THERE I AM GOLDEN, BE MY FOREVER

You are not the full moon I saw last summer,

That caused me to pull my car over in mesmerization.

You are not that orange sunset that was 

So cinematic I couldn’t believe it wasn’t on a screensaver.

You are not that rushing waterfall of Gullfoss 

That was so huge I became like a chorus member

To a production un-wanting of a spectator’s exposure.

You are not the rolling, grassy greens of

Ireland that made me wish I knew Gaelic. 

You are not the explosive Geyser that shattered rocks and

Sculpted earth and splashed spectators

That so tantalizingly watched the Hankadalur Valley.

You are not the full, double rainbow that rose

In the east and set in the west over the

Leaning, golden wheat field of Aichtal that

So perfectly reflected the Lord’s promise of sun.

You are not the misty smoke of a fully packed,

Fully toked pipe of sunset rum I had,

While I played chess and listened to 

‘I and Love and You’ for the very first time.

You are not that summer downpour I drank to

In my garage on a wooden stool so as 

To escape the crowded, congested halls of the house.

You are not the violent thunderstorm I listened to

On my front porch that I tried to take pictures of

But couldn’t capture because its splendor

Was un-foretelling and sporadically spastic.

You are not the cloudless blue sky we all

Hope for but hardly ever experience because that

Cloud as small as a man’s hand always claims the corner.

You are not the morning rays of the sun that

Cover my body from the small bathroom window

At the only moment that the sun can shine through,

Nor the rays that revive my body when I crave enlightened height.

You are not the crashing waves during February

Of the black beach I experience in Reykjavik while

I was young and too unlearned to understand.

You are not the hot, yellow sand that I longed to 

Breathe in Almería after four long, lonely winters.

You are not the piles of autumn leaves we 

Jumped in as children after our parents slavishly 

Threw their backs raking after Sunday school.

You are not the still, calm lake of a wake zone,

Un-grazed by the selfish tail of a manmade gliding machine,

That really should have been littered by whitecaps and

Waves and logs and hurricane fallen trees.

You are not the trickling creak we crossed when chasing 

A gecko with bare feet after we let our

Ice cream become victim to the asphalt blaze.

You are not the jagged mountain rocks in Keflavík

That reminded me of cookies and cream ice cream

Because of the way the white snow never melted

But always blended so perpetually in the black volcanic rock.

You are not the steep cliffs that we saw on postcards

But never went to because we were too busy trespassing

On the mossy stones of the ruined castle off the curvy path.

You are not the beautiful, terrifying white blizzard

That scoffed at our van as we tried to crawl

Through the rocky, narrow roads of Iceland

But were met instead by the foreign tongue of a 

Friendly man that probably wanted to impart his praise.

You are not the orange, red wood that crackles

With noise and dances in flames on a warm

Summer’s night, filled with acoustic guitars and 2-4 beats.

You are not the meteor shower or shooting start

That I wished upon under God’s ceiling of bright lights

Which we’d try to imitate as kids with plastics and blankets.

You are not the monumental tower of Eiffel metal

That I wanted to use as a jungle gym but 

Instead solved a Rubik’s Cube on, hoping I was the first.

You are not the deep purple ocean floor I

Retreated under when the pressure of the sun

Was too much to bear under sun-burnt shoulders.

You are not the crumbling walls and columns

Of a stadium built too large to handle the

Masses of snapping tourists it watches every year.

You are not the Black Forest I got lost in 

And found a colony of playground animals

While trying to find the rest of my friends

In an irrational, fearful, fleeting sprint.

You are not the khaki bridge over the body

That separated two former cities, now Buda to Pest.

You are not the serene Japanese Garden I walked through

With pants rolled up before stopping to stare,

At the most perfect red maple tree I had ever seen.

You are not the street I walked every Friday though,

Or drank wine from every Saturday, or

Stumbled in every Sunday after playing frisbee

With strange men with beards who never wore shoes,

And probably lived outside in nomadic tents.

You are not the organic sea of heads I so long

Identified with, while screaming to music too loud

With strangers too angry for my own good.

You are not the board that I kicked or I flipped

Or I slided and grinded instead of doing my maths homework.

You are not the roaring rapids of Dahlonega that

The big kids waded through while I secretly

Cowarded by the safe sands of the sideline.

You are not the warm saltwater spring that

I frequented as it snowed and swam through

When the winter winds had my skin too rough.

No, you are not any of these things because

Right here and right now I can touch you,

I can hold you, I can hear you, I can see you.

No, you are not these things because you are

Not gone nor past nor was nor finding nor not.

No, you are not these things because you are more

Than their sum and not less than their much.

No, because you are music, you are art,

You are poetry, prose, and un-sung song.

You are my hopeful, not hoped for, 

For you are here and you are now, 

And with you I am golden, by us are forever.