I remember well
The creaking of
One hundred year old
Pine planked floor
And the ticking
Of the 100 year old clock
In my family's old home
Before the highwaymen
Took it with the widening
Of Highway 91
But Mom got her new house
Set back just a little
She loves it and new amenities
At least they didn't steal the barn
But I miss the creaking and the ticking
Of my childhood home
On Highway 91
Across from Stoney Creek
My real home
Whispers from the past
from something that did not last
Emotions that exist to coexist
like permanent ink on a list
My thought process spins in a circle
Yet it feels like I climb up a holy church hill
on a crusade to expel my enemy
that lurks in my pulsing, breathing anatomy
The evil inside, is a part of me
but balance must pursue like the land and sea
Mutualism between a clownfish and a sea anemone
Strive to be a 100-year-old oak tree
I watch the airplane,
Thirty-thousand feet above,
Between the gentle folds
Of the 100-year-old glass
In my windowpane
A low angled light,
Shot from the distant sun,
Finds its way between my red curtains
And forces my thoughts to bloom.
Sometimes I think of what is in the world,
And then what's in it for me,
And the desire wrenches my heart.
And it hurts,
Oh God, it hurts.
Hurts so that I might cry out,
But I hold my tongue.
I find comfort in the news
Be it typhoons or drones
I feel like a 100 year old Camus
For he was a miserable little raccoon
Or should I say Morrissey?
But the bipolar king is lost at sea!
I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven
Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin?
I will mention roses in a second
But first, wear your veil
May I eat your cheeks?
I’m your psychopath with style
We bathed in herbs together
The pale breasts that shone
A reoccurring dream of two moons
I believe in reincarnation
bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl
Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music
Few clichés, I forgot about your roses
One day I’ll strike the balance
between rhymes and passion
she exists now in a dream state
unaware of the horror and the passage of time
wind rushes through broken panes
floors creak and door hinges speak
announcing her presence
this was her house
once a place of light and love
full of family and friends
cotillions resonating with music and dance
and lively conversation
a grand kitchen to prepare the feasts
of pheasant under glass
a gazebo for laughing in the rain
arbors for moonlit meetings with owls
a pond for lilies and croaking frogs
gardens for picking her favorite peonies
a nursery for her children
all this now nothing but ruins
from happiness to a home for bugs and bats
crawling with silverfish, centipedes and black widows
shrouded in cobwebs
drowning in dust
suffocating in stench of rotting wood and desolation
decorated with 100 year old bloodstains
she never saw her killer
never saw the spurting of her arteries
never heard her children’s screams and death rales
she sees her house as it was
and every night she roams the rooms
calling her children’s names in long, haunting whispers
You know I care about you.
That I would regret nothing with you.
If you told me to escape at the crack of dawn to some nowhere place-
I would not hesitate.
You have explanations far to reasonable, they seem idiotic-
but why contradict.
I'm not saying I have a one track mind and that you overpower it entirely.
All I'm saying is I don't mind.
Regret is just one thing I refuse to taint you with.
There are places I would go.
Things I would do.
Thousands upon millions of scenarios we can outplay.
Make new cliches and shatter the sky.
Decide if we believe in our constellations being perfectly aligned.
Then resolve to say everything we did was merely make believe.
I love you.
And I will regret nothing.
Our time together might stop-
so when you see me at tea for our 100 year old reunion,
remind me how amazing we lived.
Show me the images in a whirlwind.
Recount the adventures.
Tell me the secrets all over.
Since we're both good and sober now.
You don't have a one track mind, it's all more like branches.
You've regretted nothing except the lack of expansion and slow timing.
I care far too much for you to ever see you stuck.
And for exactly that reason I'll see to it that you never stop-
even if our 'us' does.
a strange day
it was full of strangers
when I went for a walk
with my spouse by my side
past the junction
a stranger shouted out to me:
and I said quite readily:
“But I need help myself –
so how can I help you?”
and I continued on my walk
wondering at this strange world
past the 100-year-old tree
an octogenarian stopped me
and he said:
“Son, can you tell me which way
to Harvey’s Street?”
and I said to him:
“I don’t know Harvey
and so I don’t know his street;
and by the way, maybe you don’t know,
but I’m not your son….”
and past Kangaroo Point
a cheery stranger all teeth
he shouted to me:
“Oh, great!” I shouted back.
“You may be having a good day
but I’m having a strange day,
I’ll tell you that!”
And past the Greehimn River
a helpless old lady said:
“Ah, kind man, could you pick up
that walking stick for me?
it’s mine and a young man
just now kicked it off my right hand”
And I said with no second thought:
“Oh, old woman
pick it up yourself;
your back is already bent
so half the effort is already there -
and you think I walked all the way here
so I can pick up a walking stick
for a strange old woman I don’t even know?”
and I turned to my spouse
who was with me
all the while and I said:
“Hmmm…what a strange day
with all these strangers…”
and my spouse answered speedily:
“Who are you, creepy stranger?
Why do you talk to me?”
And straight my spouse
walked off from me…
Hmmm…and indeed a strange day it was
with all these strangers one meets
and who walks so close beside
We were up all thru out the terrible night
sniffling like cocaine addicts
like sick little youth 1930's depression oh the Great
our fat lips hung like dying mosquitoes in the coming brothel of winter and her long scorched dress
that I inflamed with my Vietnam stolen lover zippo of gasoline
in a Sober frenzy of jealousy
now her Glare is angled narrowly at lust
coughing up and down side ways in dreams as if I were a butterfly addicted to cigars
we were up all thru out the night
counting our skin cells
watching the television laugh at our faces
He sobbed “how the orange metallic streets
bent to our theatrical emotions on 12th street”
oh the glory of our thoughts and touch was ransom
was god watching in his leather seat?
Wearing his glasses
reading the Bible?
Or does he read Russian Literature
or does he only read Latin
I and I were up all last night
using the Sister's pay-phone copper to connect with silly 3 eyed hipster hookers
their eyes wide and green with white salt like a dirty lake
that you stumble upon drunkardly with a laughing Angel
High on Cough Syrup and mortality
passion-ated by this new opportunity for Adventure's drawback which is death or Boredom
is deteriorating with Age
like the alcoholic richness of 100 year old Wine
didn't go to church
hope that lady with wisdom in her hands forgives me
then I ate
now I starve
clutching at the windows
painting a boy staring at me
wondering if I were real
As I wonder if his thoughts are my own
We were up all night
translating the moon's shadows and hiccups into finger paintings and strep throat.