Pieces

I loved the summers in Maine,
the heat never hot enough to be oppressive.
The morning mist hanging over the lake
in the slight chill of early morning

I found myself in Bethesda eight days after quitting smoking.
I followed a man six blocks because he smoked my brand.
The toxins danced in my nostrils and my lungs died a little bit more.
When he finished his cigarette, I was lost.

The third woman I ever loved was from Wichita;
she had the light gait of a dancer.
At 12, she got her driver's license to help on the farm.
Even in the city, she still smelled like hay and fresh cut grass

I broke my first heart at age 14 in Boston.
She was a Yankee fan.

When I was 23, I discovered I had a brother living in Florida.
we sat on sand dunes at 11pm and smoked marijuana
while listening to the black sea fight with the shore

I drove cross country once.
I wanted to see the South and how it compared with the Northeast.
I watched Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi go past my windshield.
Nothing caught my interest enough to stop.

There was once a blackout across New York.
It stopped most of the state in its tracks
all the towns with the Native American names,
and even forced the insomniac city
into a three day coma

I climbed the White Mountains one July.
When I reached the top, it was snowing.

In college a woman I was talking to said she was from Michigan.
When I ask her where, she held up her hand
and pointed to an intersection of two thin creases on her palm.
That image has always stayed with me.

I vacationed in Venice Beach when I was younger,
drawn by postcard images of sunshine and women in bikinis.
It rained the entire time I was there.

They say everything is bigger in Texas.
Apparently they were neglecting intellect.

The idea of Las Vegas lured me in for several weeks.
I got lost in a haze of money and show girls,
but I managed to leave before going bankrupt,
or getting married.

The Connecticut shore is deceptive at best;
it is rocky and the water is frigid,
like a beautiful woman flirting with a married man

I spent a few years in Vermont with a woman I did not love.
She made maple syrup in a manner bordering cliché.
I left one fall when the foliage was like fire,

I regret that I've never traveled to Alaska.
The idea of constant daylight intrigues me.

The Jehovah's Witness boys with their white shirts and skinny ties
stalk the streets of Anytown, Kentucky.
Looking for those who are not a part of them,
hungrily their eyes roam from face to face.
Strange to think I used to be one of them.

I once photographed the ruins of amusement in Asbury Park.
Black and white heightened the drama of disuse,
and the contrast between the new and bright, and the forgotten.

I spent time in a colony 38 miles south east of Salt Lake City,
attempting to understand Mormons.
The man I became closest with had four wives.
I was in awe; one wife was complicated enough

I like to wander graveyards
surrounding my Tucson home
I look for familiar names, but never see them.