There,
out in the darkness,
a fugitive running.
Running from God.

Did I write that? I don't think so, Maybe it was me. Wait, maybe I heard it somewhere.  

I sigh in frustration and look to the skies but I see nothing.
Just darkness. Not the total black, the absence of light brought on by the spinning of the sun, the darkness that signifies rest, rejuvenation ,
No. no, just a faint black, a charcoal blackish grey brought on by a fog;

I glance around but I have no clue where I am. The fog is too thick. I know that there's something beyond the fog. Um, big ball of fire burning in the sky. Sun. That's what it's called.

After forever, I see a path, a meandering, twisting path. Its bricks not yellow like Dorothy walked on but red. Wait, I can see the colour. Maybe this is the path I walk.It's a long trek but that's what I'll do. Trek. Lugubriously down the path. Flashes of gold before me, of red, of blue, of orange, of purple, of a colour I cannot name but seems like a blue green thing.

Sometimes I can catch them, sometimes I can't. Sometimes they form a picture. A face in front of me. A voice. A flash of lightning in a cold dank world. Rain, falls. I know rain. Rain, will make the flowers? Grow. No! not my words as well. Where do they come from? The weather grows darker, the fog grows thicker. I wish I remember how it all started. I close my eyes to think.

When I open my eyes, two little faces appear in front of me.  I know them? no, I don't. Wait, I do know them. They chirp something at me, like two little birds in a pod. Peas, peas in a pod. Peas don't squeak. Peas posit, no, peas don't talk at all they're not sentient. **** it, the fog is back. I look at them and smile. That's what you do when you see people don't you?

Now I see some people coming into the room! Big men! They'll steal from me! **** me! I have to defend myself!  Oh wait, one of them wears a face. I've seen a million times; it's so... familiar. I look across to the mirror in the bathroom. Oh, he wears some version of my face. But younger. With... well with better hair.

He growls at me, his voice booms and brings the room to a stand still. I still don't know what he says. The smaller one echoes. His voice slightly smaller, less boom-y. Boom-y, that's not a word.

There's a word for it, I, The words are there, in my head, like rays of sun bright, no sunlight, coming through the darkness. I wince at the thought of the heat burning my skin. But there's no heat. Just fog. Just that blasted, ****** fog. It came one day, out of the darkness chasing me down like I was fugitive. It never sleeps, it never eats, it never leaves. Just there. Why can't I see the sky. I remember what the sky was like. It was, green? no blue. The sky was blue.

My dreams are interrupted by the boom-squeakers. That's not a word is it? I used to be good at words, I used to write them in a book, for others to read, for others to write

The four faces are in full speed now, booming and squeaking and squeaking and booming. I nod at what they say, I still don't understand them. Something about school and class, something about work and money.

Suddenly I see her,  there's a fine one across the room, I open my mouth but no words come out. She's wearing blue is coming with something. Oh I remember this! Sweets! she must be coming with sweets. She's young and pretty, she knows my name. Wait, why does she know my name. A little too well, wait are we related? that would be bad. Oh no, she doesn't look like any of those around. Her rosy red lips move but I can't hear the words she must be saying. The fog always prevents that. She's brought me candy I think. In a little bowl too! Oo! that's nice. I used to love candy. I think I still do now?

I let my guard down! Oh no! they've got me! (Pop!) they've forced me to swallow something! I better spit it out! Spit! Spit! Spit! Oh wait, the darkness is coming, it's better than it normally is. I see the void and know it's time to rest. Maybe when I get up tomorrow, the fog will finally... clear.

As I teeter on the edge, I hear it. the voices. They're saying something. They say....

"Is Grandpa Grandpa today, Dad?"

"He'll be fine, son. sniff He'll... maybe. be ok. Some day."

"Maybe tomorrow he'll remember us?"

"Maybe tomorrow, now put on the music. He loved Les Mis, it was always his favourite."

"Don't go yet, Dad. Please... don't."

The world goes dark but its finally happened. The fog has cleared and I see the sky, just before the sun turns and it goes dark a final time.

Now I rest.

October roads are littered with nostalgia;

auburn and crimson embers sink

like ash to the ground,

perpetually estranged from the spirited conflagration

as an old man is estranged from his wife of fifty years

after knowing her when her eyes bore the lucidity of an autumn sky,

after knowing her when her fair hair was full and gleaming,

after knowing her when she was able to distinguish the fact

that he was the man she loved,

before her mind became opaque and disjointed,

before her skin became as brittle as a desiccated maple leaf,

before she lost the steadiness to hold a sheaf of papers

without causing them to tremble

as a blazing autumn oak tree trembles lugubriously in the wind.



