these feet, a rambler's. wanderlust
soles tied from genetics of the epi-
kind. his feet did ramble so as these
now do. his difference, he trek'd with
steel shunt in arm. he trek'd slums'
floors. grit-ingrain'd skin, pox'd wh-
olly and now pushing onlys. pushing
ash against the walls of Death's
container. body aged thru time,
more than doubled - more like
end'd - by that refined infusion.
these feet, a rambler's. walking forth
existences' hundred-mile wilderness.
his feet had also, and his feet defer'd
before sixty-six. these continuing
onward searching ancient trails. loo-
king to start another day, looking
for to never quit seeking another
day before the unlit walls of Death.
before the darkness consuming
of depths never known, always near.
these feet, a rambler's. of well-worn
leather. relinquish'd of cares, desire
or ambitions by brambles strangling.
blood running by access of natural
means. slate ****'d soles, crevices
open'd of the crust throwing chal-
lenges toward the sky. heights im-
aginable if only to forsake lazed
calves. heights set for disappearing,
where tracks never lead. no wrong
side in non-existence, no wrong
sight for the rambling feet worn lea-
ther.

I understood I would never marry,
buy a house, have kids,
mow the lawn on Saturday,
wash cars, clean the pool.

I had an atypical plan,
thinking back, for my life:
a wanderer, adventurer or pilgrim
without want of firm roots.

Each destination a chance happening,
an introduction to the unexamined.
Sidewalks, cafes, alleyways, and life
being lived, journaled for remembrance.

The North Country, New York;
Watertown, Carthage, Clayton and Ogdensburg,
strolling their streets dripping
history and memoirs never told.

Lassoing thoughts from wild conversation
with caffeinated coffee shop poets,
struggling with Calvinistic thought streams
and priests in moments of doubt.

My theories in marble.
Gently chiseled with each interaction,
chipped, thoughts evolve
leaving inference among spilt beans.

All memories and dreams mingle.
l hold them gently.
As midnight creeps I’m untethered,
drifting from the shoal once more.


Suddenly I sense wonder:
The Appalachian Trail at Katahdin,
Continental divide at Loveland Pass,
Mount Hood from Pacific Crest.

Have you ever witnessed
views of Mojave’s Kelso Dunes?
Felt the Great Basin’s rainshadow chill,
or contemplated Joshua Trees in prayer?

Often the life of could have been
is more lucid than I am,
kneeling gnarled,
pulling obstinate weeds.

Shallow breath’d and gazing… scanning
my cut grass, clear pool,
a loving wife, adoring children,
my home…

This man,
mind wandering,
acquiesces,
to clarity of thought.

I would have… could have
been that man, that other life,
a Walter Mitty dreaming
a life; mine.

rehashing, redacting words in breath-
less thought. back into, place of
belonging; back for, a time of concep-
tion. then, and always, exhaling tone
of muscles vibrating. spoken, reverbed
of this hollowed body. eye-to-eye, view-
ing a soul outside this vessel; speak
to the eyes to be heard ofa  soul. and
of last breath -- words spoke, never
meant heard of interred. of last breath,
to be out sole compansion of lamplight;
to sprade paper scraps where images of
life were found writ from mumbled
hand. words, those left withered th-
oughts scrapped when weened of
connectiong. eyelids flutter, lack comm-
itment of the soul wandering through
broken roof and heaveward on and
beyond an impossible sky gliterring.
out into some million mile expanse --
some insurmountable spanse not even
Katahdin might hope sought. simple
lamp light, casting shadows, in never
furnished room. they stroboscope with
the fluttering -- an attempt to disavow
final alone breath. a first kiss of sweetheart
named death, but not that from mouth of stereo-
typed sickle-carrier. death with lips full and unpainted;
lips not of harlot whose eyes were long ago shut away.
were long ago gone, beyond this spansed memory. death,
sweetheart of childhood, wavering in the dim light; death,
patient waiting found only from one love lost to the million
mile spanse. sweetheart, with face to ease and supplement of
spirit; out wandering awaiting spirit-loose companion in abidement
of union outside the restraint of physicality. her -- death -- finding
manifestation in shadows thrown through empty space.
cast of oil-soaked lamp's wick turned low; vespers of shadows
ever morphing. ever cooing. waiting to accompany part
and leave pense upon ever-veiled soul of him whom
sought an emanation's first and final kiss of unpainted lips.

It didn't last, as an explorer searching the stars
is doomed to die, in wanderlust
Katahdin cast a deep shadow, that kissed
the essence of being
but
it didn't last
Again I'm here with my cup and pack in this
weary hole in the ground
Spilling words to nobody in particular, with
no true meaning other than simple release
This won't last either, it'll be buried by
others burdens, more meaningful ones
Mine is simply that of being alive, when I never
asked to be
Paying taxes I never agreed to, paying to be
just live,
when I never ******* accepted the contract but
here I am, in a world of others ideals
mine get pushed aside for their own

but I can rest easy knowing that like all else

it won't last.

i need to see the sun rise this day;
for feet elucidated of patterns
followed upon an earth. wearied
or aching, knees to find
rest on Katahdin's summit;
fictionalized place of birthed sun.
now mythos, now dawn and
an arrow sure to have missed
the moon's lover. fired
by childhood mockery
while birds awakened song.
i need to see the sun rise this day;
for eyes be witness of intri-
cacies entwined upon an earth.

I might make this the year I tell the men in my life when they do something that hurts
Probably not but it’s what I curl up and close my eyes about at night and let soak behind my eyelids into my dreams.
Katahdin is not a volcano. You can’t come into my life whenever you want. The way you forget everything I did for you makes me feel like garbage. I would like you to acknowledge the hurt and not just how I’m reacting to it.
Will it make me a *****? Will you like me anyway? Will you be in the headspace to hear that? Do I care?
I used to say I didn’t make friends with men because I thought they wanted to hurt me on purpose. I think now it’s on accident.
Is that better?
I think this is the year I say something and don’t cover with a joke to make you comfortable
Probably isn’t but I really want that to be true
One day I’m going to wake up and make it so
And with myself intact, my day will go on