Two Minute Warning

 

 

 I remember in the seventies reading so many tales
    of what the future would be, but I do know that
    past me never gave a minutes thought to future me, now
    present me has to wonder why I give that brat
    so much control
    all the time.

        Dear dairy, I had a moment today when I saw
        the death of everything real and good or at least
        it seemed that way at the time as it almost always
        does as no moment is ever
        frozen, except maybe those
        that rattle around in our skulls and
        get stuck on a sharp edge and
        decide they are going to stay
        right there, good or bad
        for the full run.

    In the seventies cyberpunk sci-fi caught on big.
    The future, guys and gals is the end.
    I saw “A Boy and His Dog” in the theater and
    yes that brat enjoyed it very much.
    These days the images that fill my head
    are so much scarier than that.


        Dear dairy, I think it will be fire.
       

Everything That Can't Be Seen

 What if, on some star lit lonesome night, you went walking
    with only the memory of love in your heart and nothing but
    years of confusion in your brain and you began to admit that
    you were actually here without anything to figure out, nothing
    that you could see or feel or touch anyway, would you worry
    about dying suddenly without finishing so much of what you
    started or would you leave it all to chance, trusting that you
    lived and loved as fiercely as you believed anyone ever could?

    Would you lay down under the tall trees and stare at the stars
    And tell them who you are so they can remember and hold
    your light until the day they all burn out and collapse and the
    universe starts all over again?

    Would you, could you, remember to breathe?
    And if we could see Shane again,
    the big red setter with emerald eyes,
    then perhaps you could reason why I edit
    so much out without the need to understand
    the most of everything held within.

Visions Of Truth

 There was a time when he thought

 that he began dying at age five,

 long before he fully understood

 that none of it mattered; because living and dying

 are simultaneous pursuits that only

 seem unconnected or looped to those that deny

 the visions of truth to ever enter

 their event filled, but strangely empty lives.

 

There was a time when he thought

 that he could never find a lover

 that would understand what was trapped and

 frame-less within him. He was still harboring

 such thoughts long after he met the one who held the key.

 

 There was a time when he lived with no fear,

 loved without fear, wrote with no fear,

 but now he could not say which was the biggest fear:

 those days long gone or their return.

 

There was a time when he thought

 he held some secret power,

 a force to change the world,

 a way to make them listen,

 but the more he listened to what they said,

 the more he read what they wrote,

 the more he watched what they did,

 the more he understood that what he held

 was neither secret or power, simply something

 they would never understand.  

 

   MJC

On the Occasion of Turning 17 Plus 45

   You,
    you looked so fine in that uniform
    you could have been a sailor,
    but we didn’t change the world
    quite fast enough for that.
    We failed only at staying together,
    star-crossed, not stardust,
    not golden,
    more like hardened steel
    slowly rusting, yet
    still shining 45 years later.
    We already knew at 17 that life
    was a series of survivals.
    I wrote of you often that year,
    you were on every other page.
    I know this,
    I was happy when I turned 17,
    my happiness was you.

    This is the world we live in,
    separated,
    lived,
    loved with others
    all the while the age of 17
    never forgot.

    You,
    you look so fine.
   

The Soul of Love

 
Sun swept visions of love romanced without
The reservations of limits set by
Those who think they know how loud love should shout
Live eternal beyond the deepest sigh


Yellow the rose that grows ‘neath the twilight
Of silvery silken dreamers entwined
By the enchanted blackened moonlit night
Held within the arms of love undefined


The soul of love remains long after star
Kissed nights fade into one crystal vision
A sea of sparkling diamonds drifting far
Beyond the power of death’s dominion


Within the heart there lays a truth unbound
Lives a love that even death can’t uncrown

Sitting (in Catherine’s chair)

Loneliness is not even something I could have
conceived of, not so many years ago, I seriously thought
I was done with all that, but
I sit
in Catherine’s chair
and gaze across the landscape
at the bed we bought
with the money the lawyer from Nashville sent
and realize with sudden clarity that I sleep in
the same position I found her in on that
dark day that
brought the loneliness crashing in again
from all corners of the room,
crushing the little spirit I have left inside.

Sitting
in Catherine’s chair, I can
see Gail’s tanka that I hung on the wall
just a week or two before she died. On every wall,
a painting by Catherine’s dad.
Hand me down art and hand me down words,
hand me down chairs and hand me down sons,
hand me down cats,  they left it all behind and
left me here
sitting.

