As Cattle.

The beauty that you posess;

it drives me.

Not as much through word,

but such as action.

Station

From across the lake i spy
the Basilica.

It’s towers show just enough reflection
To make me want for a tiny town of our own;
it's Duomo in the center, where all the town-folk gather.
Crops to be sown and nothing to falter with.

We'd run away to this, and let all that remains be.

Walk in the slowed chilled night
Through Christmas lights that
dance down trees
in waltz time.
Dripping it's product of melt
with
magnificence normally reserved for
stars and palpable change.

but. (I hope)

There's alway new possibility.
To not feel soo damn alone.

Be Near.

This action we take,
the importance of our reaction
and the avenues we take;

Up off Ontario.

When we drive,

well, when I drive

Kept for Myself.

My Father is my friend.
I'm glad for his existence,

Mum.

If it were able...

Opportune Opportunity

Four months later.

To you;

I'm not standing in the past

waving my feelings from side to side 

like flagging down a plane whilst

stranded for what feels like a lifetime.

On the island of scared.

I'm holding the present and future,

with it's golden strands keeping me warm,

as I gift the gift I'd love to give to you.

Perhaps I will, as soon as I see you again.

This is not about you.
nor anyone in particular.

Quarter note to eighth

I look at you,
and I want to dance.
Be carefree and flawless.
With simple movements in time
and a pasted smile hung on my face.

submit to dream.

Take your notebook
and a pen.

Write it down,
hell, write anything down.

Rip it out, and throw it away.

Your mouth tastes of whiskey and cigarettes.
Not as roll your own, and whiskey of a high regard.
And now that it's down to just you and I around here...

I'll roll my head back and let my shoulders lax.

Your cut sweater and shorter skirt reveal your true intent
Anything could be playing in the background... lights on or off...
I wouldn't want it any other way.

When you call, I don't tell.

it is disconcerting to me,
how much I love you.

And even though I know that
you also do,
I believe that you do not

know(!) how much I want to talk,
and listen

Long enough.

there are these moments where I want to kiss you.

affect

I walked right past the car,
and walked down the street.

On these warm days (oh how I'm effected by my environment)
in November, even in the fall, I'm a non-fickle
decided individual. Sun with it's warmth, the breeze with a
sense of change, something to swallow down and fill your lungs with.

It has an ability to hold my attention,
such as your hand on my leg.

Days like today

I'll take into account,
on this coffee and rained soaked afternoon,
that my made at home coffee isn't cutting it.
Trudge out to a town not far from here,
and order up what I normally do.

grandiose proportion

If I could somehow wipe October
right off the map... I would.
Not only this one, but to the past
and successive as well.

One Day Soon.

There were these times
that we walked into Wegmans
on Erie Blvd.
and you would grab my arm
as we walked in together,

as we grazed around the produce section.

Still be the asshole.

Actions please.
It's funny.
I'm getting really sick of words.

I could drop a hundred lines on the subject.
But without action, it's nothing.

I am the asshole in this (and most) situations.

And if nothing changes, actually, really, completely, physically.
changes.

I'd still be the asshole.

start, middle. finish

and then there are these quiet moments.

where nothing else is happening -

where there is no outside influence

and my street is as close to silent as

a pleasant street ever could be.

I can hear my thoughts

and they speak with clarity.

in succinct rhythms.

they say "ignore your past!"

blow your narrative up.

I just am tired of living

to tend my own shadow.

its time to create my own

spot. To talk about what really

matters.

Let it start, no,

let me start. 

chitarra battente

I dreamt that I was in a boat.

In the greenest sea imaginable.

At this exact moment I need to smoke.
First though, a quick thought,

Yahweh

I wont make a move,
until your social queues
and mine match up.

Like the ease that exasperates
your Christian name;
from your given, and they're
both ones I never use.

like/unlike

My memories betray me
from time to time.

I become selective with what
I remember, selective to fill
my own action's narrative
with what bolsters what I feel
the outcome to be.

From holding back on how I currently
feel, to attempting to be finite in
my action(s).

