And I watched them walk away
And I said goodbye to their youth
And I thought about mine
It’s gone now, so gone
And I think about the was
And the way they are now
The angst on her face
The pain in her eyes
It was mine
And those were the times
And yes those were the times
And I miss her, and I miss them, and I even miss the pain in her eyes
And I watched them walk away and I just watched them walk away
And how cruel it can be
And how cruel I can be
And how long ago those days…

So young and serious
So logical too
So political we thought
And on the outside so tough
So smart or at least we thought

I saw in her face
She was young
her blonde a little dirty
Her face was a little too
And I love her for that moment
For she brought me back
To the times when I was young
And so angry like her
So angry like her

The Grief Proceedings

I found a young girl lost
She found a demon
Not in me, but in what I was capable of
Capable of passion
Of love
Of the idea
Of possession

She found a man on the edge
His hand reached out
Not to help her
But to hang on

Chaos

That’s what she has found,
That’s what she will always wander towards
If not from this man, than someone else.
Someone laced with the same poison

She was bred upon this,
Her fathers and mothers,
They train in chaos,
They too walk on the edge.

Love should be freedom
We retreat from those we are most fond of
We should prevent them from the chains we carry

The Grief Proceeding will come soon, the times when we mourn

Not what came and went, but what never became at all

Storm clouds over San Bernardino Mountains
They roll in
She stands just before them
In that past
A world gone
A world fled
By me
Why
We don’t know these days
Didn’t exactly know then
So now I walk haunted
Just as those hills
Dark clouds hang near
Moving in
Preparing
Last sun hits our hands in these lazy Sunday afternoons
Storm clouds hang near
Over those mountains
Over that past
And she is there somewhere
And I’m waiting for her to look back

City lost.
City far away.
Waiting for our dreams here.
Faces gray. Covered and old.
The Face of time
Conversations of strangers.
Black and white.
Books are discussed.
People look for people to look out for.
Which days are these?
Why is it, that we have all lost?
Over hills we have crossed
Under the canopy of trees
Under the grey
City lost
And we are still looking.

Inside the out door
Travel begins
Maybe we’re in luck this time
This time around there are no visitors
No plagues to be brought
No fortunes sold
Get up kid
See that place in front of you
Highway of love
Keep it going
Reach far out
Blue sky and valley nights
Reach and poke at those stars

Independent vibe
Her grandmother told her stories of old
Of automobiles
Of the people they would go to meet
Of a more simple life
She wore her grandmothers clothes
To her they would always be pretty

His grandfather lay dead in the ground
But he still had stories
From photographs
Pieces, fragments of history
Sometimes had to invent meanings, or names, but the stories were there
Looking back in black and white

The two hold hands now
They take walks
They talk of their histories
Her wearing grandmothers sweater
Him wearing the look of his grandfathers face, from those pictures long ago
They make the new times in front of them
Shape what will come
As they honor the past, they make times to speak of later
Times for the kids of their kids to tell
She will be regal
He will just be

Trash boy
Trash man
This is the city we’ve built
This is where we dwell
Poisonous
Technology
Success
This is the game
We victim the rules
Rule what we created
Again and again
A cry for freedom, this is how to live
Some will trample others,
Rise to the top
Others remain below
I’ll see you down there

she wore bows on her shoes
I thought about the old days
the heathens walk near,
their looks blank and dumb as always
the mainstream, those that betray us,
those that stumble through life
they walk in packs, we hide our secret selves,
hoping they don’t sniff us out
as intellectuals, or those who actually care,
or give a damn about something
so they walk in packs
and we kid ourselves with culture
we kid ourselves that we’re better
we put on neckties like nooses
we wear lipstick and blush and other forms of war paint
we write books, and tell stories, and look at art
I think about the past, I collect objects that inspire
and she wears shoes with pretty little bows
and really, we’re not much different than them

Think of the classic
Think of classics
Men of stature
Dress shirt button up
White shirt black tie
Our man like Langston
Wash us with your words
We think of you
Silver metal, typing machine
They are the classic
We continue their journey
We watch, and we listen
To the journey
To their words
To their worlds
We take the walk
We follow their path
The journey of the classic

Last chance
Make this one up
To them
To us
Betrayer lay in the dark
He will be slain and lay dark forever
Some will dance on his grave
Others will pour whiskey
I will do neither
For I will be the one to plant the knife