Bittersweet Resignation.

Sadness;
missing the things
that never were,
missing the things that
could have been, the things that
should have been.


Faded photos of you
your light, floral dress clinging to the
small of your clammy back;
photos of the old car-
looking out through the frosted
windows, out onto the cloudy bay of a northern coast;
super 8 films of children that were never conceived
children that never called out your name
endlessly bounding in silent pantomimes of unfamiliar
joy.


I miss all of this,
all that I have yet to know.


You don't remember me
we have never met
but I love you.


I love your red eyes glimmering through cigarette smoke,
I love the worn, scuffed white heels you wear with everything;
I miss the way you pick at your chipped fingernails
and the look of your dog as I walked in your back door.
I miss the Polaroids on the fridge- the
golden pictures of shared drugs and 
empty cans of mexican beer
cluttered amongst the splayed out books and
precarious piles of balancing vinyl records.
I will never again hear the thump of an albums end
while you slowly undress
I remember you there, dancing in the flickering light of
fading, burnt filament


but I will never remember your name


all this was lost to me


all this was taken from me


when I chose to step back.


All I have now is the sadness,
the shudder of memory
and the sweaty panic, when woken from a dream
of your embrace-
of your voice.


I don't know you and I will never
know you;


but perhaps I am better for it.

A Letter to a friend.

Beggar Beggar;

learned beggar

caught in the same traps.

You've fallen a long way

if you look back 

(hindsight vision was always your strong suit)

Words will always abuse you

words will always tease you from the

inside and out.

You are a slave to this-

and you seem to enjoy it.

But, 

hear this Beggar:

you are part of a world

remember this and never let the traps 

take more than your

masochistic self

captive.

Then,

by all means,

enjoy the fall.

Don't Think About Going Far... Just Go.

There is no time to be wasted

waiting for the end of things.

The process 

was only discussed for a moment

never thought out

it was the end that was desired

as it always is-

intention to shine

without polish.

but

when the time is taken

and the seat is well worn 

the intent is often the clouded thing

and the sound of a warm mind coupled

with the feeling of great industry

is all that is desired

love is overrated 

when there are great things to be done.

There will never be awe

inspired by the person.

Only the scarred flesh

and the winding of words;

the story of the struggle 

and the triumph;

never the idea

the thought-

the intent

but the miles between the first step

and the grave

Indeed,

worn, brown leather soles

are the building blocks

of immense libraries

they are the inspiration

of fire side chills

and single tears

beside death beds;

so it should be,

and so it is,

life well lived with

pockets full of memories.

Traveler

Thumping dots

thumping and

thumping until a jerk

and a waiver

Blurry stars flashing across

wet windows-

endless black

endless yellow

endless red

Static and

strained ears

straining eyes

lids closing

aching

tearing

no sleep

no rest

no energy

searching for something with

white knuckles

a single foot cramp

and a loose metallic sound

from somewhere behind- getting 

louder with every jolt from

every tar-filled crack

the heat lulls

the cold doesn't wake
the wipers are a dangling pocket watch

and there are 

too many miles to count.

Oakley Hall

A beauty once felt and

shared

began to storm and

its eyes shut

to all but the

mirror mirror

in the bottom of

one and one-half ounces of 

distilled, 

smoked oak with

an amber haze.

Once genius-

falling fast

falling faster

questioning resolve,

questioning relevance,

questioning mortality.

Splitting, then

split.

Unseen were the villains-

once at the dark corners of

creativity; 

haunting in every blink,

waiting behind bloody eyelids -

now they dance in the dripping rays

of over-saturated days.

Death of a force

unlike nature.

A waste.

The tempest worsens and

the eye eclipses the tornado;

the calm

traps-

ensnaring

the wind

the rain

and the lightening within 

a grey prison.

By and by,

the world grows tired and 

deaf to the false promise

of windfall,

then 

by ordinary means

by no great struggle other than

the simple will to live-

to find relevance once more,

the mirror broke

and the beauty now rages stronger,

breeding hope.

It will outlast-

It will endure.

It will share itself with the world

again.

Running from Ghosts

Stereotypes and 

clichés. 