Nothing ever is finite, save death.

And each day is just a tiny bit
like/unlike the day before.

So today, I'll forward my thoughts
to everything being what it will,
what I want it to be.

And let Otis take my brain home,
with cigarettes and coffee.

Well as conversations to be had,
and things to be done.
I accept all to be.

Understatement.

I've moved.
And changed quite a few things.

The air is easier for me to ingest here
always the smell of freshly mowed grass
and lots of sunny days to be had.

I have a farmer tan on my left arm!

The ground is familiar,
and most of the places the same.
And the one's that have changed, normally for the better.
I'm surrounded by most of those
who I love, and who love me.

For what I am,
not what I could become.

And to say I'm thankful for that,
well, would be an understatement.

I'm glad that I made that choice.
And only for myself.

Random Occasion

No struggle ensues between:

man and woman.

nor

Bear and Braun.

Razor cleaned legs

Proportioned and tanned.

Walking to be unencumbered

Straining to hear a far reaching

reveille.

The sound of Dixie horns surround and drag

 you

     around.

          until, only until

              they do(nt)

It builds tension (like an unenclosed

end

parentheses.

there's this

dichotomy to be aware of, and

I completely am.

Even if.

It does blur lines on

random

        occasion.

<

Still, probably, not say no.

The music was the night's compass.

Not that long ago.

It drew us together,

and brought a closeness, 

that I just hadn't been able to give.

I went to sleep that night

and could smell you on my clothes

Remembering the feeling of your hair brushing against my stubble'd face

and the thought of our bodies interlocked in one.
The capability for close, in thought, as well
with skin.

Affected in a fluid motion

as two people in that proximity always have

that capability, to let guards down 

and want to please the other.

and to quietly fall into each
other;

on the couch or in some tall grass.
And bring lips together,
in soft bites and lips to necks.

That? Fantastically provoked. 

Both physically and emotionally.

I'd still, probably, not say no.

The earth expands and contracts,

the power shifts. 

And no 

struggle

ensues between. 

Just right.

(anything)

As we drove home last night,
down Seneca Turnpike
I glanced to the stars
to only see floating big rigs and the headlight of cars
floating far ahead in the middle of the night's sky.

It was a bit of an optical illusion,
and a mighty tiny bit of the nights
effect.

But either way, I knew.
Just for that moment. I wouldn't trade it
(anything)
off for the world.

And I let out a breath of relief.

The ground is wet
from rain. And it
forms perfect
imprints of the soles of
my shoes.

With us walking
next to each other
and finishing unison sentences.

Reminder by wind on a warm summers day.

The breeze just blew into my window
and it reminded me of standing in a graveyard
in Hum, Croatia.

Hum has a population that hovers around 17.
It's recognized as the smallest town in the world.

The day, weather wise, was a bit like today.
And there wasn't a soul in sight, save a few chickens
and the obligatory wandering dog.

The sun was out and it was a bit colder than one
would expect from just taking a gaze out the window.

But the graveyard, oh the graveyard.

Graves from 700 years old to as new as a few days.
The wax of a million lit candles.
It was right off the center gate.
I'm glad I went.

And today, for a moment in my mind, I was back there.

Thank you breeze.

Record Expunged.

It's funny.
Really.
I'm not trying to convince you,
I wouldn't waste my time.

But through all of this strife,
death and sadness...
I feel alive.

I feel like accomplishing
all of the things I used to do

And the ironic part is,
all of the things you wanted me
to do.

I'm glad, to feel this way
and I'm annoyed by the fact I'm
alone. Without what we began
before all the bending and
swaying to each other's
wishes and demands.

But, the censure's expunged.

I just wish it was an experience
we both could've had together.

It wont stop me from pushing through though.

Just for myself.

I inhale and exhale,
and wait for the moment to pass.
I tumble side to side and try to
find a comfortable spot,
after a day of disaster after disaster.

Is this is what we're left with?
Is this what we're down to?

I don't want this,
for me.
And I don't want
it for you.

