I have to wipe
the **** from
the toilet seat
before I sit down
to write this, and
outside the drunks
are drunker than I

remember.
They slur their nothingness
so that once again
I sense comfort
in an accidental,
quick death
away from it all.

There is no chance
of joining in again;
at the best of times
it is a test
of toleration.
This game is hate

filled envy
for the ignorant.
Their confidence,
quirkiness, complaints
and compliance
are the holes
in my weary armour...

For, the few occassions
when I am truly alone
I am god himself
staring down at the landscape
as if it were bare,
with a face consuming grin
as I write away

their worth
and, with it,
mine.

Outside the hotel room window
the children are screaming
whilst the shell of my father
waits in a box
to be burnt.

Why am I here?
I am nothing like these people,
they have nothing to offer me
apart from more news
of their mistakes.

Teary eyed stories
of entrapment
that make me wonder
how.

How can I be like this
with all that sludge
in me too?

My cat crouches on the windowsill,
chattering at the mourning doves
who cannot hear him.

The sun is coming up
and melts the crust of dew on the grass.
I don’t care about that.

I’m sitting on the floor, sipping tea
in a teal sweatshirt. It has pink and white
splotches, painted by my aunt in 1985.

How is this real?
The vase of lilies, the browning banana,
the silence of the doves outside.

Nothing is familiar

Yet . . .

It is Home.

4 little steps to one.
8 little steps to his two.
Rustling leaves, and
A full harvest moon.

The price of walking late at night,
Or early in the morning -
Freshly spun cobwebs,
Dew on your shoes.

Little leaf shoots,
Springing into view.
Stillness, and quiet
That honors the day,
Frames the fear and
Freezes the anxiety,
Transforming them into
a vibrant Matisse.

Expressions of self are
On the way. Freed from
The frenzy of coffee brain
By fresh air, and nature.

Because each meme has value,
and brought together,
they are profound.
All tasks have a purpose,
All things have a sound.
The woosh of the wind,
The crackle of dry leaves.
The crunch of cold
Beneath my feet.

This is not a straight path.

This path is cyclical -
Living one day at a time,
One walk at a time,
These moments are mine.

Like a fragile image
That was long ago cast,
Emerging from the recesses
Of the distant past,

A tiny reflection
That once was a gleam,
Of an old memory
From a cherished dream,

Who would know how
When or where?
Only you and the memories
That still linger there.


September 8, 1966