That time we found our kinfolk, running down a meadow still soft with folded grass as the daisies chained themselves into a crown.
That time we snapped our fingers, and they didn’t make a sound but the sight of the attempt was something so much more profound.
That time when life was simple, and things were sorted out in kind.
When time was just a concept that we paid no mind.
Sometimes, when she rode MUNI on her way to work in early morning fog, she imagined the opening credits of a biopic based on her life and with what they would be soundtracked. If this thought struck her just as the train jumped in to/out of the Sunset Tunnel, the song that picked it’s place was always “Crowd the Pine”.
Here I AM–
A fake intellectual
trying on a dozen different hats
to plume my tongue;
Looking for a current to connect.
These dreams dropped into real-time and took root;
So taken, as they were, with unreality turning tricks to see the morning come.
Here I am, a plaintiff in a sea of stories treading water to stay afloat:
Finding current in a song,
Strong and Ready,
Steady as I cook a fix;
Sturdy with conviction as I learn to WRITE in FLIGHT.
To travel down a bustling city sidewalk and hear church bells is to be pulled into the past; As if to say, “This time is
GODLESS, but at least we have each other.”
Take Aim, Noriega
If regrets were like pellets packed into a barrel,
My aim would sharpen as my heart swelled—
The tears to tear a hole in the target,
An end brought to bear from a trigger,
With the air cleared in a crash of smoke.
In truth, the shots we took solved nothing;
We were so young we couldn’t steady the sight.
So now I strain to make the music set it right,
For the hunt to find a harmony in amnesia,
And the night to bring the cool of anonymity.
Inspiration is but fleeting:
A flinching moment in the night.
Its carnal tongue preceding
The shiftless cardinal sin of SIGHT
So with these winds of discontent
I’ll wander aimlessly in search
Of rabble-rousing wonderment
To inflame these embers wracked
Because in your absence, in this wake
A flame refuses to unfurl.
IT languishes in malady
Tepid in its stubborn coil
And in this flaccid freedom,
I’m untended in respite.
As in this tone-deaf melody,
An opus spurns its heights.