anticipation

Atop the rollercoaster just before the plunge,
On the lip of the quarterpipe just before you drop,
Waiting in the wings before you take the stage,
Walking down the hallway late again for class,
Toeing up to the starting line before the race,
All the same, the feeling still remains,
What am I waiting for, what churns my guts,
Butterflies feel like pterodactyls inside,
What’s the worse thing that could happen,
What is this fear, pumping through my veins,
Anticipation builds and feeds on itself,
Time and again, destroyed by false turmoil,
Nothing really there except what I’ve manufactured,
Round and round I go in ever-widening circles,
It’s all on the inside, nothing on the outside,
What’s left to save, what’s left that even matters,
Questions continue unabated, no easy answers,
Momentum builds, sweat pores from my armpits,
Fingers tingle and flesh becomes speckled,
Mind formations cloud my vision,
Breaths go shallow, and a trickle escapes,
Let it go, take that first step,
Cease the unknowing and find out,
Fail and correct, or hit the sweet spot,
Either/or, but at least it’s something concrete,
Fear of the what-ifs strangle and kill,
Just do, just go, just try, and just be,
Ego disappears, only the action remains,
Nothing left to ponder, nothing left to wonder,
No one to entertain pointless thoughts,
He’s streaking down the tracks,
Slamming board into the transition,
Strutting onto the stage,
Striding into the room,
Digging spikes into the asphalt.

bop gun

(apologies to Parliament, George Clinton and Ice Cube)

Ready or not here I come, getting down just for the phunk of it
cold frozen morning, so sick of winter
longboard dreams, longboard wheels
longing for warm dry days, wishing for some big Sector 9's,
new day rising, spring just around the corner,
big phat wheels, sticking to the concrete,
gliding over the hubbas, catapault through the corners,
ready or not, knee deep, don't want no drama,
can imagine the sun on my skin, sweet on my bald head,
no place to go, nothing to do,
but just to find myself, find where i'm going,
getting down just for the phunk of it, getting down,
glide and push, trying to find the flow,
i'm gonna have some fun, handcuffs on yo mama,
swerving to miss some groms, swerving to miss some dude,
here's my chance to dance my way out of my constrictions,
ask the buffalo girl to go around the outside, one nation under a groove,
one nation on the board, one nation under the sun,
One nation and we're on the move, Get it on my good foot, good gawd
frantic sweat spills outta my skull, frantic chills shoot down my spine
a whole afternoon to undo the destruction of one winter
pressure's building, pressure's gonna blow
If you hear any noise, it's just me and the boys, Playin with our toys
skating with my kids, the very definition of bliss
Do not attempt to adjust your radio, There ain't nothin' wrong
hit the board, hit the crete, hit the bong,
dropping in, dropping out, falling out, falling down
Flashlight, red light, we don't like cops on the bike
no wrong no right, in this game of skate
do what feels good, ride till it feels tight
Hittin them dips, cd skips but I'm straight
As I bounce, rock, skate, now I'll toast to that
hit them hips, hit the half wall
throw in a boneless, watch me on the lip
watch me panic, watch me stall
So wide you can't get around it, So low you can't get under it, So high you can't get over it
gonna hit you with this bop gun, gonna hit me with this bop gun,
riding up and down, scraping skin as I go along,
Much more ba-e-ya-e-younce, Ice Cube comin' with the half ounce
sun up to sun down, don't let my fall down don't let me fall down,
Not Just Knee Deep, jeep fulla smog
take a deep breath, inhale exhale all there is
ride the long board, the new school and the old
Tear the roof of this mutha like we did last night, son
And hit you with the bop gun
ride on a piece of driftwood for all I care, slap some trucks on
grab onto your momma, let it all out let it go
One nation under a groove, Gettin down just for the funk of it
One nation and we're on the move, Nothin can stop us now

