vacuum July 31, 2024

 

nature abhors vacuum scientists tell

perhaps explaining how it feels

to stumble onto a place where her face

once stood prominent,

along with her bits of wisdom

all gone sucked into some

 black hole of emotion

I still can't explain

 the blank page from which

 I can only retrace shapes from memory

and even these imperfectly

confusing what was

with what I wished would be

still hoping for some miraculous Resurrection

 I come back to it again and again

seeing nothing except what I bring to it

 the unfulfilled desires

 the intensity of forgiveness and pain

the shadows that hide

in the depths of space

many many light years

 between what was

 and what might have been

 

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I look north oct. 16, 2024

 

I look North and think of her

 this time of year

 the changing leaves

 the memory of her leaving

the same road still connects us

 as does the river along which

the road goes

the tips of the mountains

greeting me each time

 the lips of cliffs

the narrow spaces to either side

 I ache to go

 knowing I won't find her there

I look North and think

of change this fall

as well as others

 spelling out new directions

 that all seem to pursue the way

she has gone North this time

 South another

like pieces of a puzzle

 I can't help but put together

in my head

tires rumbling over the rough

surface of this world

 as I drive north

 to see the trees

 the leaves and

always the memory of her

 

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Salesman at the door? Aug 16, 2014

 

I’m so glad we don’t have milk men these days or door to door salesmen selling vacuum cleaners or encyclopedias.

I’m glad she is not my wife, the housewife who stays at home with apron on, but nothing else, who calls for pizza delivery with an unexpected tip.

It could be worse. She could be fucking the mailmen, too, or the Prime driver, or even the man in the mustard green UPS uniform, getting her afternoon delight as prelude to an evening with me, the perfect housewife who brings herself to me naked on a half shell, where I suck her up along with the remnants of all who came before me, never knowing of their visit, grateful for the lack of milkman or salesman when there are so many more modern me she can engage with.

If she was my wife, I could not work, my mind pondering all the possible combinations, her visit to the shopping mall with other housewives, the livid luncheons, the cocktails afterwards, the afternoon gigolos who wait for women like these to prey one, no milkmen, no salesmen, just pizza for two – with me coming home to give her an afterwork cocktail, drinking her up with all those who came before me, while I wonder who will have her after I fall asleep.

 

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Dream Oct. 22, 2025

 

 

I did not dream of her, that last and vivid dream before morning brings consciousness, stark as sunlight, and yet edged with the lingering mists dreams always contain.

I did not dream of her, although I could have, recalling a place we both shared for a time, a bank that was not a bank when we inhabited it, and has since ceased being what we shared after we abandoned it.

The dream thick with the remembrance of those final days, hers, and later mine, as we closed the door on that place, and recall the people who shared that space with us, heavy with regret, and wishes things might have gone better, and now, this late in the day, too late to do anything but look back, my character sponging off free giveaways of food banks used to give when I was a kid, then shifting out on the streets – where the water tower stands – and some maniac driving a Datzun B210 backwards off the pier into the river, desperate to be rid of that rattling piece of junk, with me, bearing witness to the end of us, watching him ride off (with a girl who might be her) into the sunset, while I fumbled with my camera phone, unable to take a picture, aching to find a face beyond the glare of the windshield, later, waking, believing it was her, gone, but not gone.

 

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Each step we take Aug 15, 2024

 

We stumble through

The dessert of our lives

In search of an oasis

That may not exist,

Desperate to reach

The far side before

We die of thirst,

Our only real hope

Is to keep moving,

One step after the next

Knowing if we can

Take the next step

And the next after that,

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We might achieve our goal,

It is never easy,

There are always

Obstacles that get

In the way,

Not mountains or

Even quick sand

But pitfalls nonetheless,,

Any wrong step

Possibly becoming our last,

It is difficult to avoid these

And still look to where

We must go,

And yet we need

To keep our feet

On solid ground

The whole way through

 

Testing the limit Aug. 14, 2014

 

Is there any limit to those who keep her company, by day or night, rolling around  in wrinkled bedsheets, seeking to do what she likes best or what she might like to do next, the parade of those who stumble, love-drunk through her otherwise locked doors, married or unmarried, none certain what exactly to expect, perhaps even shocked at what transpires when they leave.

What is the limit, if there is one, to the idea of joy, not just the physical presence (though that is amazing in itself), but the feel of what we feel when we come too near, the promise of something so utterly intense we’re never certain we can survive it, yet are drawn to it – moth to the flame—to test our mettle, and learn the ropes even if it means being tied to her bedposts, to let her have her way.

Is there a limit to her joy? Does this come with a number on it? Or is the whole universe hers to explore, she needing to go as far as she can so she can learn what is enough, and how can anyone keep up with that, clinging to the pillows as she stretches it all out and asks, “Are you coming yet?”

 

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your river and mine sept. 8, 2024

  

this River and that river

are the same river

even if we are miles apart

 reflect the same sky

for the moods may swing

 a different way

 your river bank with trees

 mine with skyscrapers

 yours rich with the scent of pine

mine with the heavy exhaust

 of barges and computer trains

 your river flows into my River

though it takes some time

 your water kissing my water

 and it is divine

 your River mingling with mine

 for those few miles where

 both Rivers reach for the sea

limbs entwined perhaps overheated

as they rub

your River and my River pressed together

 chest to chest in an endless caress

your River and mine becoming one

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