As Thomas Wolfe said to Walt Whitman,
Crossing Brooklyn Bridge one early autumn
Sunday afternoon: "I greet thee on the
Brink of a brilliant literary career."
But I may have mixed up my facts.

Leaving messages on foggy bathroom mirrors. Leaving lipstick crescents on the rims of tea mugs. Leaving the front door unlocked. Leaving, a lot.

__________________

a girl with a mind like a tunnel
somewhere amidst a winding mountain road
quiet and familiar
the tunnel
calm and inviting

as his headlights
approach
from the distance
particles of light
start finding their way inside
the tunnel less dim
with every
heartbeat
until
everything is illuminated within
fractions of a second
his headlights span out
into every corner
and every crevasse
and brings every brushed away memory  
into full view
warmly embracing every hidden secret  
and for a moment
the tunnel becomes
unnaturally bright
          the kind of bright that makes you
          squint your eyes and
          hold your breath and
          dig the tips of your fingers
          into the foam of your steering wheel
          but you don't get afraid because
          your eyes adjust before
          the fear sets in
and when your eyes do adjust
you forget that it's ever been dark at all
and you feel as though this light
can last forever
          but our eyes can only handle
          so much light  

now he's approaching the exit
and his headlights
are reaching out
beyond the arch of the tunnel
far into the thick woods and towards the
mountain tops
as he passes through on his way
to some final destination
and he never even thought to stay

so cherish
the very last seconds
and cherish
every fraction of his
beautiful bright light
before the tunnel
goes dim
and everything is
quiet
and all that is left is a numbed pain
          the kind of pain you feel
          when your pupils
          dilate
          so fast
          they hurt

A solo crow's morning flight spoke
of castaways and solitary nights
on its wing tip hurried flight
and its mid-air broken croak

Recounting storms as eagle talons
wet in feather drenching dreams
cuts and glide through current's seams
drops to land on earthen patterns

Seemed within its bird-brain canon
day's release from hunger's pang
a weary eye on sturm und drang
to covet worm and bolt on cannon

-cec

Somewhere along the way
this person will lock itself
inside the bathroom
another will lay on the bed
and shiver from the damp pillow
another will sit in the darkness
of the car just by themselves
another will slip on sneakers and
simply open the door and leave
another will peer down from
the roof of a high building
another will have earbuds in
with music cranked high
all of them will be
enveloped in wells of
tears blood and pain
for they were the ones
society couldn't handle
or accept or forgive
for having been born
the way they were or
having been forever altered by
their surroundings and lives
if society is seeking someone
to blame then just
go peer at the mirror
and peel the grotesque
repulsive mask off the face
and society ends up losing
one part of the never ending
cause of pain.

Like Breugel's Icarus
my brother Michael
dropped into the depths of the sea
unnoticed

Born at the bottom
of a crater of the moon
the sweetest foundling
since creation

His swaddling clothes
were denim and the blues
his pillow
a bottle of rye

This sweet soul
lived half a life
in halfway houses
and cheap motels
reeking of cigarettes
reeling from the *****

When he punched his ticket
on the midnight train to eternity
no one was surprised

I arranged the cremation
a fire that burned
more than one life

I gathered his ashes
and set out
for the crest of the Sierra Nevada

Alone
with my memories,
his ashes
and the cold stone
of those adamant heights

and then east
through the wastes of Nevada
the endless expanse
of the basin and range

A pilgrimage, of sorts
dedicated to nothing
and no one

Just the upthrust range
the solemn and self-absorbed peaks
the dessicated pine
and a wind
that scoured the soul.