Sitting and
grieving lost friends that time has accumulated,
one more out the blue and
into the black in the time it took
to write this poem and all I can think about is
lost time and how I read his last poem and
just clicked ‘like’, like that means something and while
sitting here listening to Stravener and Young and Dylan
helps to bring Scott into focus, I can’t escape the feeling that
I’m sitting and
grieving me.

Sitting and
wondering about why Hunter
pulled the trigger, amazed by the number of
people I know who touched his world, who have
touched mine as I have touched the hearts
of many, but in the quiet of the
evening, the heat of the late August day fading away,
it remains the last great secret and yes,
you are all real and
in my head and I wouldn’t have it any
other way and this is such an awesome power and
responsibility, because you know
whose chair I am sitting in.

I grow so tired of eulogies, but no one can seem to stop
the dying, it is the last great secret Chris, but here is the thing:
there should be a law against
sitting and
fading away.
The whispers become obscene shouts after three am and
endurance requires a method of
stifling the screams, give me the blood of life
flowing again and a loud guitar, glass of wine,
endless words that hold worlds within their meaning and
perhaps I can survive, hold them all within,
live all the life that remains,
give all I have within to those that
remain trapped here in bone and flesh.
All I have to do, is simply be,
me.

Sitting in Catherine’s chair, I know the real promise
to Gail is the nurture of what she left me,
that awesome hand me down son and the elfin
daughter we created, the visible ripples of the
life we lived, the love we loved.
I hereby promise to
rage,
rage,
rage,
against the dying
of the light
until my day
turns into night.



MJ Carson
8-28-2011

Displaced Light

Once there was a band of brothers and

sisters, well, several bands

linked together as chain, but there was no

wheel to turn, just mountains to move and

shadows that needed light.

The places of gathering were wondrous glittering temples that, alas,

were in constant flux and seemed to always be

in a state of disrepair. This caused the holders of the light

to move apart even

as they attempted to move together, losing

momentum for a time,

just for a time;

an infinitesimal time

as the universe goes, but enough time

for some of the lights to flicker and

go dark as the holder

of that particular light

moved beyond the grasp

of the brothers and sisters.

Never before had such a gathering

been possible and even if

few were watching,

it was and ever shall be,

of this none shall debate, such a thing never seen

in the history of mankind or even catkind or

any other kind of kind you would chose.

I tell you three times,

maybe more, this has never been done before.

We are the first

We are the first

We are the first

There are no dead poets within the collective;

one poet touched one, who

touches another, and

the flow continues, now with

no end. Once I wrote these lines all

alone and no one shined in my glow and

if I read, I read alone. Once I walked that long and lonesome

road and when the lights go out

I feel the walls close in, but then

I recall that I am never true alone,

my words and soul have

joined the flow.

Upon dawning of the night

hope left joining in the light

words left burning in the sky

the circle will never die

Love is just a four letter word

And poet just another chord

in an endless, restless ponder

for the true universal wonder

I write this for the displaced light

of Elly, but she

has joined the flow,

remains tightly within

the circle and it matters not

that they know of Elly,

it is only important that they know

of the flow and

how it circles.

M.J.Carson

3-8-2011

Beauty Isn't

Once I knew a queen of beauty

who preferred the life of tramp,

when the navy had us practice

walking through fire and drowning,

I could have told them

I learned that long ago.

Beauty isn’t as easily seen as ugly is,

stolen dreams and bones well broken

is ugly at its very best,

never let them steal your soul;

that is where beauty truly lives.

I knew a man from Biloxi, not far from

New Orleans I’m told, the land of fun streets.

I’ve known guys and gals who walked the mean streets,

Harlem, 8 Mile, Southside, but I’ve heard

the rubber burning down the thunder road.

Do those S curves at 100 mph and

three sheets to the wind and then tell me

about the razor’s edge.

We were young once, but never free,

forever we yearned for that glory road.

Once there was a dancer whose beautiful soul

was entwined with that of a poet. As luck would have it,

they each ran as fast as they could

down roads leading out of town;

never knowing that each were bound for each.

The glory road patiently waited

for their arrival.

I have seen the lies that beauty tells and

I have walked through fire down

the glory road and I know

what beauty is and what

beauty wasn’t.