The world spins on.
And we have to let this go.

I'm no picnic.

I don't get it. I really don't.
But at the same time I do.

But how can you have drifted that far
in such a short time?

I've said it a million times,
and I wasn't happy either.
But as soon as my faith is somewhat
restored,
as soon as we've made it past one hurdle... and I think there's hope...

There's nothing. But myself.
And most of the time I can wrap my head around it.

But right now, right at this exact second. I'm sadder
and more apathetic than I've ever felt before.

It'll pass, this feeling... But how could you leave me with nothing?
And go off on your own.


There's this old maple tree, towering into the sky in the back of my folks house... I'm off to sit under it.

Devil and the deep blue sea.

It's funny,
in Hollywood movies.

There is always that dramatic moment,
that happens on a stage, and feelings
of guilt are assuaged. And someone there
to tell them they are all right, ok, and we love you.

Or there's a boombox hoisted above some randomly
famous actors head portraying unequoivicable
love to someone that in one way or another that
has been wronged.

A giant sorry, and the giant fight.

And war blows bombs around us
we see it on the news, and know someone
who's fought the good fight. But the fight isnt here
and it's not close to home.

The world may crumble, and the oceans might dry. To a certain extent, out of my control.

At home we dont normally process
what is happening, how these things
effect us.

That's just silly. It's not a coping mechanisim,
it's not an ability to survive.

It's an ability to subside.

I'm rather sick of it.

I've (we've) gone through a lot,
in our own little personal microcosmic closets.

And we all have secrets hidden that we don't want to
or don't know how to deal with. But I'm sick
of hiding. I dont know how much time I have left.
None of us do, why fritter it away?

And it's time to stop feeling soo "caught between the devil
and the deep blue sea." At least for me.

Moving List.

A skillet
A bathrobe
A couch that folds to a bed. A couple paper lantern lights.
12 Banker's Boxes filled with randomness.

A toaster, coffee pot, microwave and crockpot...
A desk where I spend 10 hours a day

A small porch set where I write away my worries (it looks soo 60's socialist. As I'd imagine Stalins maid's kitchen table!)

A television and assorted book cases.

All the memories of us from the last five months, that slow decay of seperation.

And a chance to start again.

Ask for it.

If capability exists.
If this is what one wants.
Then we have to ask for it.

Otherwise we end up sounding
such as two people screaming
at each other
driving seperate ways down the highway.

Capability for indifference,
and knowledge of love.

I'd like to get this going gone.
And get gone this way that I currently feel.

Too soon since

It's funny, how a majority of my life fits into
twelve bankers boxes. (by estimate)

That I can fit the rest of my belongings in the back
of a Caravan (with hope)


Move to a new house, placed at the old.
Then start all again.

I'm really gonna miss the cats.
Bootsie is all snuggled up to me
at this very moment.

Cookie slept right above my head
on the couch, she was there when I
finally passed out, and woke me up.


I've hope that I wont continute
to look back in anger forever,
and I wish you the best.

But it's been too soon since,
to bury
a long time before.

The Proverb of Marryat

I'm trying so desperately not to be the bull 
in the proverbial china shop.


I'm trying so desperately not to be the bull.


But my horn drags the memories of our past right off
of the shelf. I stomp on the desire and passion
that I had for us, and blow steam from my nose 
such as a hot cup of coffee can warm your hands
on a cold New England day.


I don't want to trample on what was us,
I truly don't. I guess when it comes to
our hindsight, things are they way we've
set them up to be.




With wood, steel and bones we built this
resting place, for both of us. We brought
the cats and our couches, we made our bed
to clean the floor. And had the laughs that
could've been a great friendship, if only 
our love and communication could have been


more


complete...


But how quickly this changes, how hard
the wind can blow.
To the point this house of cards was not such a
permenant domicile. 


So today I mourn this upheaval. Then tonight 
I'll drive back to where and what we created
and start packing it all up, to start again.


Be well, Jillian. Be well.

Off 57.

The sun's heat radiates off all it's surroundings

and for a moment I can actually feel.

