Tomorrow
My eyes caught the back corner of your jean pocket, bright blue denim in the August sun,
the backwards glances stolen from hazel eyes, bright with furious focus, you determined my fate on that muggy summer afternoon, why tomorrow must we endlessly postpone today,
tall trees lit by the relentless sun, green grass sizzles with the morning dew, gaping mouth of the ocean beckons with gray-green edges, guess I thought I knew you better, stranger.
If there is no past, and no future, only the bullshit of the present, then lets embrace it, and thrive on it's uncertainty and beautiful immediateness, meaning drafted from grand plans in some musty old shed, you know, the type every real New Englander keeps their old "fixer up'er" in, a noble hulk of an old sports car or sailboat, just waiting for the "right time."
Time, while we're on the subject, ah time, what a contrived idea, nature doesn't abide by silly rhythm's of numbers and tick marks, so in the spirit of forever being now, let's fix up the old sailboat now, break sweat painting creaking wooden beams, get covered in various toxic chemicals in a poorly-ventilated shed in August, then strip naked and dive into the ocean, just to get a taste of what's ahead. Dinner will be brought on the heels of ambition and yearning, for rest and also for energy, because tomorrow's never yesterday.
Roof Crack
Sat my ass on the red sandstone dirt on the side of a fading mountain, disappearing off the edge of the desert horizon, the sun lit the last few moved out from under this overhanging prow of erosion, I stretched the edges of my lanky frame upwards in a wild lunge, less calm and calculated than I'd hoped, but with the same brilliant result, hands met a shallow incut, a hidden weakness in the clean, sharp sandstones lines, and suddenly gravity pulled viciously downward with all the weight and expectations of the world as my feet cut out from under me, a deft swing into the vast blue sky, I gritted a little harder against the downward tug of school, work, and schedules, as suddenly my hands crossed the sun line and the sharp sand grains cutting my palm felt like nothing because the only place to go was down, down to friends and lovers and strangers with whom I can only share a hollow "yeah, It was a good day." Every day climbing is a good day.