As he crunches down the

worn, flaming path,

his arthritic fingers clumped in a gnarled fist

deep within the recesses of his jacket pockets,

the old man smiles dejectedly as a young couple passes by,

their spry Labrador trotting happily by their side.

How it was, he muses, scuffing a stone along with his shoe,

to hold her hand and walk down here this time every fall.



A few minutes later he happens across a spindly sapling,

its arms thin as matchsticks,

its leaves defiantly clinging to its last remains of green

despite knowing that ruthless Nature will inevitably drain it all away.

The sight of this display of childish insubordination

reminds him of his son,

once a boy as small as that little tree

with convictions as grand as a red oak.

The man turns his face and shuffles along;

he has neither seen

nor heard

from his son for several years now,

not since her death drove him away to a place

where autumn does not exist;

to dwell upon it is to be struck

with great sorrow and longing,

like strained branches keening under intense wind.



Turning around,

the old man hunches his shoulders

in a futile effort to keep the chill from freezing his ears.

He grimaces; his hip never was the same,

not since the accident.

She patched me up, though, he recalls longingly,

she patched me up real good.

Didn’t even need a doctor. He chuckles.

Didn’t even need a doctor.

I bet she could’ve stitched me up better

with a needle and that blue thread of hers

than that uppity man with his nose in the air

like he was trying to find the sun.

And he didn’t do a good job, neither.

But I know she could’ve.

She could do just about anything.



A troupe of jack-o-lanterns grin

with the unrefined skill of young children on his neighbor’s porch.

Massaging his leg as he hobbles by,

he sighs and coughs. He looked so **** cute that year—

musta been around six or seven—in that cowboy costume.

She did a real good job, putting that whole outfit together.

Even made a holster and everything.

Felt a little bad for the kid

when she wouldn’t let him put a fake gun in it, though.

The old man cranes his neck to face the twilit sky.

You don’t mind if I let him have it, anyway,

do you, darling?

I know you always said I babied the kid,

said I’d turn him into a cube of sugar,

but he came out to be a good grown man, didn’t—



He stops mid-sentence,

unable to utter that very last word.

Standing at the lip of his driveway,

he pulls his hands out of his pockets

and pries his stiff, tangled fingers apart.

Night has fallen.

So, it seems, has his happiness.

The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene
sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity
the pounding and the tears through all these years
languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge
unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling
while listening to her tongue lashing and
harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words
cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot”
Not once but twice while searching through black clouds
of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason.

All due to confusing north from south and east from west
reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder
Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven,
Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic
lapping and licking at the shores while throwing
her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode
the question, “how can she possibly know the children”
Even though downgraded and ebbing
the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question
and all my determination fades in the wind.

Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore
power lines and internet down, hampering communication
flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached
yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own
dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring
her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain
while brightness and candor follow her path
with her feline temperament scratched and clawed
the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath.
Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me.

I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart
and begin to reattach my churning stomach
with the threads of her words of disbelief
bringing the force she was most capable of exerting
as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey
hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy
as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter
and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut
impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees
perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.

The first birds sang,
Welcoming the morning light
While simultaneously singing
Goodnight to the moonlight
Salutations from the crashing of tides,
Waves lugubriously swaying
Goodbye to the stars that died
The moon has went away
And now is the suns turn to play
Clouds proficient and prompt
Part ways for rays to shine through
Grass meets the morning new
With a sprinkled shower,
Fresh droplets of dew
An hour of rush,
The breeze blows into town
Shakes with the brush,
The leaves tremble by the touch of the gust
The shiny yellow toy in the sky
Reveals itself and brings joy to the land
Its common fellow
Replenishing regards to the ground
Once charred by lightning at large
Flowers bustle to bloom,
The scent of pollen
Fills the wilderness room
Rivers race frantically down stream,
Until rindling off and becoming
Unwildly mild
Glistening glaciers gracefully
Fall into the frigid frozen sea,
Escalating to a depth where
Only darkness can strive to be
All that it can't see
This is where quakes occur
In the trenches of the mariana deep,
And this happens
All while I'm asleep

Though like the kings and queens was she
Born who in lordly bricks palatially dwell,
And like the presidents that rule by majority
Votes the Republic, and like the verily well-
Pruned governors and mayors of states and cities
That live by the plough of the citizenry,
And like those folks of noble duties
Who delicately deck and behave benighly;
Yet this live in inclement circumstances, a
Woman nuts and partly ****. The round-
About her abode hath been and there the sheila--
Come rain, come shine--is lugubriously found.