Off to find a burnt cup of coffee,

in some shop off 57 by my folks place...

For a time I can slump in poor posture,

relaxed in my chair.

Gazing off to the interchange in my periphery...

and feel all right about this entire situation.

I haven't mourned yet,

all I've had is this anger

vascilating with

a strange since of relief.

But I'm waiting for the mourning.

I know it's going to creep in, to

replace the twisted since of betrayl

that weighs time to time in my gut.

 Anything is better than that.

It has to peek it's head out sooner

or later, no?

If this was my last day on this fine earth

I'd prefer that my life was full of love.

and not anger for patterns out of my control.

I've regret for how long we languished.

As well sadness about the delivery of the end,

it should've been

not needed.

But I'm greatful for experience.

As it's time to go on, on my own.

Still no Regrets

There wasn't a better time.
There possibly could've been
worse.
Ways for this to end,
worse.
Could've been further on down

You could've wasted 12 years.

I don't feel the last 4 have been
a waste, and things have been off
for quite some time.

But I knew better, I knew the intent.

I just wish we were both more clear.

Me for how I felt, you with your plans.

It's funny, when did this stop being about
"Us" and more about our seperateness?

We are creatures, we are timely beings.

But the world keeps on spinning, doesn't it baby?

I've still no regrets.

Ancora imparando

It was one of those days,
warm beyond comfort.

Those days that you're glad
that it's the opposing train
bearing down on you, so that you
can feel the rush from the tunnel.

Earlier in the day I was talking to a friend
in Ani DiFranco laced thoughts - we can hold
a mirrior up in front of our beloved ones till
our arms get tired, but until they catch
the reflection, and see for themselves -

there is nothing to be done.

It's time to hold that mirror up
myself.

I hope you can do the same.

molto molto vero

I once knew a man.
I once knew of a man.
That could feel the ocean
lap against his thigh.

He'd walk most anywhere
from the forest to the sea.
With thought of circumstantial
nature in his head. Or of his
present worries - to be honest,
I dont know what he thought of...

I'd like to think it was something original.
And something of importance.
That was entirely to important to say.

I wish he would've stayed near,
He probably did as well.

Imagine to take a sneak
into that penta-prisim,
and hope it helps for you,
for us, to keep perspective.

Of what was, and what is to be.

Street Sweeper.

I watch the street for the street sweeper,

every Thursday morning.

I sit on the front couch,

and stare like a hawk.

It's a finger drumming event,

pulling my mouth's one corner taught and

then again releasing.

Eye stretched all rubberband'd.

Once it scrubbed and varnished my car.

And left me a note with demand for fifty dollars. 

As such an old man with burred hands

and old tee shirt for a rag reached

at my dress shoes in South Station one day.

I'd like for it to not happen again,

I'll keep an eye out.

Just remember to keep watch, I do.

Keep thought that light moves quickly.

Faster than the speed of sound.

al niente; marcato!

I have a dream,
one where I take
a new stand.

One of; dollars spent
and of a girl that draws
a girl under trees.

I have a voice,
that grows gravelly
after hours of sedation

and nights alone on the couch.

to a calando
of a whisper under
that same tree.


I'm ready for step three,
for better or worse, it's
for the better.

I'm no worse. If you'll
still have me, I'm ready

Unbelievably close

still evenings brought me here.

to love this time, in the night.
When it's dark.

I like simple. I like your hand,
and mine. Close together.
unbelievably close.

I miss that.

Especially right now, I miss that a lot.

I love you.
And you know that, too.

here’s the folk song, here’s the jazz song

i draw myself a spear
on a blank sheet of paper

and a bulls eye in the corner.
It's a spiral bound notebook,
and the page is ripped out.

all sorts of curley ring bound
paper tears...

I'm supposed to be writing
something that has this great
appearance of myself,
but that's all I have down.

I'm feeling old and spent
tonight. I'll wait for her to get home
and try to breathe something
new in.

Or maybe just hang about
and listen to the storm
gathering outside, the
evening's wide open.