Youth

Something I'm working on:

Youth of Michigan Summer


Tall blemished youth,
unshaken, but slouching
down the valleys of age,
casting shadows like clockwork
on the passing day—
beware of easy apathy,
stop looking down your nose at Pall Mall Blues,
throw out your opera and pick up a kazoo—
And hum three thousand miles
of shoreline, hum
like quiet Detrois
in overgrown wild-lace,
hum the language
of euchre, hum
for Motown-Soul-No-More.

Mouth open in Hoffmaster,
howl with the coyotes,
tall blemished youth, sound thrown
like a ribbon from your throat,
ignore Ionia St. bar crawl
like it were leprous—
but don't ignore the lepers,
pariah fringe slab sleepers.

Tall blemished youth,
c-lo grip knuckles,
burning away
the sweet incense of $uccess,
supping on Spinach Pie,
searching for the vinyl
heart of Sunday morning
—cherry-pick your way West,
open your heart to Rainer Maria
Rodents, throw Hemingway out the window
and read the sky—Clouds rolling
like laughing immigrants,
clouds sometimes blankets,
old family quilts,
clouds of rain for earthworms
and apple trees,
clouds rarely not at all.

Run your hands in the dirt,
form a world of reflection,
for the solstice passes,
the sun's gaze diminishes,
and with it, the world
you've run through becomes
something old again.