Mike Carson

11-14-2010

The Tall Dark Horse from Tennessee

He was, of course, ten feet tall.

The tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“Camptown ladies sing this song…” ~ Stephen Foster

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee. I have an image in my head,

of a young Charles Bukowski, age ten, 1931;

running down to the corner news stand

to get his latest copy of Street and Smith’s

Sport Story to read Sam’s latest horse racing story.

I’ll give you even money on that one. I’ll bet Papa even

sneaked a peak to read the words of this man who

beat him to the left bank by two years.

“Man, that guy can write…horse racing and ladies in red…”

He was a front runner, odds on favorite

from any position, but he made the right move

at the wrong time. October, 1929 brought him to the ground

faster than the Hindenburg.

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“Doo-da, doo-da”~ Stephen Foster

He watched his first Kentucky Derby

the year Old Rosebud came home first (1914) and

watched his last run for the roses in 1973,

Secretariat, a good enough ending, I suppose

for the man who called Grantland Rice “granny” and

Damon Runyon quiet. A sportswriter in Louisville

had to know and love his horses

and their riders.

Earl Sande on Zev, he said, was the best combo ever.

Here’s a Sam quote for you:

“It’s okay to dream, but then you gotta do.”

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“And it’s run for the roses, as fast as you can…”~ Dan Fogelberg

Sam played guitar and every other instrument

in the band,

“Camptown racetrack five miles long” ~ Stephen Foster

Sam painted, just because he could, just like

he attended classes at the Sorbonne

because he and they were there,

he delighted in the Left Bank,

because he could clearly see,

they were he.

“My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man.

I’m just a living legacy to the leader of the band.” ~ Dan Fogelberg

Sam gardened at age three, gave 25 years in service

to the teachers of farmers and was still writing

a weekly column (Coffee with Carson) for a large farm newspaper

on the day he reached the finish line.

“Oh, de doo-da day.” ~ Stephen Foster

Sam was a tall teller, a tall teller of

the stories of

our lives. He owned every room

he walked into, but not to enrich himself,

his goal was first and foremost,

to enrich you.

His poet was Wordsworth,

his authors Dickens, London and Hawthorne,

his friends legion and legend, his God

known only to him.

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“Goin’ to run all night

Goin’ to run all day

I bet my money on a bob-tailed nag

Somebody bet on the gray.” ~ Stephen Foster

He was a southern man who

had no time for bigotry or

suffering fools, not a popular stance in 1910. How many speak it

from the side of their mouth in 2010?

He was a champion of the underdog,

strong supporter of lost causes,

a believer until the end that

the fourth estate could rise above

pettiness.

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“And much it grieved my heart to think

what man has made of man.” ~ William Wordsworth

The army put a rifle in the hands of

Mentor Watson Carson and sent

him off to see what he could do with France.

The crazy dreamer he worked for (Luke Lea) thought it fairly simple,

“Capture the Kaiser!” Bring him to justice in Paris, heads will roll.

As plans go,

it wasn’t a bad one, just suffered a bit in the

execution.

Ah, those boys from Tennessee fight fierce,

the 114^th Artillary, 30^th Division, all volunteer, of course.

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

“Another year! – another deadly blow!

Another mighty empire overthrown!” ~ William Wordsworth

I knew him as Grandfather

with a capital G:

I had Coffee with Carson

when I was just five.

He got scolded by Mergie,

but he just scoffed at her admonishments,

he knew what was really important.

I remember the days of wonder:

Hey! Come take a look at this!

Tomatoes the size of softballs,

a lifetime of knowledge behind them,

Clickity-clack, clckity-clack, clickity-clack, beep, zing,

clickity-clack, clickity-clack, clickity-clack, beep, zing, whirl,

a lifetime of knowledge leaping upon the page,

the trunk in the attic on Holbrook full of war treasures,

the ’69 Chevy doing 70 between red-lights on Broadway,

walking with him in his old home town,

selling the cookbooks in Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg,

watching Bob Gibson dare the batters to hit his pitch,

the smell of pipe tobacco and old sweaters well worn.

I would have cut the grass for free

a thousand times.

I remember the last time and I remember

that sunset.

Put your money down

on the tall, dark horse

from Tennessee.

I’ve already bet my life on him.

“_____It seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out)

One of those heavenly days that cannot die” ~ William Wordsworth

Mike Carson

9-27-2010

From Hell

I have found truth and now

I know that

I never really wanted it.