We embody them,

we defeat them,

but then of course-

we create them

I am just like that.

I was just like that.

I am nothing like that.

and then of couse,

I want to be like that.

and

I will be like that.

There is no escape

but then again

there's nothing

to run from.

Bare Feet on Cold Tile

There are no compassionate breezes

that pass through the

inside of a warm room

in the midst of 

a sleepless

night.

Only feelings of ache
howl through hollow spaces

as I stare back at tossed

sheets

highlighted by a single, yellow light

stumbling through 

from the bathroom door.

Cracked porcelain tiles are

vibrating in my eyes

and I can't help but stare blankly at the

stale water sitting in the bottom of 

the bathtub-

leaving a little

stain

as it dries.

The figure

leaning on the edge of the bathroom counter,

looking back through a cloud of water-spots 

can't be me;

a phantom of insomnia-

a trick.

Imagery fit for a mindful doctor

float around the blurry thing-

allusions to events from the past week:

laughing children,
toys in a rain gutter,
a dead dog,
the seam of a women's torn stocking and
a pile of loose, blank paper
sitting on a desk by an open window-
fluttering in the wind.

failures

and fantasies


in a dark,
warm,
room.

Sore Eyes, Shut.

We are nothing, in the end,

but echos in a room greater than we 

had once thought

a room filled, by large, with

the murmurings of doubt-

but what wonderful sounds we can leave!

shouts of ecstasy reverberating like 

the fluttering of a bird's wings,

startled and hurdling itself 

into the sky

or the sound of our own inner peace;

a sound like deafening stillness broken 

by a single drop falling

from the moist ceiling of a limestone 

cathedral into 

an immense 

underground 

pool.

We spend lifetimes sending out cries of pain,

sobbing to higher beings,

screaming at inanimate objects,

or staring

silent

through dry, red eyes at

the blur of humanity

silence is not true peace

but neither is the outcome

of bloody lungs,

snapped vocal cords

and voices lost.

If we can be anything than let us be

a whisper of encouragement

respect 

and love

echoing forever

and ever

in the wind.

Venus de Milo

I'm never going to be in the band

I don't like wearing plaid

and I don't smoke anymore-

but you can stand there in the corner

blowing smoke rings

and listen to my guitar

making little rings in beer glasses

all over the porch of

this cabin surrounded

by trees.

I'm no Dylan

but at least I'm not Dylan

I've always been here

trying off and on to get your attention

then looking away the

moment

you turn your head.

You're the one for me

I think

the one that I admire

the one that I can see myself

without

like that statue

missing it's arms.

I'd climb a mountain for you

and not tell you about it;

but leave a little note at

the top under

a rock

telling you

about the climb.

I will always be here

I think

sitting in the corner,

looking away

when you turn,

making little rings

in your drink-

not totally

unlike

Dylan.

Untitled

A light went out tonight

high above a street corner at

the intersection of two roads

you've never heard of.

You didn't notice it flicker like

a winded candle

then fade;

but the city was a bit darker

just the same.

In that same moment

a flashlight

turned on underneath

a fort of pillows and sheets

and Neverland was found again.

You didn't notice the light

trickling underneath

the bedroom door

but the world was a bit brighter

just the same.

Moist

Searching for an ever-changing lust

in a sickly,

humid

darkness.

Hope is left on the brighter side of the door

and the desire

for meaning beyond

was abandoned long ago;

you're looking for a glimmer of heavenly breath;

for a cool breeze on the back of a sweaty spine,

for salvation-

in a den of dripping honey, but

there is no choice now

there is no trickling light to follow to the surface

and no greater meaning will be revealed

only regret,

disappointment,

and detachment

don't think of the glimmer that might be

don't think of gentile wind

and smiles over checkered picnic cloth

take both feet off the floor

crawl deep into the moldy, musty sheets

and let the devils dripping tongue

lap you into the maw.

To You.

I want to talk to you

I want to see you smile,

grimace

or cry;

but as it is

I'll never truly know

that you'll hear what I'm saying.

I'll never be able to see your face

sitting at this breakfast table

and there's not much chance

that our eyes will meet

through the dancing haze

of a bonfire.

