Sing Sing Sing

Upon the dawn

of the coming year,

I wish but one thing

for my loved ones,

for the entire universe:

may we all

Gene Krupa

the shit out of this year–

bringing in the strength

and power

to blow the ear drums

off of Carnegie Hall.

May we also find

our Benny Goodman,

the person who can

keep up

with our silence,

our steady build,

or chaotic madness,

making music

from the dischord

instead

of the usual

regrets.

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You Mean Nothing, And That’s Just Fine

Strolling through

the sequoia trees today

and the silence among them,

except for those

very talkative birds,

I came upon a tree

that was over 2000 years old,

a friend of Jesus,

born in a toga,

survived the plague(s),

and the unnecessary remake

of the last Indiana Jones film.

But we are here

to live large,

prove we exist,

take pictures,

pictures,

fucking more

fucking pictures.

And no one stopped

to think that this

forest was here

long before

we ever used the lofi filter

on our Instagram photos,

added our high school

enemy on Facebook,

stared down on our phone

instead of up

at the majestic canopy

the trees make

because they grow strong,

adapting, like we do,

to survive.

There was a moment

I sat in such awe

at the time machine

in the rings

and I remembered that

even though I’m not

strong enough

to change the world

from the perspective

of a tree,

I can still do one thing

every day

to be iconoclastic

by being kind

and bring a smile

to my daughter’s face,

causing the wave in her ring,

the ripple in her pond,

that will show reverence to

relationships past,

and build a future

based on the knowledge,

that people really do care,

and we are strong.

Stronger than those who

seek to dismiss us

as rings of stagnation,

a figment of the past,

but our power will

be bold.

It will be

ruthless

relentless.

It will be love.

and that’s something

that can never be captured

on film.

If A Tree Falls On Your Selfie Stick, Do You Really Exist?

Wandering through

the giant sequoias today,

fondling the branches

on the firs.

There isn’t any snow left

which is a sad statement

for late December.

The air is pure

and the most heavenly blue.

In my intimate moments

with myself,

with the divine,

I can still hear the

incessant conversations

of the yelling mothers,

playing children,

millenials singing and

posing for selfies,

next to the Chinese.

And I wonder to myself

in this beautiful

space,

gifted with trees

older than recorded time,

and mountain vistas

that literally take

your breath away,

why can’t people just

shut the fuck up

and let the quiet majesty

of this beautiful forest

fucking change their

lives?

Am I becoming curmudgeonly?

Is my introversion showing?

Or for fucking once,

can we let this beautiful world be the

center of our attention,

and I’ll squeeze your hand and smile

after we’ve made the walk

up the granite boulders

and into the meadow.

No photos.

Just you, me, and the trees.