I used to wonder about things and now

my wonder is fading as

the black holes eat all of

the white spaces.

It seems that time has inevitably

worn the razor sharp edge

to a dull, rusty finish, but is that

what really happens? If truth be

all the gods mere figments of

our insanity, life nothing more

than a cosmic joke, then I would still

have reasons to go forward.

Living though, kills everything piecemeal.

Joy and wonder are just the first casualties

There is so much truth in the universe, that

we can always pick and chose

which to see and

which to ignore.

The truth is;

there is no writer,

no singer,

no artist, no preacher

who knows ultimate truth.

Go ask the men who wait

right over the ridge,

I’m sure they have an opinion.

I think I’ll stop looking for truth and

scare up a little

wonder and joy.

Mike Carson

9-20-2010

The Faded Man

Plastic yellow roses don't
hold their color under
the skies of July.

Absurd colors swirl madly
into the black center as
the faded man searches for
something, anything that isn't
gray.

There's no marker.

In 1972, the faded man watched
his father console
his father
on the night his cousin died and
the faded man's father's father
couldn't understand why
a God would take
the young and leave
the old behind
to grieve in such
agony and pain.

The faded man has seen
grayer skies than he ever
would have imagined or
dreamed of and oh, yes,
he has seen rainbows
and blue skies;
but the gray plastic rose
has sent him tumbling
down the years
to all of the places
that sadness does not reach,
but he finds it lurking now
in every corner and
nothing, no thing, will take
it's place.

In 1976, the faded man
talked to God and
begged him to reconsider.
Ignored by God and
the rest of the universe,
he told them all to go to Hell.

The faded man feels faded
inside and out.
Secretly, he was never really sure
he was really here.

There should be a marker.

The faded man forces himself
down to his knees,
thinking maybe she
can hear him better
the closer he gets.

The faded man has lingered
long past all of the
others who put
the color in his life and
his mind circles round
and round the keen idea
that he might as well
end his fading now.

The faded man once brought home
a dozen yellow plastic roses and
now he wonders if
he should go get one
or a dozen
or a hundred, just
to watch them fade?
What would be the point?
That, of course, leads back to
the question of why and
what is the point of any of it.

The faded man can only hope that
he never stops caring about
the answer.

Mike Carson
7-30-2009

Goodbye

I. Before and After Dying

Yesterday a wasp landed on the rail to my back deck
and died.
Today a honey bee made a feeble attempt
to enter my car and join me
on the drive to work.
The last gasp in late fall
of bees looking for a warm place
to be before dying.
Believe me, I can relate.

About a month after my dad died,
my mother took me and Gail outside
to show us Sam’s star.
She said it suddenly appeared about
a week after his death and was proof
that he was watching out for her.
I told Gail I was worried about her,
Gail said, “Don’t, she’ll be alright.”

Those of us who have not, but need to
say goodbye;
twist in the breeze like the last
leaf on an oak, desperately clinging
to the known and familiar ways.
A wise man once said, “Make no changes for a year,”
and then he died, leaving his wise woman
in charge of the lost and grieving
left gasping for air in the vast vacuum
that followed his passing
from this presence to the other.


II. Pain

Goodbye hurts,
it hurts down to the marrow
of my bones
which someday will be
pulverized and returned to the sea.
The hurt blackens all
of the colors that used
to live in my life and
readies me for the deep, dark night
that leads somewhere, but
no one here can say for sure where.
No, don’t give me the surety
that you have no right
to give. You don’t really know
anything for sure, just as I.
I know that hurt can change
a rainbow into black and
like all other obstacles we face,
must be overcome before it
takes us down
below the ground.

III. Us


There have been 18,800 days
of me and
7,035 days of us.
When I say goodbye to you,
I say goodbye to us and
most of me.

It was late on a Thursday evening,
early November and I was down at
the gas station helping Sara with her
paperwork and you dropped by to say hello.
You were getting impatient with me by then;
your transfer had gone through and we had already
danced and kissed and you made sure I
had the chance to run my hand down
your leg and it would have happened
that Saturday night if Sara had not got drunk
and picked a fight that Bud had to finish and
we all ended up at the jail half the night,
but with another fun story to tell, but
I never told this one,
did I?