Autumn is here
mesmerized
by the enchanting wind
dancing leaves
slithering to their resting place
lugubriously

11/28/2016

Ah to ponder:
To consider potential which is doomed,
To survey cynically crafted success,
To observe, inanimate, lonely people, waiting to die
To see a man speak the truth at any cost
but be cast a misguided fool regardless
To witness a lugubriously mediocre brigand
pillage your coffers with a smile, and be hailed as an upstanding citizen
To see lies piled on top of lies,
until all but the most cynical men beg to be deceived,
Is to have a gun to your head,
and be unsure whether to ask for release or reprieve

They'd lived on the flats, humdrum home in a prosaic town.
Those gabled edifices perched on hilltops
Beyond their means, perhaps,
But certainly beyond their needs;
Their children had cribbed at the foot of their bed
To the detriment of sleep and other night-time activities,
And they'd later shared a room, learning early on
That life was often a make-do vocation,
But could be rife with joys in spite of that.
The kids moved on, to mirth and mortgages of their own,
Their parents resolute in their desire to stay put,
Eschewing the siren song of some trailer court in Sarasota,
Some gator-patrolled condo in St. Pete,
Choosing to confront the seemingly never-ending residue
Of stubborn low pressure systems
Lugubriously wandering up the St. Lawrence valley
For weeks upon end,
The humidity and mosquito-laced all too brief summers
(Though, on those nights where no pop-up thunderstorm
Threatened to chase them back inside,
They would sit on the porch, peering at the gravelly old hills,
And he would whistle some tune from some long ago,
Perhaps pulling her out of her chair,
Dancing a slow and somewhat unsteady waltz
While he did his damnedest to stay on key.)

(for Alice Bridgwood)


At some point, we simply say to hell with it:
Whether undone by the shortcomings at our craft
Or by the simple bulk of our mere humanity,
We come to the conclusion that certain mysteries of the universe
Shall remain exactly that—oh, we’ll still have
The odd glimpse of the Platonic,
The glimmering flicker of epiphany
Bestowed upon us a few frames at a time,
Grainy and Zapruder-esque,
But, by and large, we will remain sheepish
As some television weatherman who,
Though ostensibly trained to understand the behaviors
Of sluggish storms making their way lugubriously from the Southwest
Or brisk mid-February Alberta lows,
Must admit he, too, was bamboozled
By the sudden deluge or foot-plus of snow.

What, then, do we make of one
To whom the inscrutable calculus of the spheres
Is an open book, as simple as connect-the-dots
Or some child’s paint-by-numbers
(But augmented with shading and shadow
Until the picture is not simple rote coloring
But something else, something finer and all her own),
Whose words move us to follow where she may lead,
Like medieval peasants, dirt poor and bewitched,
Who flocked to the Holy Land
Following the charismatic little shepherd child,
All hayseed and bucolic charm
(Yet all of that simply myth arriving whole cloth,
A mish-mash of sloppy scholarship and errant translation;
She’d have sussed it in an instant)
Hoping that some smattering of his grace
Would trickle down upon them,
Not unlike the prayer of the farmer,
His lands parched and salted, hearing thunderstorms
Rumbling in terrible grandeur in the distance,
Hopes the odd drop or two reaches his fields.

The cold, dead girl prefers the huts lonesome, especially the haunted  huts
She detests  pin drop silence
So for her, the sorrowful wind moans
lugubriously through the oaks and pines
The candlestick looks scary


Suppose you're  a spirit medium
Call her quietly
She will respond and pass through  the troposphere,  the stratosphere,  the mesosphere and the thermosphere
She is a good ghost
She resides in Sirius
The dead sinners  stay  in the inner  core


Life and Death are inextricable
The unending afterlife ...
Time knows how to fly
A gleam  of hope knows  how to try
Rain knows how to cry
A novella  knows how to lie
A desert  knows  how to remain  dry
The Mimosa  pudica  knows  how to be shy
A poetic mind knows how to be a clear  sky
and everyone was born to die
everyone is  born to die
everyone will be born to die.

When I'm in the atelier of my mind
I return to that feeling
Of not being able to run away and escape

I could be in the middle of a fair in Buenos Aires

It could be a National day of Thanks

There could be sunlight pouring through the house

And there I am

So a lament for that which always struck me
about singers of songs

Why so sad? So serious? I'd ask

A Lament, and lamentable sounds
And willow trees swaying lugubriously

A Lament, no smiling allowed
We wouldn't want to cheapen something so profound