Give Me One Good Reason Why It’s Blue

Today I cried 

because i had to.

Handle bar musings, 

Quick sand dreams,

The kind of Quick that hits you 

like a desperate train 

with a squeaky, irritating,

ignorant 

wheel 

—out of place

on a battered track,

he was a boy musing

under handle bars,

dreaming of quick sand. 

But all that lay beneath 

was hard and granular 

slipping fleetingly

through his fingers, delicate 

but 

hard and granular 

Why is the playground blue that is

silent as hearts are bloodied 

and wet, morning-dew kisses

are left behind

Why is the playground blue 

that forgets the boy 

who

swayed curiously from its parapet

who 

promised to escape in it

somewhere,

and always 

Why is the playground blue

that 

sits empty in the

dark and dim dusk 

of an indifferent moonlight 

that 

succors anyone in the weakness 

of dawn

Why is the playground blue…

it’s brown 

It’s Brown 

IT’S BROWN. 

It’s obvious as anything. 

The structure murky,

covered in wishful memories,

the steps naivety, the platform 

numbness.

I cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and died,

i guess i died. 

It’s a death no different 

from forgetting your mother’s birthday,

from getting punched and punched, hard, in the stomach, for no reason

from being underground and screaming thoughts that the earth hears 

but no one else. 

…

Divorce is a horrible thing kiddos

because it’s brown not blue 

like the playground you thought you knew

filled with beams and bubble gum chew

where in its shelter you thought you grew

but its depths you never knew 

Match boxes, his cigarette,

packed boxes, her silhouette,

arguing over “assets”

as I sat only sad

only upset.

Seeing brown not blue, 

instead of the hues. 

“Brown not blue.”

The words rhythmic and simple, 

tapping along the roof of an air tight Volvo,

windows rolled down slightly,

the air penetrated by the stale nostalgia 

of a sand box and swing set.

I slept in the back, suppressing a conscious 

that whispered.

I cried, died 

where they told me, when,

because instead of hugging, living, moving, my head 

I looked around that playground on 4th and Geary.

The popsicle-stick licking, 

grass-stain jean wearing,

peaceful picnicking, 

freeze-tag playing, 

A love lost, and it was gone.

I could think of no reason why the playground was blue,

it was tainted, swamped, fruitless.

I prayed for the innocence 

of a suave lullaby then, something comforting 

you know the kind of thing parents sing

but “asleep” in my car I knew 

knew the whispers were true

the playground, was brown not blue.