I'll reach out

a little voice in the dark

a match thrown into the night sky

hoping to light the candle resting

in your cupped hands;

just enough light for you to take another step

just enough for you to take another breath

just enough.

My soul will forever be yours

and though my words may yellow on the page

and the epitaph above my grave

will succumb to the wind and rain,

I'll be as a light snowfall

clinging to your lashes

and you'll hear me as the fluttering pages

of an old book left open in a warm breeze.

I'll never feel your heartbeat

or see any joy in your smile

and you'll never watch my chest

rise and fall as I sleep

or see my eyes flutter open

when the morning trickles

through lace curtains

and warms my face-

but my hand will always be in yours

and my words will swirl through your mind;

each chord singing out

comforting as best they can

caressing as sweetly

and lighting another step-

always one more.

You Think You Saw But Did Not See

A small boy and a smaller dog

sitting on a curb, in the late afternoon.

A Rockwell painting; alive.

An image to conjure thoughts of our glorious age-

stirring pride

and warming hearts.

But the dog is tired and thin

and the boy's smudged face echos the pups hunger.

I suppose they're waiting for a parent

or a sibling who's running late,

but more likely

he and the dog will sit,

their shadows will draw longer

and the sun will fade to orange, then pink.

Walk-In

Some things don't stay in your closet-

hitching rides on old baseball caps

and long, moth eaten winter coats.

Those bones were thought to have turned to dust

long ago

swept away by broom or

that they had floated away,

through old walls, down dark stairways

and into a fiery furnace

deep

deep

below.

In truth, many do;

disappearing into the sea of time,

taken away grain by grain

with each mornings tide

however,

most remains,

the ones most foul and

most telling-

the ones shoved furthest away:

creep about in the shadows

waiting silently

and steadily;

breathlessly

and hungrily,

watching-

So when you sit at the head of the family table

you won't wonder why everyone is staring;

you'll feel the skeleton fingers running though your hair-

for no closet is deep enough.

Advice For Writing

Avant Guard words

known or unknown-

the artistic twist;

that slight of hand

that transforms plain to lucrative

the standout from the chaff.

I suppose you don't actively do it

stumbling upon it-

a cinderella story;

working tirelessly

honing and perfecting

then you go around a curve

and the road is different.

What was once boring

is suddenly radical

and the playing field

is falling at your feet, all at once

bowing to your tongue.

There is nothing more to do

than to drive through thunderstorms-

listening to the wiper blades,

narrowing your eyes,

tightening your grip

and waiting for the road to disappear.

ee

There are no footprints here,

and I confess:

I do not know the way-

but the way knows me.

I'll walk a little while,

before butterflies wander

into my chest-

then I'll walk a little more.

There is no path you see.

For the seeker of new worlds

there are only magical strings

and a heart to follow their gentle tug.

Grotesqueish

Mortality as an art form-

exploring the art of death

as a memento moray

and as a curiosity.

Thoughts of jumping,

cutting,

swallowing

and letting light into one's own mind.

Bashing in the cats scull,

shooting a squirrel off of a fence or

flying through the guardrail

tires still spinning in the still air.

The dead are a touchy lot

their remnants always causing intrigue

but the living always take the blame for bad taste

Considering the beauty of the rosy still waters

surrounding Marat in his tub,

or the pickled shark of Mr. Hirst.

Morbid curiosity.

An artists folly.

A Simple Portrait

Cinnamon.

Dark chocolate.

The smell of rosemary in butter and lemon juice.

Steinbeck,

Hornby,

Gaiman,

Austen,

Thompson and

Kerouac.

Rainy days;

muggy nights.

Black and White Photos;

packages in the mail;

hand written letters.

High heels and lace;

Johnny Walker whiskey;

cash to burn.

Blue eyes.

Wavy Hair.

Warm Smiles.

The smell of a Hotel.

Being barefoot on carpet.

Boots on the Beach.

Love in my heart.

Tears on my cheeks.

Tired hands.

Dylan,

Cooke,

Johnson,

Baez and

Seeger.

