young voice

The kids bang to the beats,
Skateboard to concrete,
Beer panhandle, land in on two feet.
Their wet ears can’t hear it
Rebound sounds of old poets spoken.
But I recognize that tongue,
My own mouth was once,
Young.

i find that this is the only pace:
aging bones and growing wrinkles.
a picture of the world upon a single face,
and time - the difference.

i find that there are many shapes,
 and many instruments that create them;
 fires for the forging make the dark a lesser place, 
never again so oppressive or binding.

sometimes, the people in my memories blur,
as if one could be another could be a third;
and sometimes, my memories aren't memories at all
but ghosts pretending, out of line with reality,
molded from formerly accurate shapes,
replete with embellishments.

i study these fictions as truths, 
the two now indiscernible like distant shadows ,
the rate at which they multiply absurd.

And ya see planes are coming down faster
Than I can catch em them.
Places I never knew the names to are smoking,
Smoldering, sweetly and then not
So sweetly , in me.
Leaving me heaving,
For once not weeping
Wishing water please, sweep
These trees into a cool sleep so I can speak
Freely.
Once again.