from the front range

years ago, when i still lived in the states and was less cynical about the direction of americans and of the empire itself and more cynical about my own direction, i lived in boulder, colorado, a place that sits just at the eastern base of the rocky mountains, the front range, as it's called.

i was in the aftermath of a divorce that was mostly my fault--though that is true, it's also true that she never took very much of her share of blame for what, at the time, was the worst idea for a marriage that had ever been conceived.

from that marriage, i went immediately into the arms of a woman i'd known, and for whom i'd lusted, since childhood. it was easy to run to her because she was the antithesis of every woman i'd ever been with up until that time. we had been dating for over a year when we moved to boulder, though, truth be known, we should never have dated that long. and, lo and behold, not long after we got to boulder, we broke up in a nasty way, involving all kinds of sordid actions.

i spent the next two years uninvolved in any sort of committed relationship, questioning my lot in life, living in lowlit bars, upended bottles, and unhooked bras. i wrote a lot, too, though i wrote less poems than i did short stories and philosophical treatises, missives, and crap. the poems below are just less than half of what i actually wrote, poetry-wise, while i was in boulder and they mostly involve drinking, disrepute, and melancholy. until this time, i had lived a charmed, upper-class life: i had had all the things and was involved in so many of the things that i today, nearly a decade later, despise. after this last breakup and a myriad of shameful things, i began to live a most different life, a life far removed from that of privilege, i pushed myself to the lowest of lows to escape that which haunted me, but i emerged with a much different view of people and the world, views that have shaped much of my life since then and how i look at things today.

these poems are a reflection of my thinking at that time and give a very rarely-given glance into my life at that time...

Headed for the Front Range

As once I tossed empty cans in a river
And contemplated future events,
I now look up at these mountains
And wonder where the last five years went.
I know it’s a cliché to say it,
But back then it all seemed easy.
What has happened in my life
Since makes me quite queasy:
The options I took and choices I made:
I would’ve felt less pain if
I’d just been knifed myself with a six-inch blade.

Don’t misunderstand,
I don’t mean to complain.
It’s just that sometimes
Life hits me like a runaway train.
So often I have felt abandoned,
As if I’ve been left behind
And someone’s taken my hindsight
So that I can only look ahead, blind.
It has seemed sometimes
That the only thing helping me through it
Is a big bottle of Early Times,
Or, and I know it seems strange,
A Larry Walker longball
Headed for the Front Range.

This pain I can lessen
As I’ve done it before
But experience has taught me
That it can bite back like a vengeful whore
If it’s all held in
And is allowed to accumulate.
Life will become unbearable
And will make you an inmate,
Prisoner to your dreams,
Chained to your fears,
If you think life is better
After more than a few beers.


04.04.97
Boulder

I, Myself

What I seek
Is also
What I flee.
But
If I seek
What I flee
And
I flee
What I seek,
How will I ever be?


Boulder
02.03.98

A Short Poem of Unmasking

‘Tis strange what causes pain
for none of us is it the same.
It can overwhelm us—
A raging river you cannot tame.
I’ve been thrown out
And I’ve been dumped
How I screwed up a third one
Really has me stumped.
I have no answers
Only questions unasked,
All this reflection
Leaving me unmasked.
We all feel alone
With thick walls erected;
We all need trust
And really to feel protected.


04.04.97
Boulder

A Further Query

I am searching
For a purpose unknown,
A reason for my presence.
What will I offer?
Nomadic, am I,
One setting to another,
Which begs a further query—
Am I seeking or fleeing?


boulder
02.03.98

Tequila

Tequila,
The grand dame of trouble
Not enough of it will
Burst your bubble
And too much of it
Is never enough.
Its gold or silver color
Doesn’t look so tough
But just the right amount
Especially by the shot
And your actions following
Won’t soon be forgot.
You don’t need a chaser,
Just a wedge of lime
And a lick of salt to alter
The movement of Time.
Great for margaritas
Or as a sunrise;
However you take it
Induces otherworldly highs.
Sauza, Patron, Herra Dura,
Take your pick,
All can turn even the most docile
Into an everloving prick.
Nonetheless, there remains
Quite an allure
And the attraction to this dame
Is all too pure.
Finish another bottle,
Another agave worm ingested,
Awake in the morn’
To find your consciousness molested.
At that point, this dame you will
Again swear off.
But, alas, when next she beckons,
Toward her you’ll take off,
And before her you’ll bow
Then giddily approach
Like a teenage kid
Toward his deflowering coach.


10.04.97
Denver-San Diego flight

Cheekbones

The face of goddessness—
The lure is the hypnotic swing
Of bow-tied temptation
And tight leather pants
That cling salaciously
To lovely, beckoning hips.


Boulder
17.02.98

One More

barley, malt, hops, and rice
with water combined
--such a wonderful vice
to my palate so kind.
on a hot summer eve
or a day so drab
I roll up my sleeve
and an iced one grab
(my world around
me is a mighty mess;
another more round
won't hurt I, guess)
it provides the will to live
or brings grateful pause
the pleasure it doth give
from the strife it can cause
the cold seductress,
she lulls me near
becomes my buttress
tíll have no fear
then I sense the shame
early the next morn
as I fail the name
and avoid those eyes forlorn
oh, the paradox of beer
shakes me to the core
so tempting, yet dear
I think I'll have one more


boulder
18.03.98

The Perfect Pint

I watched paradise cascade down the glass's side.
Then the phone rang.
She was calling after all this time.
Why?
Pain.
Her voice stopped my heart,
Drained my blood,
Closed my eyes.
I hung up. My heart restarted.
I sipped. My circulation resumed.
I opened my eyes. No pain.
Perfect.


boulder
17.03.97

Las Vegas

the glimmering jewel with no conscience,
the place people seek to run from their problems,
to flee themselves.
a den of heathens, a kingdom
where one’s flaws, sins, and transgressions
are minimized, are trivialized,
by this iniquitous hedonopolis.
with money, motive, and mobility,
no sinner is too large or too evil for this modern babylon.
to cross lines normally unthinkable to cross is the lure:
no guilt, no reason, no excuse.
the perfect city to visit
if one be dishonest with him- or herself,
because guilt, to survive, needs a conscience.


boulder
28.05.97