sit & wonder
as a feckless kid
I lay on the ground
staring at the stars
thinking of space as empty
were there threads between constellations
& later
in classrooms
trying to narrow the space
between teachers & me
later me & students who sat there
wondering why they’d lost an evening
time during the day to come
& I wonder how many of us
ever bridge that gap between words
& our thoughts always
on the run
backroads covered in dust
wild dogs eating roadside goat
café tabac bars dry doughnuts
hams hanging from the ceiling
swaying in the cigarette smoke
sweating into paper cups
strange faces with a soft smile
for the stranger guarded
yet open to what may come next
miles of olive trees
on ancient sculpted ground
black bulls standing ferociously
waiting for death in the afternoon
gold fields where the wheat has been
dry rivers to walk in the mornings
travelling for miles hoping to find
cold beers tapas into long evenings
caminos vecinales cubierto en polvo
los perros salvajes que comen cabra de borde del camino
café-estanco bares rosquillas secas
los jamones que cuelgan del techo
el influjo en el humo de cigarrillo
la sudación en tazas de papel
caras extrañas con una sonrisa suave
para el forastero guardado
aún ábrase a lo que puede venir después
millas de olivos
en tierra esculpida antigua
los toros negros que están de pie ferozmente
la espera de muerte por la tarde
los campos auríferos donde el trigo ha sido
ríos secos para andar por las mañanas
los viajes para millas que esperan encontrar
cervezas frías tapas en tardes largas
we just don’t do it
look around count the empty spaces
parents family friends
gone
lost along the way
sure we catch our friends
talking on loved ones gone
the pain of missing the love given
do this sometimes ourselves
but we focus on the living
denying
not dwelling on those gone before
filling the spaces in our hearts
with those living amongst us now
only allowing moments
to dwell
on the to come
fifteen alone & lost
I found myself stuck
late in the mountain night
in Snowdonia
the cars had stopped
walking had ceased to get me anywhere
as my steps slowed in the dark
I slipped over a dry stone wall
huddled in a corner against the wind
& slept dreaming of giants a giantess
gold hair cascading on her shoulders
promising better days to come
if I would drink the water there
& woke in the dawn to silence
but for the crows cawing in the distance
I was powerfully thirsty with nothing
climbed back over the wall
put my thumb to the first truck
he stopped then asked me: which is it then?
I had no answer no understanding
he drove me into the local town
& drove away smiling shaking his head
as I went to buy water Dwr yr Wyddfa
drinking sitting on a low grey wall
later as I stuck my thumb out to leave
the same truck stopped again
& as I climbed inside he asked again
which is it then?
& as I shrugged he told me
of Idris the giant sitting gazing the stars
there on his mountain Cadair Idris
& if anyone slept the night on his mountain
in the morning they wake either
a poet or a madman
so which was it to be please?
with the enthusiasm
only youth has
the fat
the excesses of traditions
that weighed us down
pulling away to rubble
the edifices of age that bound us tight
savaging shibboleths
raging into the night
time was on our side
picking at monoliths
demolishing because we were right
to only have to rebuild
over time & the ages
picking up the pieces
jigsawing what we could
to create something
eventually
anything
for something to live by
& for
Me & the Don
we got it goin’ on
there on the fields of gold
as the sky cartwheels
the sun high on my head
& I don’t understand the ghosts
playing out here in dead casas
strange writing on the walls
green scale lizards skittering by
& if there was a ragged windmill
I’d tilt my rusted lance let it fly
my thoughts baked in the heat
the heat & the light enough
for this rustic choking on dust
wondering just just
who thought it might be a great idea
walking through this scorched landscape
I think of Horse
& his whore
after the war in Paris
having to run
after the American beat her
& Horse beat him for that
is always bad form
to fall in love with a working girl
the Madame she don’t like it
& he could never go back
I think of him sitting
there corner of the bar
drinking everything drinking slow
staring into space
maybe thinking again
on who he might’ve been
& I wonder if the Madame
put up the whole show
just to move Horse on
& whether Horse ever
made that connection
I could live on Skyline
looking out over the smog the bay
abide in the Sans’ doing what I do
tripping over my Spanish
my huaraches too
loping the hot asphalt colosseum swapmeet
sipping sweet breakfast chocolate
ripping butter confiture croissants your heart
in the early morning street sounds Paris
Toulouse Mont de Marsan Messange
holding my hangover head
Las Ramblas Croisette George cinq
checking my wallet still in pocket
but always knowing
if I was there
I’d want to be there & elsewhere
walking with you
holding your hand in the soft light
of another day
the man has swagger
thinks he’s got the smarts going on
because he can throw a punch
feels can say what the hell he likes
but what he doesn’t know
somehow fails to see
is the gaptooth in the crowd
how his circle shortens over time
he asks where did Ben go?
don’t see Chris no more…
& they’ve voted with their feet
can’t stand beside
when he throws his lip anymore
they got tired of apologising for the man
felt too deep the understand
you can tell a man by his friends
& needed to get some distance on him
they tried talking about the show up
the embarrassment of picking up after
& ghosting becomes the only option
when a man wont understand
