You Have To Show Up


just play the piano.
your song will come later.

just keep your head up
and move your fingers
and read the music that's been written.
your song will come when it's ready.
just show up,
put in your time,
and when you least expect it,
your song will be there.

and it will be magnificent.

and it will remind you of who you are,
what you love,
and why you do what you do.

just play the piano.
even if it feels empty,
and even if it feels cold.
just play the piano.

it's worth it, my friend.
play.

even if it feels like
the ceiling may collapse.

even if it feels uncomfortable
and wrong.

sit down and play.

it is extremely important
that you put it in the time,
even if you feel like
there's nothing there.

because when the time comes
that something IS there,

you must be ready.

because it may just be that very moment
that defines your life.

so play the piano, my friend.
and be patient.

your song will come.

and it will be better than you ever thought possible.

Earth, Wind, and Monkeys

in

We are in the mountains.
It's cold in our cabin,
so the girlfriend and I light a fire.
Sitting there watching the amber flames chew their bark,
my mind starts searching for metaphors.

I think to myself:
Having a fire in your fireplace
is like having a raging, orange monkey with arthritis
locked in a crate,
hissing and popping and cracking its joints.

But then I think to myself:
No, that's not what it's like at all.
Nobody will understand that.
Derek, you won't even know what
you're talking about in a week's time.

But then I think:
Yet, there's got to be some way to
harness this fire, poetically, outside the usual
literary terms and devices?

Here is this thing, that is engrained in our history
as a savior of mankind.
It brought us warmth and light, security and nutriment.
Yet it is also this dangerous beast, capable of destroying
entire civilizations, and even the entire human race
if the conditions were right.

And it's right here in my house.

There's just this CAGE OF FIRE in my living room.

And when it gets hungry, I feed it logs.
Because it likes logs.
And even though it seems alive,
it's okay to kill it.
I'm just not supposed to let it out of its cage,
because it's kind of crazy
and has a very broad appetite. 

There's nothing like fire.
Sure, there are beautiful parallels:
Her bright, redwood hair unfolding in the sunlight,
like fire.
A flurry of cardinals in a windstorm, spiraling into the clouds,
like fire.

But we've heard it all before.
And I need to let this go

and stop trying
to harness

this

fire.

 

Desert Vignette


A herd of Black Angus cattle scattered across a white,
sunbleached, crusted desert off of I-40 in New Mexico.
Tiny, black dots among an arid, fallow field
that look like cracked black pepper on a slice of old, dry toast.

And there by the side of the road is a dented highway guard rail
all crumbled in the median around a smashed cement divider
lying wasted among cookie crumbs of concrete
and wrecked rebar that fans out of the wreckage like wirey fingers
or twisted pipe cleaners
or bent hangers wrestling in the trash.

And finally, a roadside cross
decorated with dusty, silk roses
and a loose, plastic grocery sack
that whips violently in the desert wind
yet manages to hang on
by a single loop of plastic that
never
lets
go.

Positive Injection

right now, you are alive.

right now, you are free.

and for as long as you can remember,
you have always had a desire to
give something to the world.

you may not be doing what you want to do
right now,

but you have the desire. 

and that is powerful.

and you must carry that with you.

because it is what makes you.

don't ever allow yourself
to forget
the fact
that despite
what the other voices tell you...

you will matter.

 

Still Going

it seems as more time goes by
i write less

 but oh, how my wheels still tear up the pavement,
my mind driving madly through the mountains,
giving even the underside of every highway overpass
my undivided attention.
as i drive i watch everything as if I might find some
lovely accident of nature

hidden in the cracks,
something frightening,
anything beautiful,

that might provide me with just enough distraction
to make it to the next minute.

 to make it to the next stop.

i don't know where i am going tonight.
but i do know that wherever the music takes me,
wherever my instincts pull the wheel,
i'll be alone with the patched and tattered moon,
the electric green grass lit by
the halogen street lights, flaring orange,
and the sodium fog as it breathes through the canyons
across the road,
bent but unbroken. 

everything quiet.

everything alone,
in its own, little world.

as it should be.

TO DO LIST

drink ice-cold water
from a clear, glass bottle
while standing in a piping hot shower

and try and watch the sunset every day

and listen to music
without lyrics, every now and then

and be sure to check your oil.

oh, and tell your friends and family
that you love them
OFTEN

work to survive.
stay committed.
and don't get too comfortable.

keep going.

just keep going. 

and remember to
drink ice-cold water
from a clear, glass bottle
while standing in a piping hot shower.

 

 

Mattress Filet

If you come closer than an earshot of a mattress salesman
while you're in the market for a fancy mattress
be wary of running your mouth too much.

A savvy mattress salesman will secretary your dialogue
and use it against you like he's Alger Hiss in a pumpkin patch.

And when it comes time to hack down the price
with whatever words you've cut on your bargaining axe,
that savvy mattress salesman will fire right back
and say something to the effect of:
"What do you mean you can't afford the Tempurpedic?
Aren't you having steak and lobster for dinner?"

