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!

jeffrey

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

House

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)