Budding Gems

A poem I wrote many years ago about an experience I had at a poetry open mic in San Francisco. Brought to mind this week after playing music with a friend.

He swears that he doesn’t drink coffee anymore

but it sounds to me

as though he is swimming

in a river of it as we speak.

Telling life stories at caffeinated speeds

is the way that he gets them all out.

Because he can’t write them down;

not every last one.

There isn’t time in our lives but to prioritize

and the leftovers gotta go somewhere, you know...

those leftovers gotta go somewhere.

Painful, isn’t it, to prioritize

when you’re staring at a field of budding gems?

I’m losing his words as he’s speaking them,

but I like how he talks so I listen.

Sometimes, it isn’t the words that enthrall me

but rather the way that he grasps for the mic

and makes love to his thoughts

because it took so damn long

to make sense of the mess in his head.

When it’s good don’t you feel

like you’re fighting the clock,

like you’re dying because you know now you shouldn’t?

And when it’s bad don’t you find yourself thinking that maybe

you chose the wrong path?

Should’ve done something else?

It’s torture, most of the time.

“I hate it when I lose self-control,” the man said

as we waited in line for the bathroom.

“So do I,” I replied without asking him why

or reflecting upon my response.

But I realized when the man and I went our own ways

that I hadn’t quite told him the truth.

If I’m driving a car or teaching a class

or drinking hard boos, I support what I said;

but if I’m playing music, writing poems or longer stories,

I simply won’t rest till I’ve lost ALL control.

It’s the only straight path to my soul, after all,

and I just gotta get there whenever I can.

‘Cause there are so many stories to tell

and the field just keeps budding, the brightest of gems.