I asked you where you were going as
you started to wander off and you
replied that you were going to
the Holiday Inn to drink schnapps and beer and
I recalled what you had said about
what that leads to on the night I saw
you tie a knot in a cherry stem with your tongue.
I looked at Sara and calmly asked her
what I should do.
Sara, who besides having a Psych degree,
was in San Fran in the summer of ’67 and
on a farm in upstate New York in the summer of ’69.
From the moment I hired her,
we started teaching each other.
We certainly both got each other immediately.
Sara looked at me and uttered the immortal words;
“Shit or get off the pot.”
I ran into your arms and
all of our tomorrows.
We got schnapps and beer and took it
to my place and sat on the floor and starting watching
LA Law and
never made it anywhere near the
end.

IV. Beauty on the Balcony

On a cool winter’s evening,
long after midnight,
you stood on my balcony
naked to the world
and I waited for
my warm place to be
to return to me.

There are places, words and feelings
that never fade, no
matter how dark
it gets. I remember saying,
“I love you,” and your reply,
“Don’t say it unless you mean it.”
I wanted nothing else but
to share your space for
the rest of my life.
It was just one month later
that we both knew for sure.

“Will you take this woman…”

The moon and the stars were
shining down on us
“I could turn the air conditioner on…”

“It’s better this way…”

“To have and to hold…”

with a deep yellow glow
“I want to hold you for the rest of my life…”

“Promise?”

“I do.”

as we became one

“In sickness and in health…”

“Where did the stars go?”

“It’ll be alright.”

by candlelight.
“So very dark…”

“I’m here, dear.”

“Till death do you part?”

“I can’t feel you anymore…”

“I did.”

“Yes, we did!”

“Whisper to me, wet and wild…”

All of our tomorrows
belong to yesterday and
even the moonlight fades to black
after the stars are
hidden away and
the whispers die
in the late autumn breeze.

“Goodbye my love.”

MJ Carson
11-01-2009

The 17th August The 17th

Raging spirit,
furious words flung at
a brick wall,
only to reverberate
in silence.

It has been seventeen years
since your light went out.
Each year there are fewer
and fewer who
knew the glow.

We never played that game of golf,
but then again,
you never were that
tossing baseballs in the side yard
type of father.

You were the type that
drew corrections to the builder's plans
for our first house and
then re-plumbed the hot water yourself
after the idiot builder put it
in the attic and it burst
taking out the ceil heat.

You made them pay for it,
but did the work yourself
to make sure it was done right.
I watched your every move and
I decided somewhere along the way
to be an engineer, but I didn't
cope with life quite well enough and
I know I disappointed you as
well as so many others along the way,
but in the end I think;
you really understood.

Here I sit flinging words
at a brick wall.

You were a provider;
you provided strength and
humor,
the amount of
love and affection you could spare,
a home and hearth and
the power of words.

You taught me to
keep flinging the words until
the walls fall down.

17 years,
I started this journey at 17.

34 years,
two times seventeen and you were gone.

51 years,
I guess going for four
won't be so bad,
as long as I keep
writing the walls down.

I still rage about
the loss of light, but
I can see that by your
own standards;
you lived carpe diem
every day.

Drink up,
live well,
love well,
die well.
This I think,
you taught me well.


Mike Carson
8-17-2009

It’s Easy To Hide Inside A Dream

There is no hiding place for the poet
I dodged the issue for thirty long years
Running from that stage fright, don't you know it
Forever putting excuses to my fears
~
I dodged the issue for thirty long years
While living a life so worth the living
Forever putting excuses to my fears
My own soul to keep, that now I'm giving
~
While living a life so worth the living
When I'm holding the treasure in my hands
My own soul to keep, that now I'm giving
Well worn particles of time's golden sands
~
When I'm holding the treasure in my hands
I can see the world with eyes wide open
Well worn particles of time's golden sands
Bound for that which I was always hoping
~
I can see the world with eyes wide open
Running from that stage fright, don't you know it
Bound for that which I was always hoping
There is no hiding place for the poet
~
Mjcarson

Drowning

I saw you

in the deep waters

of life

going down

for the third time

I, your knight

with all his armor

dived in to save you

pushed you clear and

soon was drowning

treading water

faithfully

in your service

and you came

to me

and

removed

the cold steel

that was rusting

in the open waters of life

whispered in my ear

"come hither

swim, dear, swim!"