"No, my clever mattress salesman, no
you must be mistaken.
We're just having plain, old, stale taco shells tonight.
No meat. No cheese. Just can't afford it." 

The Loss Factor

The ravage of time leaves battered those
that fail to accept its brutality
and choose to ignore its influence.

The world ends for all of us.
And it runs fast
like the blade of a diamond saw.
If you think you're strong enough,
and if you have doubts,
then bring your hands forth,
and you will be cut.

Death is an essential part of who we are
and it is something
that our busy, ordinary lives tempt us to forget.

Not until we lose someone close
or toe the line ourselves
do we remember
how very real and permanent it is.

And it is important to remember.

It is the fleeting immediacy of life
that pours the foundation
of the soul.

It is from this one, unflinching slab of stone
that we build ourselves
and gauge our progress.

Its transience permits us to comprehend the weight of things.

It allows us to cherish our time alone
and with others.

It allows us to prioritize our moments.

It allows us to acknowledge which experiences,
and which people
are worth fighting for.

My friends, we must never overlook
what a privelege it is

to feel the warmth of the morning sun
on our faces.

 

Honey Dews

 

There's an acidic taste to unripe strawberries
that can stir up your senses
like the faint scream of a blender.

Lately I've been taking bets on
grocery store honey dew melons,
which unsurprisingly so,
have almost all come up short.

Eating a bad honey dew
is like eating wet styrofoam.
It's like eating a dry, crunchy, gypsum sponge
that has been soaking in the limelight of a
middle-aged emerald,
floating in a stale, tropical lagoon.

The absence of flavor is astonishing.

It often takes the role of iceberg's slutty cousin,
wearing nothing but a wicker rind and some
sweet, misleading perfume.

Truth be told,
the honeydew smells better than she tastes.

And when I'm exploring a buffet,
and the honey dew is outside its natural habitat,
frolicking among a cornacopia of
kiwis, pineapples
and other tropical fructose,
I always strike my throngs into her mellow bosom
and give her an equal chance.

And if she beats the odds and actually delivers,
I make it a priority to spread the word.

"The honey dew is good," I will say,
"it's not crunchy and bland. It's pretty good this time."

However, despite the occassional revelation,
most of the retail store honey dews
I've breached
have fallen flat.

And more often than not,
the words of my memory are rendered strong:

Don't ever palaver with melons that
are manufactured to please the masses.

To eat one is to absorb the curse
of mediocrity. 

The Cracker Barrel

 -------------------------------------------------------

 

Recently, I went to that restaurant
The Cracker Barrel
and ordered a barrel of crackers.

They did not have them.

That's false advertising.

That makes me want to open up a store called
The Burrito Pyramid
that only serves spaghetti.

"Sorry sir. We only serve spaghetti at
The Burrito Pyramid.
If you want burritos, you're gonna have to go to
The Lobster Coffin."

Another Day Survived

with his brittle fingers buried into the hillside,
the old man pulled himself from the crevice,
his shoulders cracking like clay bricks baking in the sun.

dirt creased the lines on his face,
and as he pulled himself upwards he clenched his jaw rigid,
grinding his teeth to chalk dust. 

with every last moral fiber
he pulled himself from the depths of hell,
looking not to the horizon
but to the ground, inches before him.

and upon reaching the top
he swallowed a thick piece of air
and gave a warm embrace to the soil he'd been under
for so many years. 

and there on his knees,
bloody and burned,
beaten and spurned,
he drew a single match from his boot,
struck it across a flintstone
and set fire to the slippery, black oil that soaked his clothing
and coated his skin.

and as he became engulfed in flames
 the oil receded from
the cracks in his hands,
and the cool wind swept o'er the hillside
and across his sallow skin.

and as the flames sparked and faded away,
shimmering, flickering, and fluttering desperately
like moths in the rain,
he stood up,
brushed the ash from his jacket,
straightened his rusty knees,
closed his eyes,

and walked away.

another day  s u r v i v e d.

Steam Engine

there are days, sometimes weeks,
when the attack hits you from every possible angle,
firing at you with the speed and precision
of a boiler room piston.

and if you're not a part of the steam flow
everything pushes against you.

until finally, used and wasted,
you're forced up through the cylinder, 

and out the stack with all the
smoke, the soot, and the embers

with not a bit of form left to you but

vapor
and sky. 

 

Umbrellas Change, Too

 

 

There are two umbrellas in my parents' coat closet
that have been there for 30 years.

And I have never seen them used.

They are tall, with red and white stripes,
and brittle, plastic handles.

They give me a false
sense of stability.

For there has not been a single moment
through the course of my life when I have opened
that closet and those
umbrellas haven't been there. 

My parents are now leaving forever.

And that closet will soon be empty.

And I suppose those umbrellas,
through no will of their own,

will finally see rain.