eye sometimes go to bed wearing an old hoody. It has a metal zipper  to close the front and the zipper is always cold, unpleasantly so, on my bare skin.  After awhile though, my body temperature warms the metal just enough, that it is no longer a cause of discomfort though the metal still remains inherently cool to the touch

While science can easily explain this I guess, I felt this to be a major miracle.  That flesh pliable and heart-heated to 98 degrees could conquer the molecules of metal that were made in China struck me as extra ordinary (always two words, please!) and nothing short of a personal intervention by a personal deity

When I put the hoodie on at first I would think
******* (that's cold)
When I awoke, cosy and warm, I would think
******* (that's so cool)

having studied philosophy in Cleveland,
I knew that the logic of the situation,
what I had experienced was not an
interregnum, but the invisible intervening handiwork of god, who, also knocked my glasses from the nightable to the floor,
just cause she/ he was in a bad mood, on account of having to come such a long way, just,
to reheat me
one more time.

These are the endless days of endlessness
These are the days, when time is just present
There is a disbelieved past, a future unimaginable
Here is the only now, a permanent-present-tensing-participle

Faces smiling semi-graciously present, desperately seeking coaxing
The winter dark, living room occasional lit by one, mostly TV glow
Radiance lives inside only, but well remembered songs cause
Cry outs for who, the what, the needed, we’ve forcibly memorized

Observing winter’s river from kitchen window, it’s colored
*****-dusk-blue, like my eyes, add overlaying images of sparkles
But my magic not powerful, my love can’t see them
My bag-o-tricks can’t bring her sunshine, 2020 sorcerer’s gold

These are the days of endless dancing alone,
Longest walk from bed to kitchen, worn the weary wood shiny
True romancing still abounds, but so well hid, 99% invisible
Even when you ask without asking to be held oh-so-tight

These are the days, riverside, when slow flowing waters offer
No hinting of faraway treasures to be someday discovered
The magician vain struggles to find loving tricks to unlock
Her loving grace, her water-to-wine breathing demeanor*

These are the days, that forever need remembering, saving
No savoring, the absence of joyous everyone, everywhere
These are the days of absence+abstinence that lasted forever
You've got to hold them in your forever heart, lest we forget

~for me~

no food in this house, badly bruised fruit,
leftover congealing overdue-past pasta with ketchup and cheese,
moldy bread testing the outer boundary of edibility,
jeez, even gotta drink water direct from the tap!

the worn out endemic pandemic comatose wakes up next to me,
“even this fickle friend is thinking its time for them to go, who knows,
cause we no longer count the time, where time goes, it just goes”(1),
don’t want it to go, because the ideation of life totally alone terrifies

looking out at the water, waves relinquish their sooth-me-ability,
now, they looking like masses of commuters and tourists weaving,
pushing, on Fifth Avenue, everybody trys gain a step in this old get-
ahead life we used to liv, believing that the way to, the right place

a poet here has cancer, doesn’t answer me when I’m checking on him,
another has memory sickness, cannot ever let go of her life’s losses,
as well she shouldn’t, some losses are wars by definition un-winnable,
and me, drifting in and out of this poem in the early morning thinking

if I could get back to sleep, that’ll be a couple more hours used up,
don’t want to mislead, no answers any to the perennial flowering
question of where shelter can be found, this wretch like me, can’t see,
grace has fled (2), see it, rowing away, can’t blame it, I would too

so many come to me with pain, wasted opportunities, looking for
guidance, or worse, absolutions, the dishes in the sink, last weeks,
saying they deserve a second chance at a useful life and the coffee
machine flashes “Empty Grounds or Leaving Town,” a decent rhyme

don’t give a **** if you’re thinking this writ, gotta quit, too long,
take your tiring eyes and scram, skedaddle, mine until I get a decent
answer to questions that never let go, they’ll keep coming back and
somehow that prospect, is crazy way is comforting, for all parties

can’t let go, only thing that gets me outta bed, the need  reheat, reheat
old, cold coffee that someone stuck in fridge just in case, the electric
gets hurricaned, stormed, another tree comes down this time that doesn’t just miss the house, like last week, that a stupid way to die

answer to where shelter ain’t, gonna start a collection of awnings, keep one handy, no matter time and luck take me, a stopgap answer to the quest-ion at hand, I’m liking that word,  it’s emotive, aaawww-ing, comes ready, handy guttural name, & to the beat, flapping wind

thought I’d get answer by writing this all down, none come along, meaning I’ll write some more some day soon, when the eyes open, should they open once more-row, the questioning, the pandemonium blues, wake up beside me asking where I’ve been, they’ve been

waiting all night for some bad company.




notes
__

(1) “Who knows where the time goes” Fairport Convention
(2) “Amazing Grace” Judy Collins