Take solace from sol;
The icicles are long,
And elongating.

I buried my cat tonight as my children slept.
I'll tell them in the morning,
hope their sadness doesn't carry into Christmas.
About ten years ago I burried his brother.
Not quite next to each other,
but close enough to count
for something I guess.
Cruel job collecting what was his, throwing them out,
cleaning where I found him.
Trying to stay calm.
Tonight I write because I can't afford a shrink.
Maybe that's why I always write.

We played with sand
Up to our nails,
You swung a swishing pony-tail.
We traversed unkempt trails,
Took chances out beyond the pale.
Travailed on routes with certainty;
Made more friends than enemies;
Increased and raised our family.

To what avail?

I had time to auto correct,
To re-direct my wayward steps.
To stop the fall from bad to worse,
To put shortcomings in reverse,
To curtail an innate curse.

To what avail?

I heard you promise too.
In sickness and in health.
I promised the same to you.

To what avail?

I tried.
Lied.
I'm tired.

To what avail?

To this avail.
I remember our first kiss,
The walks, the talks;
You called me funny,
The times together without money.
A tent, charcoal and book of matches,
A midnight campfire, a beat-up car;
When anywhere wasn't off that far.
We'd ****** two days alone
In each other's company.

To what avail?

I tried. Tried.
I lied. Lied.
I'm tired. Tired.

Memories aren't that selective.
There's scenes I can't dismiss.

They're part of me,
They're part of you,
I'd be remiss to discard these few.
They're in the memories I recall,
The good and bad before the fall.
I claimed, There's two sides to every wall.
But still there is the wall.

I tried... tried... tried.
I lied... lied... lied.
I cried...cried... cried...
I'm tired... tired... tired.

the women of the past keep
phoning.
there was another yesterday
arrived from out of
state.
she wanted to see
me.
I told her
"no."

I don't want to see
them,
I won't see them.
it would be
awkward
gruesome and
useless.

I know some people who can
watch the same movie
more than
once.

not me.
once I know the
plot
once I know the
ending
whether it's happy or
unhappy or
just plain
dumb,
then

for me
that movie is
finished
forever
and that's why
I refuse
to let
any of my
old movies play
over and over again
for
years.

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at ****** are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to **** you
to **** anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art