A supine position
upon my bed
and a slow turning
of my head

I look out through my window
and by chance
LISTEN!!
Hearing the howling
and chilling desultory gusts
of wind

Noticing seemingly deceptive
immutable muffled
grey-white
low hanging clouds
enveloping everything
in its heavenly path
with coinciding
feelings
of being enclosed,
a slight hint,
the oncoming winter

A sunless sky also
matches the early November mood
as virtually motionless
elongated pearl-grey-clouds
having distinct
wind-kissed
topsy-turvy-wavy-ruffled bottoms
that travel and permeate
onward
across the heavens
These eerie vapors
s t r e t c h
from north to south
east to west
casting Buddism's
grey colored shadows
upon the earth below
while not permitting
any sky blue
to peek through

A distant howl and barking
of
a dog,
my inner volcano snuffed out,
the tranquilization of Hercules...

Time seemingly
stops altogether
and hangs...
... heated feelings
dissipate
   into
     cool nothingness...

You let me down every time....
Your judgement destroys whats left of me every time,,,
Instead of letting these tears fall I prefer to smile..
I throw the lamp at you so that I can miss..
I scream so you can tell me to calm down...

I Push you away so you can pull me closer...
To hate you means I once loved you.. I still do.
It hurts to see you everyday and act like I dont care
It hurts that every time I am happy the first person I want to tell is you.

It hurts to love you, every time....
It hurts that everyday I dream about waking up next to you
It hurts that every time you never notice me...
You can be among-st a crowd and I will still find you..
That's because I love you and it hurts , every time...
And finally it hurts to accept that you dont know how I feel

Sand-crusted catacombs of dismembered dreams
Settle beside memories of the child who grew up

In rocky Harpswell, Maine. Not many beaches,
Only a foggy stretch beyond Morse Mountain --

But I used to stand ankle-deep
In the water, wait until my toes sank

Into crystalized Earth
And bubbles from Littleneck clams.  

I’d stand there until goosebumps spread upon
My blanched legs, rising up, up, like the artificial hills

Of Maya Lin’s Storm King Wavefield.
Now, when I lie alone,

Misplaced inside a vacant Manhattan studio,
I surrender to sirens and accelerated lives.

Peace comes in painting – thick oil,
Violet and claret on stretched canvas,

Depictions of neon signs and cityscapes,
Cheap t-shirt stands on street corners,

And 24-hour coffee shops with “specialty”
Blends in little white travel mugs – selling

To flocks of strangers, strutting like pigeons on cement
Sidewalks, pretending they belong.