mid-winter blues

My skateboards sit stacked on top of one another in the basement, thirsting for my attention, as I remain mired in the mid-winter doldrums. I finally found time to clean up from the last thaw, which now seems like a distant memory. A winter’s worth of ice and snow had melted within days and found its way between foundation cracks and bum rushed my over-worked sump pump to flood my basement floor.
Fresh snow now tumbles out of the sky, obscuring the concrete and the horizon.
Springtime holds bittersweet promise; I’ll be heading back on the board, for whatever it is worth. Another year older, more unfulfilled dreams to add to my arsenal, pocket full of regrets as I waste my days dreaming of tomorrow.
What potential lies with those seven-ply’s of maple? How much more can this body, these joints take? Just on the cusp of forty, but sometimes I feel so old. The board lies to me as I have done to so many others, including myself. She tells me I can harness the concrete, tells me that the bonds of gravity can be broken and tells me that I can recapture my lost youth.
What have I really lost, though? Being a has-been is not nearly as tragic as being a never-been. I have only given the absolute minimum required of her, just as I have with all my other loves. I feel like a fraud. A wannabe and a poser. Tallying another interesting story for no one to hear.
Lies to tell myself as the lights begin to dim. To make myself feel like I had lived a genuine life, even for just a moment. Just so I can pretend that I lived this life to the fullest and experienced the heights and depths of this finite existence.
I expect quick and easy gratification, easy categorization, and instant Nirvana without any true effort. But the truth is that the board does not lie and concrete hurts. One miscue, one lazy arrogant moment and bones are broken. Unmindful or preoccupied with useless nothings, I go tumbling down the bank. Slamming into the transition, wondering where it all went wrong.
I will make no more promises for now. I will ride that board when the spring finally comes along, some sweet long April morning in between the rains. I have nothing to prove to anyone else, just need to prove something to myself. Something remains unfinished between the board and me, some long forgotten oath after a sweat-drenched session or a bone-jarring slam.
Layers of skin left at the park, scars cut into my arms and knees, but I remain indebted. Some buried part of me screams for release and completion, anger and anguish beneath this sullen shell of a man. So much remains undone and unaccomplished.
Let me fly and float, cruise along the smoothness and teach me to cherish each pump and each breath. Open me to the sacred eternal now, open my smiling eyes and toothy grin, and unclench my face to the warm sun. One go round in this bag of skin, and still I wait, still I stand on the sidelines, watching and waiting, for who knows what.
There is only one moment, this moment, right now and here, and all our yesterdays and tomorrows collapsing into this razor’s edge of eternity. The living is bittersweet no matter what our individual stories are, so what choice is there but to be witnesses to this moment.
Brush the cobwebs from my trucks, spin the wheels and check the hardware,
endless summer in a single day. Brush the cobwebs from my mind; drag these old bones out onto the concrete park and let go, let go, free at last. Its time to skate boys, time to put all else aside, leaving the thinking to someone else, or another time or place.

sala

Parking lot semi-full as we pull in off the dirt road,
Red and gold rooftop glistens in the noonday sun,
Eagles and snakes atop the converted barn,
Now the main temple, represents heaven and earth,
Festival day at the Dhammasala, marking the monsoon season,
Half a world away, Buddhism amidst the cornfields.
Hustle and bustle over at the red pole barn,
As Thai cooks set up shop, temple boys run back and forth,
American boys born and bred, now immersed in Eastern orthodoxy,
Smiles on everyone’s face, Asian or otherwise,
The Dhamma does not discriminate, doesn’t care about race,
I walk past the monk’s residence to enjoy the view.
A gazebo off in the distance, trails disappear into trees,
A forest monastery in the heart of Michigan,
Fawn suckles from mom over in the high grass,
Meditation huts sit hidden back in the woods,
Up on high ground away from the stream,
Surrounded by silence and the shadows from the pines.
The stillness seeps into the subconscious,
Quieting thoughts and fears momentarily . . .

sump pump

Cold water rushing spinning spitting
I hear it dripping in dark corners
Covering up the tiles and the piles
Clothes and blankets water logged
Impeding the flow to the sump pump
Which gurgles and gasps and spits
Drain clogged by unknown unseen sludge
Cold clean water seeps through the pipes
Hear it drip and splash and flush
Through concrete walls falling on tiles
Somewhere in the dark wet earth
Before it pours into the pit
Before it seeps into the basement
Covering old toys and books
Extension cords and shoes
The cycle of wet and dry
Begins to rot the fibers
Blown into the air by the fan
Sick again sick again
World spins away in a deluge
Drenched and soaking choking
Powerless before nature’s might
Huddled in blankets through the cold dark night
Let me sleep let me sleep
Wake me when it is all fixed
Wake me when it is all done
Water-borne damage just too much
Where to even start where to begin
Just feel like giving up
Fighting to stay afloat
One more day one more chance
Somehow something might just turn out