The Hissing of Summer Lawns

He's just a dude, on the old end of middle aged.

He runs through the colors, too bright, brighter even than the shade.

The sweat glistens on him, droplets shine on skin too tanned for a white man.

Cracked brown, bandana on bald head.

Pounding of running shoes on the sizzling pavement.

Another morning, as the traffic begins to roar, an Auckland morning.

Too bright in a matter of minutes.

He doesn't seem to notice.

My great love. My bridge to the outside.

My staircase, spiraled - to my own unknown dreams.

The one who knew me better than I ever knew myself.

The one who gave me my voice, the one who taught me.

The songs of endless summer, the blinding sunlight, and the breeze flowing through open windows.

Drive me through the hills, carved with a smoothly jagged knife.

Crafted with worn, dark hands; they sing to us of days never known, days gone.

Days when we never knew eachother, when you were younger.

Days when you felt like I did - alone, lost, and looking somewhere for some semblance of sense.

Where is the point? What is the point?

It doesn't matter when your hands are on the wheel.

This education I've recieved has left me empty.

Now I cry, spurned and helpless.

Did you ever teach me anything worthwhile?

Do you know that you broke my heart?

Eighteen and nowhere to go, but away from you.

All I want is to be held in your arms again.

The safety and the smell of your sweaty, sinewy body.

Held again, by the moments - just you and I and the road.

Flying over highways of thought. Dreamlike skies casting orange on us in the sunset.

Your voice spinning gold to my naive ears.

(I knew they were lies, open to loose interpretation.)

My deciever. My greatest love.

Now he breathes, notices no absence.

Does he ever recall this angry girl?

Did I break his heart?

He just keeps running. Foot after foot, gasping catching breath.

 Prayer after prayer resound in his mind.

He listened with breaking ears my confession about the man who began to steal my innocence at the age of six.

Chipped away, till there was nothing left but an ugly chaotic insanity.

It was something we tiptoed around, something we'd all much rather forget.

The last time I saw him, he seemed glad to say goodbye.

I'm sorry for all the trouble.

Perhaps we'll cross paths (in the aching Aotearoa sunset that sings with lost love).

Maybe I'll be able to fall again, so completely in love with him.

I still go there - the place amongst the trees - a black road - chiseled between the rock faces of a gorge.

He's there. Silent and waiting.

~

My Father gave my sister this album for her fifteenth birthday. I stole it, like I stole everything from her.

I grew and changed to Joni's ancient moans and to her friendly calls to arms.

Her secretive, mysterious tales painted my unbearable summers till I was desperately, gaspingly free.

But now all I can do is listen; and yearn for my captivity.

The Hissing of Summer Lawns was released by Joni Mitchell in the winter of '75.

It features such greats as Graham Nash and David Crosby singing backup vocals; and James Taylor on guitar. You know, back when they were cool... ;)

This shabbily written piece of nonsense is for my Dad, who introduced me to all things that really matter in life.

I love him so much my skin hurts.

I hate him so much my skin hurts.

And I miss him.