No time for anything but the past...

With a new job and the usual responsibilities on top of that there's been no time to write - even though I've got a ton of things that have interested me recently.

For now, just a flashback - some old writing from years ago.

(originally titled untitled e)

i could make myself wait quite awhile at the
r.r. station in westbrook before I felt a breeze
as gentle as your palms. and it would be so
uncommon to note the song that you spoke before

the best transgression I ever forgot just at the birth
of this period of tranquil disillusionment beginning
with the shake tremble foot steps I made and a throat
filled with a rasp very unique to being awake

this side-effect controls those breezes that are not
quite as forceful as your delicacy and far less memorable
than amnesia-induced by your absence. the forgetting
of all turmoil soaked in vinegar (something i care to remind)

sometimes i wonder why i even question your motivation
when i know it is just something you said last time we were
tangled (without touching) and we matched pulses in a matter
of speeches prepared by our ancestors (not that I would try it)

yes, the shuttering yawn of your wits circumference makes me
idolize. and, yet, yes, you. The one who is so willing to be alive.
this fountain of my arms reflects this non-pause of your movement.
so great! to be in love. and vested in your desire!


the chill that rusts the leafs
and the rain that feeds them
i will be the candle in your bedroom when you are making love
and just as coy, i will be the wind that blows it out
just when the clocks have counted down to seduction
center of this pendulum
which revolves around life
as the sun revolves around seasons
i am the beat of all sambas
a blond haze
that wands and dulls the magic of entrances and exists
i am the sunrise only because the next day is assured
so close you will never need to search
found in every shadow you require

something sadder than death thinks

something sadder than death thinks
fragile mortal jubilance
a souvenir of flesh and ashes, stepped in
it makes your questions dissolve
alzheimer’s rat like a mind of alka seltzer
even a great mind catacomb some days
gets enough of a spark to set back years of
cavepainters master struggles
too many have equated before to hourglasses
so that the joy of smiling is replaced by the sorrow of remembering
when the turn of lips was fresh and involuntary
this is the only time you are really living
not a void

Flowers falling from dying hands

it was flowers falling from dying hands
blowing on the interstate like feathers
on a dry summer dust afternoon

it was an inconvenient, radiant, erotic, unannounced thunderstorm
in early June
which was only appreciated once it was past

it was a sneeze interruption gap in a remarkable non-brilliant career
more than a spark, less than a flame
some how a passing passion

it was a shadow in October that disturbs the trees
in their funeral attire in their dénouement
only to act as imperial lighting

it was a car full of girls driving beside mine
on a long vacation for a stretch
trading elusive peek-a-boo back and forth until I turned

it was your smile in memories and pictures
and that was the satisfaction imprint
the gentlest kiss of dust in the wind against my back

Flowers falling from dying hands (2)

it was flowers falling from dying hands
blowing on the interstate like feathers
on a dry summer dust afternoon
with windchime sunsets
in New Mexico, or
in the suburbs
the untangling of roots
an apple released like leaves would be later
I couldn’t figure the trigger
that ended this canon
it was too much like
the way you made me wonder
when you wrote “whitewash”
finding and replacing you somewhere
in all the sockets in my mind
it made a light cloth visible
and the shadow over took it
footprints forgotten by waves
words regressed to meaningless sounds
then given the breath of new meaning
somehow lingered away
like the weakening scent of orange blossoms and you
when driven away from
a peaceful passing laid in a cathedral
this was the calmest death I ever died

Flowers falling from dying hands (3)

it was flowers falling from dying hands
blowing on the interstate like feathers
on a dry summer dust afternoon
dust with hourglass potential
flowers traveling on the backs of ideals
less than adventurously
a mellow-dramatic escape
a bridge from which i leaped twice
into different bodies
this was evolution
Darwin smiles
a selection and evaporation
never quite known when you are asleep
just that you've been
the loss of guilt
an expansion of death
too subtle to make this smile
it came from what has been not what is to be
you looked at Dali's Christopher Columbus Discovers America
and you blended into one of the crosses or apostles or jesuses
as you stood away from everyone else looking
an episode that just blurred
as if i could erase the end of every sentence
but it was beyond
the relevance of those notions
a madness disease cured
the sand had been washed away

North Branford

the mid-life christ
in sunken, aging cliffs
a sleeping giant out of its prime
it was this tribe that ended
the famous supper of the gatekeeper in the land
of insanity and unquenchable haze passions
too often I was left thinking of
the monument in its place
a mediocre career like mine
the faults and cracks can be covered
grass or hardwood, always timed
so the youth are misguided
halloween angels violet potential
and once I was fertilized nearby
before I was a stepchild
not last borne native tongue
then, this was pleasance only
I followed the game where goals
were heard more than seen
to be told I was not the type
with what I’d type
always outside of the familia looking
into windows of old sports cars
even reminded by the angel catcher
the passion passage never passed
in a sordid past
again winter will be welcomed again
with the wind, snow or sun
these brothers and sisters across the land
captor of spirits
nurtured again the silent wolf of flock
where the scrapes of rocks
that trees can’t cover
don’t make me rain where I can’t reign
it is a bright field in cliffs’ attendance

reagan-loving yankee

the 80s, to the one I have fooled
they are shingles; we
were sprung from the

This is a reason to be born singing hymns
your house, older than statehoods
we, so happy to say, live in rolling starfields
one or two technobeatnick potholes along the way

and a sullen sunburn, disenfranchised tongue
(without some R’s as you go north)

we are patriots
not Imperialists
we are independents without the in the pants dance
we are smart enough not to be told we have to be guilty

we are
the oldest souls, very little
is useable to decipher us from our homes
from all-American literature
we are the theology, not the executors

we do not believe, support, facilitate
have faith within the
Ideological Imperialism

we will let you breathe your own freedom
however you cook it

On the forehead of one of many nations under
God, though He loves the poor we still
Prosper, perhaps, promises to
some devil? til the world spills

(And on that day we will cry,
first of all cries,
we are New Englanders)