Birthday in Yardley

There was an odd birthday yesterday in Yardley, you wouldn't know it really. It was a collection of cheap alcohol from Jersey, dirty kids, and whatever else drifted in. Chilled wine, warm sake. Coloured with puke from a twenty first birthday.

Got back from a folk fest in RI, two days excerpted from something lost. Most time is lost time, accidental at best.

their bodies, all of them just
skin
cast from dawn's foggy slip

tours of a wild realm
tipsy
from the magical amount

peace to the lighthouse, to the
birds, the bums
the backs of best
friends

a whole time spent dancing in childish civility
among the peace of a kindergarten monarchy
count the pieces of any kids conscience
cradle its feather weight

remember mum's best advice, "clip your nails,
your wings, get an ocular lobotomy"
when you think too big, when you
soar the seas, when you have
jagged finger nails

creases in the wind smooth against
flat smirks, but can't sooth
sour grins, such swell possibilities
it might do no damage, so try it
barefoot

hike the hills to the valleys, feel
every misstep, all the shards from
every lost dream, how time
is lost, especially, on those who search

a breathless mute could turn air
to the gold we seek, an alchemist's grace
could put the worst of us
to a mesmerizing use:
our foggy bodies will grant every last gasp
our scared soles will vouch for every young stumble

just let us learn to live
without composure,
express our hopeless
barefoot
joys