~

mjcarson

6-25-2007

~

Survival

It’s raining as I stare out
at the five lane…
flipping my cigarette
I walk back into
solitary confinement
just in time to hear “Down In A Hole”
and I pick up my pen
to tell some more lies
about how fine life is
you know…all about
that brass ring I grabbed
all the while ignoring
the white knuckle grasp
I have on sanity

Have I done anything at all?
Did I move them?
Really groove ‘em
Leave them anything they could quote?
“If I wrote a song you could sing to your children,
will you remember my name…remember it then?”
“I knew I could make those people dance…”

we were there once upon a twilight evening,
blessed just to be alive…
If I could sing it to you,”
would it make a difference?

I could write a happy poem and
that would not change
the truth
of the stars
hiding
behind the clouds
nor the fact that we’ll all be
hidden away some day
by the men who wait right over the ridge
to put us in the warm earth
regardless of whether we changed the world
or just ripped it off
no matter how we
lived or died
this ends

There were two white gold rings
bought at Service Merchandise
in 1989
one lies under a hillside
beside a church in Inskip
the other
got too tight
quite a ways too tight…
I had to hide it away
what I never did with my love
but I am not sure that I ever learned
how to show it very well

When the time is done
and it is time to reflect
What did you add here?

Could you point it out to all?
or would you even need to

My life lives
in words
on a page

There’s a void between
what is and should be


but from all
the sources do
I rely
music owns my soul
I can’t hide it

I write because I can’t sing
I voice with my pen
because you can’t hear me
I’ve heard the debate
about how many muscles it takes to smile, but
that only matters to those
that have them all

It’s stopped raining now
and Jim Croce sings
“I Got A Name”
perfect
I walk outside for another smoke
and peer in vain
for the stars

Mike Carson
11-25-2008

Life On Monday Night

It was Howard Cosell that told me

John Lennon was dead,

during the course of one of our

regular Monday Night sessions and

both of us wept at the senselessness

of such an act.

Even my father, my regular Monday Night session mate

from the beginning in 1970,

was moved. This was the same man who had sat in his chair

and scoffed in 1964 as his hormonal 12 year old daughters

and his amused 6 year old son

watched Ed Sullivan introduce The Beatles

to an adoring American audience, who in later years

admitted that yes, they were pretty good, and who was in fact

the same man who watched

Ronald Reagan explain American football to John

in the booth with Frank and Howard and Dandy Don

on Monday Night in 1973,

again during one of our regularly scheduled sessions.



Our lives didn’t revolve around football,

but it was our good common ground and Monday Night

became the pinnacle of the ritual.

It came pre-loaded with the best games

and biggest names,

a prime time jewel.



It was Monday Night that got us

a second color TV for mom’s bedroom.

Monday Night was the prime time

for father and son to bond. We didn’t miss

much of the first six years and when I returned home from the Navy,

we eased back into it whenever possible.



I did, however, take Monday Night to a higher level

while in San Diego, an NFL city

with a hot team in the late ‘70s.

National City had a bar where you could:

play Asteroids, drink beer and watch girls strip or

shoot pool, drink beer and watch girls strip or

watch the game on a big screen projected TV

(very rare in 1978), drink beer and watch girls strip or

go out back and supplement your beer drinking

with something a little stronger and then come in

and watch girls strip.

We went there for the big TV screen, of course.

On Monday Night, in California, the party started early and

finished late, but while in California I

didn’t have a car and

never drove anywhere.



I bought Big Blue from a friend of dad’s,

she was a 1973 Chevy Impala

and built like a tank, but much faster.

Big Blue and I set the world on fire

for five years until December 1st, 1986,

the Monday Night we both

went down in flames.



I worked and went to school with David,

he was from New Jersey and

his main claim to fame was

having his collarbone broken by Bill Bates.

Bill (not Bates, he played for Dallas)

hung with us frequently,

he had tried out for the Kansas City Royals and

was studying sports broadcasting.

Most of our activities were

sports and beer related;

we formed a city league softball team,

we went to UT football and basketball games,

played Sports Illustrated dice baseball,

and just basically got together

when we could.

The Giants were playing the 49’ers.

The Giants were on a roll and in fact,

won it all that year. They had Phil Simms and

Lawrence Taylor. The 49’ers had Joe and Jerry,

no last names needed.

This was a big Monday Night session,

this required a big screen.



