A friend, a job, an album, a mess

 We set up my drum set in your kitchen.

Warm, summer day.

Made noise.

The freedom of sound.

Creation without direction.

No tape recorder.

No microphone to pick up the sounds made.

Sometimes, in an afternoon nap,

The feeling comes back to me.

I begin to remember the patterns.

The riffs.

I try to put the model ship in the bottle.

A summer spent

In the trees of another season.

Dodging wasps

Poison from the ground.

Mornings before 

Another shift

Into the night.

Both the wolf and the sheep

Punching cards

To make minimum wage.

Sunrise meets sunset

melting between

Silence and noise.

No time for the model ship or the bottle.

But

I’ve consumed this old reliable

An artifact of the future and the present.

Comfort in something

Repeatable

Always a familiar path

But something ever new to notice in the layering.

This Cold Vein

Taking my weightless form

And drawing it to concrete

And the fog.

Maybe it’s the dim light of memory.

Maybe I’m guided by the Morse signals of the light out on the ocean.

Maybe, it’s my desire to be back into a moment.

The ones of magic.

The ones of monotony and the slow passage of time.

Repeatable and unable

To be Replaced.

Maybe I’ll remember

It differently later.

Is anything really the same

As we remember it?

Or, are we just playing dress up

With our thoughts

And wishing for what we thought we wanted

In the moment?