HAT


I kept a lid on the hairy situation

far too long. A kid, I faded from the sun,

sat vacant in the shadows

until the deed was done that brought

me to the point of time

where all that sat upon the mind was flux

and fuzzy circles.


What state of mind had brought me there?

What size of man could I become?

The fight seemed odd and out of place,

a race against myself.

But then, it was what I already knew—

the rut of life is all of me

and none of you.


Not before the sun sets

Do I flip my hair

And doff my cap.

A capital affair and one for the books!

Who looks?

Who cares?


And so, a crown, I take with me

Wisdom

So now bow down and bend before me”

“I am king and hear me roar!”

I’m sure you have heard the lie before…



GLASSES


I wear my spectacles with aplomb,

And with a sense of guiltless pride.

Had I died, it would have been a different scene:

To lie in state and watch each eye

Stare back at me and cry or lie:

“Oh, he was such a pithy fellow!

“Droll and witty and good!”


And then false tears would start to form

From years of practice, mastered in time.

And one by one, until they were done

Would I watch them.


And yet, I live.

My spectacles are scratched

And it remains unclear where lies the path in front.

Behind me, there is time and time

To spare. Somehow, I remain aware

Of time, and see how it has shaped me.

Yet, in front, there is no space.

Time bends

Like a prism, stuck in a shadow,

A melting candle

Burnt at both ends.



SHIRT


A tattered cloth

hides a multitude of scars,

back-dated denial, and

hidden sloth. The arms

of the universe reach out to me--

what do they teach?

I cannot see the future,

but the past is mine to take.

At last, I come to terms with life!

I wear the sins of ages—

cages that keep us tame but taut,

wound springs waiting to pounce

with but an ounce of taunting.


I have collared wisdom

though it is stained and frayed.

I should have stayed where I was,

should have played a little longer,

have gotten stronger,

gotten rich.

But I did not itch. Instead

I sat and waited—

so was I fated.


The pocket covers the breast--

no rest there is for large hearted men:

the universe explodes

again.




MY BROWN PANTS



My brown pants

worn at the shin, torn at the knee,

framed with bits of string and

protruding coarse hair,


ground in mud and dirt and

years of hurt; and days of triumph!,

green streaks and memories of falls--

that is not all--

of nights with women and of flings

too far-fetched to be recalled.


These pants rubbed skin,

chafed creases, pinched spots and

sighed at swift releases. These pants, like I,

are often wanting--but who's counting?


Brown pants splayed at the ankle

hemmed and hawed over,

empty pockets full of holes and

deeply flawed. Still, my pants.


My pants

drawn at the waist,

a record of the taste of life I've led;

still, they are not dead.

They are born and born again--reborn!

Yes, they are torn, but still, my pants.


My brown pants

worn at the shin, torn at the knee,

caught forever in the circle

and a part of me.




SOCKS


Worn thin and smelling stale from sweat,

I regret not changing. Still,

there is tranquility in the familiar—

the toe-worn truth of an expanding

universe of lint, a stint on Earth indefinite—

peace in the worn out heels of logic,

sense in the tattered threads

trying to escape,

little heads of lint angels dancing

on a pin. I win when I pick them off like lice:

A game of dice. But does it really matter?

What comes from all the pitter-patter of my

footfalls on the walk?

Oh, if only socks could talk!

What tales they might tell in the

gray, dark, shoes of Hell,

in the nation-state of rubber soles

and laces with wild, frayed heads:

all tales untold!


Alas! They are but slaves to shoes,

having lost the sovereign will to choose direction

or go to graves.

But these socks—these socks have been saved!



SHOES


I’ve walked a hundred miles in my shoes, and still

I wonder who has done the traveling.

The laces have become Zen knots or riddles

with canvas painted on by puddles.

The tongues talk not, but know direction.

Slow, my feet are merely rebels—slaves

to paths I did not choose.

Whichever way I go, I lose.


When someone asks “have you saved your soul?”

(How droll!)

I point to shoes and wink;

“I think that I have worn them out entirely.”