An echo of an echo oct. 15, 2024

  

I still hear the echo

 of what once came to me by night

not the whole sound

 only bits and pieces

 memory rescues from

the refuse of the past

dim now with the shards

 of what once clung to memory

 causing a cringe if not a howl

but here the voice

in the dead of night

when at the darkest hour

 I wake shaking

left to ponder what it meant

 and if it still means anything now

an echo of an echo

I cannot pin down

to its source

 or even gauge its true intent

though as I toss and turn

I feel the burn again

 the tender flesh

scalded and soothing

a touch from a time prior to that

an echo of an echo of an echo

I cling to

 hold on to

when I have nothing else

 

 

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a Love affair of a different kind Oct, 13, 2024

  

She speaks of them

 as if old friends

they are the uncomplicated

 unquestioning equine lovers

she can trust never to betray her

 even when she lacks

The experience they might need from her

those who have been forced to surrender

 to some ailment caused by others

not all of them thoroughbreds

some nearly as flawed as she

 wounded by life and yet

she finding a way to carry on

 magical in their nature

if not quite the unicorn

she wanted to be

 to recount each

recalls good times and bad

 then physical feelings

as well as her own

feeling their lack of judgment

 in a world where no human

or at best very few

 could be nearly as so generous

a Love affair of a different kind

 

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for want of rain sept 2012

 this used to be a weekend

 of Jerry Lewis and the telethon

 first New York then Las Vegas

then not at all

 the vacancy I feel now acutely

 now after a long hot dry summer

 though it is not the heat I hate

the mirage I see is not of an oasis

 rather a memory of feeling

 a touch or kiss and more

 as distant, an illusion

 as any man dying of thirst might see

 Greener pastures,

 bubbling brooks

swaying palm trees

 and coconuts

a paint by numbers vision

I fill in with thoughts of you

that odd lingering landscape

that is somewhere beyond lust

 but has not yet reached

the word love

a passion to find the passion

 among the dry Stones I mistaken for water

 a man can die of thirst for wishing

 and yet it lost in the fog

 that only he can create

 this day when summer ends

 and fall looms ahead

leaves still green yet

 tinged around the edges

 for want of rain

like me and how I feel

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No smooth edges Sept 8, 2012

  

There are no smooth edges

 just the crazy surface

to which my fingers cling

fly like and full of terrified vertigo

knowing that sooner or later

I will fall no net below to catch me

 only the dismal gray landscape

as remote and inhospitable

as the surface of the Moon

I used to bask in moonlight

 back when waiting for her to text

 I can't even look up these days

 scared the Moon by fall down on me

I see her face; her dark eyes

her slanted smile

I am a fly on the wall

waiting for the Earthquake

to loosen my grip

cause me to slip

turn me into a blip

or a smudge on the floor

for her to step over

not even as dignified

as one of her stepping stones

 there are no smooth edges

to any of it just

sharp points I keep pricking myself on

bad birthday wishes I wish I never wished

 and can't take back

 can't repair

 can't fly away to get around

 I cling here to survive

when I know survival might not be possible

 

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It does not age well like wine oct 7, 2024

  

what is it we live for

 if we do not take what

 we need or want what

 do we save our virginity

our innocence

 kept locked up

 secluded

 until it turns to rust or dust well

more worthy men than me

 lust after it

dying  from want

 drying up for thirst

This is illusion we harbor

inside our chests. disguised

 a false prophet

 a deluded belief

we can keep it for

the perfect soul

when none such exists

 come down off the pedesta

l so we might look or touch or take

this is not like wine

that grows richer with age

 we must drink this up from

the first dip of our cups

 to become inebriated

 before it loses all virtue

 

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Lawn, picket fence and one and a half kids April 28, 2015

  

Far too late to save herself for her weeding night, now, longing for the small lawn, the picket fence, and the one and a half kids, longing now after having already bought the farm once, a jealous rage, she claims she did nothing to inspire, giving her better half the excuse to do what he claimed she did, though eventually, I think, she did it, too, since if she was to be accused she might get something out of it, leaving her to squeeze what little pleasure she could find from her being eye candy for a band of misanthropic males, different this time, a man who really wants her, but also wants his wedding cake with the wife he already has, condemning her to the role of side chick, when she wants something more than the crumbs he leaves on his plate when he goes home to lawn, picket fence and his one and half kids.

 

 

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Gimpy Waddle Nov. 2, 2025

 

I pick up Gimpy Waddle from where he sleeps near the portable heater and carry him to the nest of blankets still warm from where I’ve slept, an almost helpless creature fetched from the yard after his mother abandoned him, yet not so helpless now though he would not have survived out of doors on his own, his front legs barely able to operate and now, at six months old, he’s a third the size of a normal cat his same age. While he can walk after a fashion now, in those early days, the best he could do was roll from place to place. He still sometimes falls down or is forced to rest when making the arduous journey back to his spot near the heater which has replaced his mother for warmth, a survivor, but only barely.

 

 

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