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another diurnal marker attained,
but no one will be issued a
Boy or Girl Scout badge,

an unverified few will remark,
"this is a day that counts
my halftime voyage
circulating the sun,"
but detect no
other difference tween
day prior, day after,
and will let the passing thought, pass into the fibers of their
existence, aling with the millions of others that humans create,
then let lay,
absorbed into their uncountable,
uncollected collective

but it is the divisor!
the median mark
of a year,
and the world Earth
will be however old it be,
plus a half, like some of its
inhabitants

to be X plus a half,
is not an indifference,
a halved year is
better than no more years,
a solitary tear
still marks the moment
of a moment,
a refraction pointillism,
to reflect a passage

so treat it
not!
with
cavalier,
but go off and pause,
in a quieting places within,
and think,
I am more,
greater than before,
and with grace elevated
will complete my space
occupied on this rotund,
robust earth,
and
be thankful for the embers of
oxygen in and ex
ha(i)led,
greeted,
stating
this breath next
is an opportunity,
and will spent it
usefully
degree of overcast

so the day begins
and so will reman,
the week predicted
the same, only one
variant, degree of cloudy,
mostly, partly or just...

it saddens me deeply for
I contemplate all the lives
with this whether forecast,
or rather,
the absence of
whether,
the only variant,
the degree of overcast


9:34 AM
Fri Jul 17
Year of the Covid
“my poetry to protect me”^



an ancient teenage lyric
haunting comes, no longer shielding,
a gossamer consistency ironclad,
a tissue-thin papyrus,
my poetry to protect me

a clarinet reed, capable of swinging  
a highest pitch voice for turning
blades of clean steel clean away,
now stunting blunting no more,
indeed!

re-formed my shield, re-purposed,
into a stabbing instrument offensive,
my poetry comes to ***** tearings in my
worn thin fabric tapestry, woven from
excuses of why I can’t, why I couldn’t

this is life

moats becoming drowning pools,
castle walls, people entrapments,
wrecking machines, bombardier hurling,
medieval defenseless against modern,
rhymes giving way to free verse onslaught

too late to apologize to myself, my words,
my protectorate, island redoubt, now ruined
by doubts treachery breech-birthed from within,
these verses hollow point bullets re-engineered,
Caesar’s words re-versed, you’re the victim Brutus
as well

1:52 AM
Mon May 18
June 2020
Manhattan Island
^I am a rock” Paul Simon
~for Rob Rutledge!~
<>
too oft we do not invest
Sensation
in the under-appreciated,
in the singular,
oneword
all that is needed,  all that is required to
freely steal the breath away, and
you stand up and shake your
head, nay,
your entirety,
smiling at the fulsome perfection of

simplicity
(The oneword?)
Beautiful

Sunday
July 20th
6:36 am
In the sunroom
<>
Simplicity
Yup my name is truly nathaniel
I hardly think about you
Except when the music plays
And I realize that no one else
In the whole wide world
Knows the lyrics
But us...
Once or twice a day is not that much, after all...
You staggered through the double doors,
a trail of red on bleached-out floors.
The night was humming, wet and mean,
your busted life in Trauma Green.

I clamped your vein, soft as thread,
and dared the gods to count their dead.
You lay there broken, no ID,
just blood and ache and urgency.

Your heart fell quiet
inside my hand,
as if it paused to understand.
Then breath returned in stuttered moans.
your chest arched up to meet my own.

The wound was sealed.
Your sigh came slow.
You could have left.
You didn’t, though.
The sweat still clung.
Your gaze went slack.
You pulled the gown and turned your back.

I saw you later, checkout nine:
frozen dinners, boxed red wine.
You seemed like someone death forgot,
barely awake, missing the plot.

You looked right through. You didn’t know
the hands that pulled you from below.
You don’t remember. I can’t forget
how thin the stitch, how deep the debt.
Deleted scene from short story.
In the middle of a dark and morbid groove,
Stood tall a house that would not move.
Built with pride from days long past,
Now left to rot, decaying fast.

Once a throne of joy and cheer,
Now filled with dust and webs and fear.
Its ancient soul begins to fade,
In silence where no light has stayed.

The closer you look, the more you’ll find
That gold once painted now’s resigned.
Like autumn leaves that die and fall,
The house decays beneath it all.

Before the snow, it turns to dust—
A monument of broken trust.
Its walls once warm, now cold and bare,
It shivers in the stagnant air.

There stands a door, but no key’s near,
No handle there to turn or steer.
It seems to speak with ghostly breath—
A warning carved in silent death.

The windows shut like coffin lids,
No light escapes, no life forbids.
You try to peer through glass so black,
But only see the void stare back.

Old letters lie upon the porch,
Stamped and sealed but lost their torch.
To a man once known who lived inside,
Though none have written since he died.

Yet still the chimney coughs up smoke,
A sign that breaks the silence choke.
You’d swear no soul could still reside,
But something stirs and will not hide.

Around the house, the garden weeps,
Where flowers died and silence creeps.
The grass has turned a sickly shade,
As though all hope had long decayed.

You stop and ask with frozen breath—
What turned this home to haunting death?
What creature stays where no one roams,
Still breathing in a house of bones?

- Niko
I come at three in the morning
I gaze at your tired, aching body
There were once strong muscles
protecting those you loved
from the cold
from the painful
flow of things

People are beautiful beings
meant
to exist
meant
to go away

Don’t be afraid
It is I who take your breath
when the time stops
I will take all of you
leaving them the body
so they could return it
to the ground
at the beginning
of a new life

I am here
I embrace tenderly
without dogma
without future
with silence
in stillness
with
unconditional
love
I come to the page with nothing to say
but I feel I must write anyway.

You see I'm dealing with a pain
it's coursing through my veins
as I try to remain silent,
not scream!

But the page can speak,
it can scream, it's never told to hold its tongue,
it's never told not to dream, to cry, or act dignified.

It's not even told not to lie
most of what's written is lies.

Not to deceive but to please.
But I asked for the truth, and it was given to me.

So now I'm dealing with a pain,
and wishing your lies
could deceive me once again.
This was written just now, no rework, just needed to put something on the page
it's probably crap but thanks for allowing me this moment.
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