Not as rare in 1986, Mr. Gaddi’s

had a big screen,

pizza and

pitchers of beer and

a party on Monday Night.

It was a good close game

up until Mark Bravo dragged

7 would be tacklers 20 yards down the field

on a simple play down the middle.

There was no stopping the Giant train then.

Mr. Gaddi’s closed up at eleven, but

the game played on.

Roger’s Place was two blocks away and

had a TV and pitchers of beer,

the train was back on track.



Roger’s Place closed at midnight and

the Giants won the game, but the train

was still rolling…

this was a mistake that found a place to happen.



Doodle’s shared the parking lot

with Roger’s Place.

Doodle’s was a full bar where

one could get lucky or

very unlucky.

It looked good to us at 12 am,

what could go wrong?



Two for one from 12 to 2?

Tequila sunrises, two at a time,

“This train is bound for glory, this train…”

Two hours of

heavy flirting and

laughing and

crying and

drunk dialing ex-girlfriends

(we used quarters back then) later and

it was 2 am,

time for the train to pull in to the station.

We said our good byes

and all headed for

the back roads to home.



I bet you are thinking you

know how this ends, but there

were no blue flashing lights or

great tragedy.

The moral perhaps as subtle

as a sledgehammer, but

this is actually a mystery,

one I have tried to unravel

for the last 23 years.



I made it safe and sound

back to my subdivision

and had only to maneuver 4 blocks

to arrive safe at home.

At the top of the hill

the road went straight down,

perhaps 4 football fields in length,

ending in a hard left

before an abrupt dead end

and after a gentle left at the bottom of the hill.

My Jenson speakers were blaring

“Highway To Hell” and

I floored it and

never let go and

never came close

to making even the gentle left turn,

driving straight through some rose bushes,

a mailbox,

a beautifully manicured lawn of

Kentucky Bluegrass

and being stopped only

by a fire hydrant.

In Hollywood they gush 20 feet,

in real life they bubble up

some water that wouldn’t

put out a campfire.

In Hollywood they take you off to jail and

madcap adventure ensues,

my night in jail was rather sobering

and boring.



I was three months away

from graduation and applying

for jobs in transportation.

I got off easy, but that was delusion.

The only job I got was managing

a gas station.

I lost my chance to make sure

the trains were running on time

in the blink of eye and

the inexplicable

press of a foot

on Monday Night or

early Tuesday morning,

if you prefer.



Big Blue was never the same again,

neither was Monday Night and

truthfully,

that was the night

the party ended.



Mike Carson

5-27-2009

Everthing Fades Away

So sad when
it just whithers away.

Nothing makes sense
anymore...the rational
left wondering why
must sorrow rule.

Feeling blue, for a friend,
I go up the 14 stairs in pain
just to move again and
wash the dishes.
I turn on Page and Plant,
"When The World Was Young..." indeed.

Feeling like lighting a candle
for us all,
I walk into my daughter's room
in search of fire;
finding instead,
two identical packs of colored pens,
identical to the two I got
in my Christmas stocking
two years ago.
She will never use them,
she will, in fact,
die with them unopened
somewhere down the road.

I've been using mine,
one of each color
sit by my chair;
someday they will run dry
and whither.

I guess it is up to me
to give them purpose.

Mike Carson
4-28-2009

Forever Yellow Rose

Rose crush, the velvet underlining
Of a moon lit night
Cold hope left behind
Long after all the tears
Are shed

Yellow blues, constant longing
For warmth wrapped
In white gold rings
Both in their boxes
Hidden away

Forever known now,
Betrayed by
The sad eyes
That peer in vain

Mike Carson
9-17-2008

I Know About Life

I've been writing a lot about love
recently
love lost forever
love found, but still in the air
but what do I know about love?
I know about death...
it comes quickly
like a typhoon in the East China Sea
it is upon you before you know it
and leaves no where to turn
or it creeps up slowly
and stares you in the the eye
for many moons

I know about life...
so much I know about life now
as I round the bend and
head for the home stretch
it is whole and completely
who you are,
the life you lead
the wake you leave behind you
in the world
the sum of which will be
your days

I know this thing called love
is boundless
we love because we live
and we live instead of dying
I do believe that
she knew more than I
and I know that
I loved her 'til death
and beyond
just as I ever
loved the sea


Mike Carson
8-23-2008