looking back childhoods have no shoes
and cats have no teeth
heroes battle villains
stoic homelessness survived
secret commissions assemble flawless stories
personal folklore formed and dissolved,
elaborate beach built structures.

Molded

When I was a student
I grasped the grass,
observed all the slow steps,
holding slides to the sunlight.
I was an explorer in the Congo
and the jungle was breathing,
but as time passed, creepers
atrophied to ashes
roots became foundations;
grasping tree trunks
my nails broke on concrete

The Last Time

The last time I spoke with Harry McBride was really only half a conversation. The lesson he gave was meant for her, but I was the only one listening, so I was the one who received it. 

The root chakra, at the base of the spine, is a primal life force. Next is the sacral chakra which many people equate with sexuality, although it has more to do with creativity. 
  Harry paused his explanation to show his diagram, sketched quickly on the back of a flier, to the object of his affection. She stopped briefly for a quick look on her way to refill the coffee machine with water. He continued.
The chakra around the solar plexus is very important and then going higher, we have the heart and throat chakras. At the very top is the third eye and the crown chakra, both related to functions of higher consciousness.
Not caring that I was second choice, I snatched up the crumbs. “I think Carlos Castenada must have written about a chakra at the solar plexus because when he goes into dream time he ends up with this weird sort of extra spirit arm that comes out of his stomach and attaches to things in the world around him.”
Harry paused, trying to remember, that sounds likely…
“So what do these do, how can they help you?” 
  He looked up with a forlorn tinge to his eye. Well I suppose you can focus on the chakras with specific yoga exercises or meditations, but I just know the basics, no practical applications.
Harry turned to gain her attention one last time as she dashed by with a carafe. His half wave didn’t even pause her work routine for half a second.
“If not chakras then what do you rely on?” 
  I was always partial to the spirit guide, but, of course, sometimes the only advice they can give you is to jump off a cliff. He ejected a raspy cough and a wry smile. 
My library is still filled with Harry’s books: a biography of Madame Blavatsky, a reference book of Celtic Gods and Goddesses, and a bushel of Charles De Lint novels. He’d filled everyone at the coffee shop with books on everything from the 19th century occult, to ancient Egyptians and hallucinogenic rituals. He was a desperate teacher, distributing lessons at an astonishing rate before the inevitable.
Six months before he stopped coming to the coffee shop, he appeared, wraithlike, at a workmate gathering at the bar down the street. 
She sat up rigidly, “what is he doing here?” she whispered not too covertly. 
Another co-worker and I stayed to chat with him while the rest of the group migrated away from the table. He only drank guinness.
“Do you regret any of it?” I asked him once.
  What, joining the navy, going to war? He smiled. No, that’s what needed to happen, and it did get me out of Pennsylvania. 
Everyday at about 3 PM he would leave the coffee shop for the little Eritrean market two buildings down and buy a cheesecake. Then he would smoke a hand-rolled cigarette and sit down to his afternoon snack, backpack placed carefully beside his seat.
  When I got out of the navy I was offered a job in the tech industry. If I’d taken it, I’d probably be much more wealthy. Choking laughter. But I made a decision then that I wanted to have an outdoor life.
This assertion was confirmed by an alpine-hiker look, a muted green hat that looked like a cross between a fedora and a fisherman’s cap, and khakis that hugged trim legs. Despite his looming expiration date he exuded virility. He who talked of third eyes, gnostic rituals, and the power of menstrual cycles. 
But he could only catch her full attention when she told him of her dreams.
After he was gone, I heard that his sister came to collect his scattered library. I wasn’t working at the coffee shop anymore. I kept his books.

Memory

 

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.

On Sled Dogs and Memory

In sled dog territory, I remember the many times
my mind raced in Leary-like ellipses.
I remember how I used to think.
The years appear through the end of an old paper towel tube,
like the one I’d find my way around the house with as a child.
I know I’m not many days past spring chick,
but already I see the years crumple up in tin foil,
un-recyclable balls of faded patterns.
Memories can be friends, but memories are more present than past.
Was I ever really that optimistic?
Did I wander about on these first two rungs waiting for a net?
I remember an awareness of death’s existence
that adults said did not exist in people my age.
I remember dancing on rules like they were best friends
that sometimes I needed and sometimes I didn’t.
I remember a past that no longer exists
and my memory is more present than past.

The past no longer exists.

My past is an old friend who’s moved on.

The past no longer exists.