Washington

Dear Jake,

When is Washington?

Love,
Ryan

Washington is in a warm drink.
We take it with us when we feel the dew soaking through our socks.
It is 4 o'clock.
It is turning in the squinting sidewalk man's belly.
It is a sneeze walking past plastic trees.
It is a mustache that isn't.
It is red sweat shirt girls buying yogurt in the self-check out lane in Fred Meyer.
It is in three empty pitchers and a teary eye remembering John Keister.
Washington is my appendix.

or more accurately
Washington is late August in a dusty corolla, if she makes it.

Praise Him

Disclaimer:
So this is my attempt at writing a worship poem, like a Psalm. Most of my poetry I try to keep emotion out because it makes poems generally feel like the were written by a high schooler. This one I decided to suspend my efforts. Hopefully it won't make you puke.

Praise him
by all means at your disposal
every word spoken
every letter written
every note hummed

Praise him
with you gait, smile, laugh and tear
make your heart the garden
walk with him
notice his beauty
take time to lean over
watch the ants
consider the flowers

Praise him
with silly rhymes
Praise him
with clever new slang
in dark downtown bars
eat the popcorn
savor the beer
and find your voice

This is important

Rehearse your priorities
at the top place
"praise him"
because in him
the blues tremble
and the love he loves
is greater than the love you love

Praise him
with others
gossip incessantly about him
find your voice with others
and praise him

This is important.

Moving Day Blues

It's time to move
from a college town
where I'm 23
and feel old
everyone does it

I'm eating my last
Hot and Ready
the boxes used to pile
next to the fireplace
sometimes ten high

It was a cliche college house
beer and pizza
over and over

Now I have to be grown up
these posters just aren't
Thermals "Fuckin' A'
Weezer, Sonic Youth, Nirvana
the posters and posters and posters
the parties concerts and people

friends crashing on the couch
friends in the fridge
friends in the cabinet
the friends have left
in boxes and boxes and boxes

now

I'm in boxes
wading the clutter
packing things that won't be unpacked
the pictures will find themselves in shoeboxes
or, at best, a photo album
that will be dusted off
when my kids head off to college
proof that at one time
I was cool

the posters will disappear
or be rolled up in crates
placed in the back of a closet

and the beer bottles and pizza boxes
will be thrown out
I think I going to throw up.