You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
                                                                                            &

Just keep walking.
     Even when you can't feel your feet.
          Even though you feel you can't walk
               More.

In the fog
streetlight glow:
Will-o-the-Wisps

Embers wrapped in gauze
harsh yellow light
spills into grey monotony

The world has shrunk
confined
to the pools cast by floating lamps

All else
is a faded
grey blur

A stagnant breeze
stokes the down air
into writhing ethereal vines  

Vision clouded
permeated by whisper
mist caressing  

Everything is painted mute
a drear uneasy blanket
cast into the valley

I drift
strung along
by the luminous spectral splashes

Unseen
Unnoticed
a smudge in a world of vapor

Am I
anymore definite
than the intangible fog?

March today
despite being January
At least  a good day for a walk

Ice in sepia speckled with black
wilted under
the Water’s surface

Ridges and islands
           of white ice protrude
from the murk

Delicate ripples
roil from
inky black wells

Drab and tattered
the snow trodden grass
sways in the wind
Murk
Murk
The color of tea

steaming
Chai
In a floral mug

A warm up from
the chill
  walk

I drink down
to the dregs
satisfied  


It’s still March
as if January resigned early
and February forgot to come

Forty Degrees
clad in shorts
and sweatshirt, I walk  

Air perfumed by thawing soil
and melted pond pools
painted robin’s egg blue

Ice bent trees
bow towards the road
like children’s hands

Reaching towards
pothole puddles with trickles
trailing like balloon strings

Reflecting the sky
inverted vignettes
Caste in brown

Framing the trees
skeletal fractal fingers
reaching across the tableaux

Peering through the clouds
the Sun silhouettes
black bottle brush pines

Puddles on the ground,
reflect the heavens above.
Cloud filled skies calm me.
Flowers bloom, behold the sun,
praising the warmth that grew them.

****** One

I carried your being on my back,
Had knees like jellies under your weight,
But I kept going despite the pain.

You strangled me with your legs
When the ride got a little bumpy
Because you didn't want to fall off,
Unaware of your own strength to walk.

Your weight got me drowning;
Your weight had me short of breath;
It made me lose focus on what's ahead
Because I had to measure every step
And you kicked your heels into my ribs
Despite my biggest, sincerest efforts.

I was happy to have my feet moving
And my shoulders bending
Just in the name of you.
But you were a ****** one
And left me behind
Like ship wreckage after a storm.
You left me bruised,
Purple, ripe only for the  dead.
The arrow is stilled in my chest,
Scratching my heart but not piercing it,
While you hop onto a different throne
And make a different shoulder your home.

Side-walking, in the heat
On a path near the street
In a state so unlike my own
Three youths in march
Sun kissed by summer shenanigans
We walked, hopped, skipped and jumped
The tar hot enough to fry an egg on
Ourselves not far from
Our eyes on everything but the future
That I saw it
A perfectly cut rose, placed
Between the cracks of the sidewalk
Standing tall
And as I stared down at
Wilting petals dead for water
I thought about the complexities
Of summer time life
And the everlasting patterns of
Love that a rose held
In petals it grew
Only to die in the heat of dead summer
Only to die on the side of a road
Placed in memorial
Which they passed without a wink
Or the slightest of grazes
Of burning empathy
For life ahead
The linear path they could see
Of the sidewalk beyond
Running along an endless street,
That I realized I could never
Ever explain her to them.

feet just tappin’ it all out as it comes along
got this down, inscribed in my mind
findin’ more every minute of the day
feelin’ like old-time slang
like easy chords and lyrics
that just spell out my day like i can’t
my words are nothin’, not even
written down the way i say ‘em
just can’t describe today
the way the music can
and that’s alright, ‘cause i’m the one
who’s gonna put music to it
will you play the drums for me?
just need me a walkin’ rhythm
and i’m good to go