The Drunk Rocks

There were several clandestine locations at Thomas Aquinas College where one could go off campus to drink. Some, like the Pit, hearkened from the early days of the school, while others, like Mupu, were of more modern invention. The Drunk Rocks, in particular, was developed as a drinking spot during my time at TAC, in part due to the sudden and much-lamented demise of the Pit. It was a pleasant enough place, about half a mile from campus, with a stream running nearby and countless large, smooth river rocks that served as makeshift chairs. Most nights, one could find any combination of campfires, Irish ballads, philosophical arguments, and the like. Perhaps it was the lack of inhibitions or the unconscious mixing of students from all different grade levels, or perhaps other things, but one way or another, everyone who ever drank off campus would tell you that their best conversations happened in places like the Drunk Rocks.


The Drunk Rocks

Stones to sit on,
bottles to drink,
time to spare,
and thoughts to think.

Then bottles run dry,
while stones turn cold,
and we are still young,
but our thoughts, they grow old.

The Corpse Tree

This poem was an experiment in imagery, so it's intellectual content, such as it is, is minimal. But then, who said every poem had to be deep and meaningful? If words could paint, this would produce something decidedly dark and post-impressionistic.


The Corpse Tree

There is a tree
that grows upon
a blasted hill,
so brittle drawn,

and drinks the ground
to crack it dry
beneath the blaze
and iron sky,

with twisted lines
where branches reach
their knotted bones
to fill the breach,

but none will come
and none will see
this barren waste,
this broken tree.

Autumn

Yes, it's that time of year again...


Autumn

Wander down the garden path, love,
linger by the wall.
Blossom days are passing fast
in winds that whisper fall.

Leaves hold yet a heady hue, love,
but there is a kiss
blushing brown upon the cheek;
a pebble in the bliss.

Stay no longer than you must, love,
for the days turn cold.
Summer’s sun is setting fast
and we are growing old.

The Flower

And now for a little Victorian excess to remove you momentarily from the dry, terse flavor of modern prose that is so common among today's writers. Language is a vehicle for thought, and in this result-oriented age, we have traded in our Duesenbergs for Hondas. Not that this is always a bad thing - we get better gas mileage and can drive for 300,000 miles - but every step toward the utilitarian has generally been a step away from the aesthetic, and while we may be able to take more and lengthier journeys, in the end we will certainly not enjoy them as much. The trick, as in most things, is to find a mean between the two.


The Flower

The bee dips down through breaths unseen
high o’er the spreading field,
and watches for the crimson queen,
her crown to be revealed.

So many countless blades of grass,
each like the one before,
are giv’n no moment as they pass;
they hide no secret store.

He waits for beauty to display
her singularity,
and as the sun ascends the day,
there can no greater be.