Brass Skin

The woman next to me at the bar

just hollered, “WALKER!”

in my direction.

Shrill and piercing

like a golf ball flying into a mailbox

clangclangclangclangclang.

I don’t blame her—

she’s drunk on a Friday afternoon

and eating peanuts.

Here are the feelings today:

gratitude,

doubt,

excitement,

ambivalence, and

fear.

That last one’s always there.

Well, almost always.

There are times

after a run,

in the morning looking at the mountains,

I think about everything that might happen,

everything that’s inevitable, and

it’s all okay.

Old age, homelessness, shitty jobs, fuck-ups,

horrible diseases I say thanks every day I don’t have

yet, death, yes

all okay.

That feeling never lasts more than an hour though

'cause next comes giddiness that maybe

I’ve left all my troubles and worries behind

once and for all, and that’s

always pursued by a feeling

of manic anxiety.

Then suddenly

I’m back in my own skin,

my mind the hammer

of a church bell

at noon.

clang…

clang…

clang…

clang…

clang…

In a Very Golden Sunset

Will sets the ash tray in the center of the table,

“So most people think this is their body

and the rest of the table isn’t,

but that’s not true.

This whole table is your body.”

As he says this,

I feel the birds rising out of the field

across the street in my chest.

“My family is hurting,” he says.

I nod.

Leaving the brewery, we wander

to the cracked abandoned lot nearby

to smoke cigarettes and continue

our talk.

Will says something about Jesus and a rock

smacks

the ground
next to us.

There’s a trench surrounding the entire lot,
and I see a little boy dash from one tree

to another.

Another rock comes arching towards us.

I see the top of his head bouncing.

I pick up a rock

and lob it underhand over the lip of the trench.

We exchange
crossfire briefly
until a woman’s shout

echoes

from the trailer park across the street.

He hops out the far side of the trench,

picks up a bike in wait

and rides off through someone’s yard.

Will and I say peace, and I ride off

in my car, M. Ward sings

This river that we ride

has always been alive.

O my soul one hundred million years.