meet me in the middle

poem adapted to lyrics for a song by daniel swetlik

Meet me in the middle, once

So I can find my way

Catch me in the rush

So I don’t lose my faith

Hold my body next to yours

So I can feel I’m more

Hold my gaze a moment

So I am yours to stay

Our current swells of love, the river runs on

The river is our love, soft and strong

Meet me in the middle

And hold me true and strong

I’ll trust your guiding love to hold us

Together in our song

not a walk in the park

for my sister suzie…

It’s never a walk in the park with you

But rather we’re rippin down the side of a building on our flying bicycles Our super hero-ess capes billowing behind us With the sidewalk coming up fast No this is not a walk in the park!

We shield each other as evil spirits come our way

And the brush of ocean air mixed with trees reminds me we’re actually speeding downhill in golden gate park with the sharp wind biting my fingers and daring my eyes shut

Not a walk in the park, but a wild ride with my sister on a sunday

Even though we may have argued on which way to go and we went the wrong way (her fault) which turned out to be the right way (ok she wins) like most of our times together are the right way, gone the adventurous way

This is what she brings to my life, as we argue and love each other, she’s a super hero in black sexy leotards speeding faster than a racing vibrator and when we get to the windmill, we share not just a drink but more importantly our stories that need to be told then argue on whether to check the bikes which I think is too paranoid and I win with no checking but she loses, her phone missing oops shoulda checked

but while she hops around hyena-dance hyperventilating and expounding the injustice of being ripped off, I call her phone with her saying (while still dancing hyena) “what for? what does that accomplish?”

And it Rings. was in her pocket the whole time. And like most of our adventures together, it’s never a walk in the park and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

a birthday poem for pruney boy

folds of a man

the 1-2 texas punch

sent the loom to spinning

weaving a way to the land free of sins

baptized by the white sand and blue sea

in came the chapped stick with his wild ideas and music with his chapped heart

and eyes full of adventure and misadventure

tentative trust and new beginnings

shedding his past like snake skin that always grows back

and the folds of his expression, one upon the other like an exotic Indian sari

intricate patterns taking shape into vast patterns like a blanket to spread your life upon

the grist and the tears and the beauty upon the lyrics along with hammered nails and the songs and the stage with one man being many men in many situations, the mouthpiece for all those within us dividing us among ourselves

and every fold of the man is there

made from the bolt of the soul

the fold of the man inside the man

traveling back to himself.

grapefruit

I’m transported to a different place and time
as I sprint the spoon
into the bright and tangy
as sweet and sour
gloriously orange sherbet-plus-sunset citrus

It’s a fond feeling, a safe feeling
transported back to that modest Crofton residence
and the grandmother who served the grapefruit

Memories glow like each segment glistens
as I slurp and sip the squirting juices

This is the Felicia Fruit, the grandmother breakfast
The acid and sourness faded away after she accepted me,
and I was a faithful ally to her always

We were bound by the common love of her beloved grandson
The sweetness of the fruit of this love swelled in cross country letters…the old fashioned way to communicate, and we both enjoyed our special friendship

we were conspirators in agreeing all
he Should do and Should Not do

and we were partners at the end of the day
in spoiling him
and loving him

Her stoic yet a little quirky personality
pungent and fruity lives on
in the loveliness of that bite