This head is a tuning fork.
The air is sometimes more solid than supposed.
This head rings up to the same pitch
regardless
how much noise and light pollution it strikes.
Sometimes the air is petroleum jelly thick
and the imagination machine slogs through
though not without the usual wear and tear.
After the cruise I am standing on the north end of the wharf, smoking my pipe. This is my communion with the river. I give it my joy. I give it my pain. It is older and wiser than me. My back to the city that resembles less and less each day the place I moved to 11 years ago. Home. The cityscape is a crime scene left to rot. That scimitar moon watching over, bending my eye back towards the river. This kiss of fall, one of those teases. I give my resentments to the river, the way I learned in AA meetings. Hold onto nothing or it will hold on to you. I allow my mind to empty with the pipe smoke dissipating in the sunset air.
Sometimes situations sprout up like dandelions like pokeweed like returning columbines, draw a line to remind you what side you’re on. A rage rooted deep a basement buried under a thousand tornados mud swept by sideways falling rain, excavated and dragged under bright buzzing laboratory lights.
There’s no comfort in your favorite chair. No relaxation in a cold NA beer. No solace in the berry blast hydration infused water. But there is crunchy peanut butter.
And for the moment it has to be enough.
