My ghost is pressed
Between pages of black ink;
Haunting bookshelves neatly labeled.
Fingers running down bound spines
vertebrae by paper vertebrae.
Memories that are trapped in fiction,
Lost by a to z organization,
Misfiled.

Why did
we exile
that child that
always smiled?

I implore you,
get riled!

Find your child,
when your imagination
ran wild and wasn't at all
styled.

Beguile,
you cannot be
misfiled,
as an adaptive,
creative child.

My vision,
fifty years disturbed,
lines deep grooved,
do my eyes surround,
eye witnesses to all I've seen,
the limited I remember,
and the even lesser,
the clouded remaindered,
I've actually understood.*

By nature,
an accepter, not a skeptic, 
nonetheless,
a squinter extraordinaire,
looking out not in askance oblique,
but for focus, clarity,
unconscious of his
disheveled appearance,  
the crow lines and the forehead furrows
and the crazy hair flying everywhere

Need now two hands to
enumerate the decades of
failed recordings and
misfiled data collections

Stacks of scribble filled yellow legal pads,
black n' white photographs with serrated edges
testify to the existence of the 99% forever gone.

This day's dawn
I squint-eyed watch
as I write,
this day's recording
I squint-eyed tap,
into a tablet,
into a memory.
proof to all,
especially myself,
that my vision,
in both my
mind's eyes and impoverished words,
fail to satisfy history's needs yet again

So I lay awake,
looking south over calm waters,
sun's peekaboo just begun,
realizing that my tainted visions of distant pasts,
of little import,
more **** than treasure everlasting.

T'is the future visions of generations
on lawn playing,
little hands delight exclaiming,
star and bay gazing,
the only vision I e're wanted to deed,
this vision, internal, construct perfect,
resurrected dawn daily, forever

Even if I must squint to see it clear,
its loss an impossible intolerable cost,
an unacceptable fear, all for nought,
even blind in living color,
this vision
persists


Silver Beach

5:53 AM 9/2/12

Living in a dreamworld. Living a little out of touch.
Lose myself in random dreams, that never really amount to much.
Wishing on a shooting star like a little child.
Searching for specific pages in my story only to realize they were misfiled...
Stolen away, lost somewhere, stumbling cannot find.
Searching for a place or person. I cannot remember, have i lost my mind.
Once upon a times and happily ever afters. Did  not teach us about broken dreams and unsolvable disasters!
All those big ideas where are they now?? When never land has faded and you’re a grown up somehow.
When your no longer a boy but still a little lost. When chasing all of those things has had a high cost.
Friends disappeared, loves have left you jaded. The energy and hope you once held has faded.
Barely a whisper but still your holding on, singing out your solo but the words are all wrong.
Isn’t this supposed to be the place for your redemptive arc, but no happily ever after appears and things look a little stark.
I don’t like this story, this sad woeful tale. I don’t want to be a character, think its time to bail!
Who is writing this narrative i angrily ask ?
But then in my hand i see the pen this is my task?