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.