The Fall

Zigman Zibanski fell drunk into a Zen Garden. A gentle monk lifted him up and sat him on a stone large and mossy. He offered green tea and spoke kindly to Zigman, words of concern and of encouragement to walk along a simpler path. The monk waited till soberness came to the drunken one. Then he brought him safely home and returned to the Zen Garden, where he tended to the grass where Zigman had fallen. The sun would set soon so the gentle monk worked quickly and purposefully to mend the earth to the way it had been earlier in the day.

The next evening at the One Lucky, Zigman sipped warm sake. Drunk he soon became. But he saw clearly through an emply glass: of a gentle monk and simpler way.

Runaway
Against the sand and wind they strode
In pitch blackness the lovers as runaways
Like smoke rising in the night
Together and alone with ghostly heels
The spoken words held tight like clasping hands,
Desperate against the climbing sand, the fallen young
The final rising comes, Godly it was believed
At the home of blackness they sealed forever dreams

The Walk
I walked to the end of my Square Corner
Stood at the rough water's edge
One foot cold the other warm
My bare soles waded on a bed of sharp stones,
Then under a brilliant sun I felt a blazing story:
This Square Corner as home, this sea a bed of bloody stones
I was healed round on soft sand
Headed humbly toward a rising voice, where I belong he said in welcoming tone

The Line
When I was a boy we moved to a new house
At night a freight train would race by
It kept me awake with its rumbling sound
But I was young, sleepiness faded like tired eyes
Now when a train rumbles on an awakening night, I think of that new house
I wonder, as it rolls away, is it as old as me

Scurry
i run often from a setting sun
scurry as best i can towards a waning sky
but now i see life in whole new terms:
we are each a setting sun
easy we go from brilliant red,
behind blackened earth to know life no more
so what we owe, if there is God who loves these ones, to ourselves:
a forgiveness of what we've done
to cease not so far from easing days,
but run alive as best i can with each day's sun

The River
On a swift summer night Springsteen played for me and my girl
So that's what we did:
Went down to the River,
swam and laughed under a low starlight
With soft white towels we dried each other's skin
Made it to a mountaintop and waited for the safe morning sun rise
Those were so many years ago;
Now I stand by The River and sing Springsteen alone
Dry myself under a fading sunrise

The Reassured

I had a few hard drinks at the One Lucky and blended into nothingness. My bar stool gave out from under me, and here's what I remember: dead black eyes and the voice of Zigman Zibanski.

"Tortelli, Tortelli! Ya wake up." he cried in his old world accent.

A rush of ice water fell onto my face. Zigman lifted me up and placed the bar stool under me. The bartender, 'Beer Mugs' Moran poured a cup of black coffee. Otherwise he left us alone.

I knew I drank too much, which was unusual for me. I felt bad for Zigman who had a prediliction for worry and chasing after woman who wanted nothing to do with him. He drank himself too often into a regretful depression.

"Ya, drink too much, Tortelli," he said. "You no want to end up like me."

I stated with a slurred speech that wouldn't happen. This was just one of those nights. My head would hurt tomorrow, maybe for a few days, which would be reason enough not to turn me into a drunk. I'd be better off mostly posting blogs, I told him. This reassured Zigman. Which suited me just fine.