St. Vincent Millay and

Collins.

Sanding wood;

brushing away sawdust with an old brush.

Smelling the nape of her neck;

the feeling before you've kissed for the first time.

Hands gliding like kites out of car windows

Hearts on Sleeves;

Squinted eyes to the sun.

A Forehead Pressed Against the Window

Content in always questioning

naive to some;

intelligent,

balanced to others.

Following a trail to enlightenment-

wandering off of the worn path;

searching for fancy-

a glint in an abandoned garden

a glimmer in a river's sandy bed.

Perspectives never intertwine

in the ways you expect-

never in the ways you want.

Desiring others not to ask too much of;

wanting the freedom to make mistakes

craving tears to come when you're all alone

heavy emotion only mattering to yourself.

Why is it that you can't sit

silently staring off by a glass pond

careful not to disturb its flesh with heavy breath

without others questioning motive?

They want chaos-

desiring turmoil for peace of mind

there is no sensation

there is no intrigue

there is only what your mind desires

Desiring silence,

stepping into the glass pond

sending out silent,

momentary ripples of presence

then floating in small,

slow circles.

There are heavy currents below

let them take you where they may

I will glide by with you

our eyes might meet

but we will not speak.

5:30 AM

The rain seems like a visitor more than a storm-

not a mindless mass of clouds

or simply witless weather

but the Sea itself, tired of it's lowly position.

So here it is-

banging on the door,

tapping on the window,

looking for a couch.

Papa

A little grimace

then a larger one.

Hard hands doing soft work

No punch clock,

no production line,

not the same kind of pain.

Love spreading frail roots

in the midst of a cratered countryside

the soil, like mist;

floating in front of the midday sun

and men, sweaty and tired,

fall to the ground unaware of the beauty-

save one.

A large groan,

a tug from a cold glass

and a clearing of the throat.

So much gore-

zeal for country followed by swift sentences-

an eye for an eye and all that;

but there was something beneath it all,

something overlooked,

sitting in the muddy trench

covered with the same dirt, sweat

and blood.

They were all moving forward

but there he was, unsure of his path-

his eyes open.

He sees the chaos,

the inches gained

and the flesh piling up on butcher's bill;

but through the fog

there is a figure-

his reason, duty be damned;

there was his peace.

The hard hands pause

knuckles crack, and wild eyes

stare out the window.

They see the sun,

they see the sky and clouds;

and when the weathered hands begin again

recounting the sunset with simple words on toothy paper

they write with love;

and we feel it.

Demain Matin

Treasures are nothing in the dark-

they are lumps of coal,

ridges on a distant mountain range;

they are shadows enveloped in the night.

Treasures locked in a glass case-

porcelain dolls never again to be held warmly by small hands,

teacups never again to adorn white lace tables;

they have lost their meaning

no longer coveted for purpose-

only finding small warmth in a cold,

passing gaze.

The treasures of dreams filed away-

thoughts of books set on distant shores;

sketches of paintings depicting truest love-

never to be penned,

never to adorn canvas.

Homes are turning into museums

graveyards for passing fancy-

what could have been

and what will never be.

You treasure the plaque on the wall

the china in its case

and the manuscript in the drawer

placed there years ago,

then you stare proudly while you yourself

gather dust.

The Danse Macabre

Pulling hair

knees together, shivering
under a worn, victorian desk.

His progress,
his life in words, written with ink and blood-
fluttering about the room, parchment choking the air
like so much confetti.
Thousands of pages, millions of thoughts
skimming through the dark room
glimmering in the light of the fireplace.

It's all decoration for the Danse Macabre.

So easy it was, to be inspired by
demons and death, waiting in the night
and now they are here;

slithering and gliding,

called in from the cold reaches of elsewhere
dancing in great circles-

a grand ballroom full of shadows
and stolen words.

They will dance about him now;
close by,
for the rest of his days.

He no longer shudders-
but smiles a great, terrifying smile-

he leaps to his feet,

flames and shadows dance in his eyes.

the dance would be had,

then-

more parchment soaked

with ink

and death.

inspired by Neil Gaiman and his own 'recollection' of the 'danse'.