Be listening to the Adagio in G,
When you go for a walk, any walk, or walk all alone, lonely
Be listening to the Adagio in G minor,
When you look South, where your life has gone, without you,
The clouds are moving bringing rain and storms, to spite you,
Be listening to the Adagio in G minor for strings and *****,
When careless words leave scars, like someone keying your car,
When thoughtless people talk like you are not there or anywhere
How soon, you wonder when things will change, if, for the better?
Be listening to the Adagio in G minor for strings and ***** composed by
Remo Giazotto.
And, snap out of it!

I wrote a poem for you, it cried
I painted a picture but it lied
I made a movie of still images
complete with the music I bled
Still, it left so many things unsaid
It wasn't enough for you
It wasn't enough for me
The path unspoken, forever broken
is so easy, in blindness, to see
Another day, someone's heartbeat
washes up silently upon the shore
beached upon an unforgiving earth
they think of Life no more
Each battle scar carved upon flesh
in a moment of Self Flagellation
is an answer to a deeper question
beyond our own imagination
I see you curled upon the floor
I bleed for you, I've been there before
You feel like its not worth it
This Life you have been given
But before you cut it down
Why don't you try living?

This odd fellow took
a long drink at night,
rock n' roll long forgot,
hard driving,
reacquainting unused,
years ago seeded,
elements of a
young man's remembering soul,
Hotel California living life,
live before his eyes,
demonstrated, recalled and
well-played
on a double slide guitar,
so each note of distinction
new and familiar,
au courant from decades
then, now and when-forever

the odd fellow
listens happy high,
drinking the music's
rich woven countenance
to the thrumming bouquet
of a pale white coloration
a Sauvignon Blanc
newly arrived from New Zealand,
just because,
this odd fellow
liked the name,
Supernatural

just like the music

and the
odd fellow is
young and old
at the same time,
tipsy and sober,
fresh and forlorn,
days wasted past,
days made for memories to last,
feet move timed
to the beat,
his heart resonance timed
to the beat,
the odd fellow is thinking
nothing could be more natural
to recall the supernatural past
and the future natural best to come,

with wine, his woman and
those rock n' roll songs

tho summertime,
he lets his hair grow long

when he wakes,
mirror just laughs,
a volcanic holy hell headed revealed,
forehead flopping, ear covering,
an unruly mess,
as a secondary metaphor,
holy insufficient

and a man does what a man can do

turns both old fashioned porcelains,
medium luke gusher eruptor is cupped,
with a two handed utensil,
a couple of scoopings
he turn faded blonde grey,
wet jet black for awhile enough

and a man does what a man can do

with less than a handful of brush strokes,
straight back they lie,
and suppressed for awhile,
but he doesn't think
"boy it's good to be a man"

no,

he study's the mirror's new reaction,
when his Cain forehead mark,
is now readily seen,
most gasp or look away,
poor mirror is fixed
and thus,
transfixed, frozen

what he thinks is this:

"good,
let the world see,
know, who I am,
and how I am marked
my holy hell is continuous,
unforgivable, deserved"
(he made her abort their baby)

but the mirror,
a simpatico old friend,
thinks the splashes will hide
his fresh tears,
but the man knows better,
yet, loves his mirror friend,
truthful image reflected,
even more for it

not a religious man
at times, I pray,
times, when the options are severely limited

look, get it, that makes me hypocrite,
instagram-man, shooting photo prayer upwards,
propelling them with all deliberate speed
skywards
thinking a passing angel will pluck'em
and hand deliver them to the correct
deity who will be good mood groomed,
thoughts fly, wishes returned bountiful

mark me upright or not,
mark me man with need for solutions,
mark me asking where should my eyes turn,
when there are none who answer,
mark me not,
for I have already been marked
Cained by life

One has a population of 1,700,00

The other 2,000 locals,
swelling to 10,000
come the summer people,
the likes of him,
and noisy day trippers,
neither like

both born and bred on their respective islands

he locks his car always,
when and where ever
where ever is

mostly,
she leaves her keys
in the ignition
especially when
she leaves
the car running
on the street,
when doing quick errands

both are life long islanders,
that from time to time come
avisiting each other's home plate

at night,
he just locks the doors
but once,
no deadbolt,
a sign he is cool
on her countrified territory

her house door has a lock,
but no one knows the
key's exact whereabouts
going on,
as long as she can remember,
which is most of
her twenty years total

he lives in a tall apartment building
on a finger shape island that probably has
10,000 tourists arriving daily

she from an irregular shaped isle,
twenty five miles as the osprey flies,
and they do,
hers, nestled tween two forks,
and ferry's connecting you to the
"off island" till about 1:00am running,
after that, well, find a beach...

she, in a house,
outback,
behind the
country-package-store-deli
where the
most expensive gas on the island
for sale to touring folk
on the island's main gig highway

that store where
only the localest of locals
come in for
to buy their beer,
and the lost tourist,
looking for free directions
pays for them with expensive gasoline

he has one job

she has three

when not waitressing at Sweet Tomato,
she's planting flowers for the landscapers,
or working the counter at said store

she was prom queen

he did not go to his prom some 45 years ago

Two islands, two people,
one ancient, even borderline old,
one a student studying
modern farm management,
with the future openness of youth,
who won't take down college loans,
the other,
edging closer to his distinct extinction

but they talk for hours,
and he tips her more
than the cost of his meal
and the bottle of Pinot Grigio,
which loosened his tongue,
on a Friday eve
having traveled almost
four ungourmet hours,
to get to the island
he borrows from her,
in the summer time

and two days later,
one is encapsulating
the memory of the meet,
on an island of poetry

and he thinks he will go back
to conversation continue,
but that first meet
well, no repeat,
so he leaves
it's taste
here

for you to share