now writing this after the event, I am unclear, was this a dream, a hallucination? something other? of that I am now unsure, but in the moment everything seemed as real as a pinch in a dream might, as best I recall, but this is the next morning after all so I can not be nailed down to the details, however they might seem…
the scene:
nearly 2am on a summer night, hazy, street lights suspended in the humid air, hanging there like diffused cones, not exactly romantic, I know, I had to venture out to my car to put a couple of things in so I would not forget in the whirlwind of morning when I am surely not at my sharpest, especially before the coffee kicks in, the whole street seems blurred, mired in the dampness and lingering heat, almost like the reception of my eyes was off a bit, I scanned around like I always would, sometimes I spot a fox, or other things that go hump in the night, but tonight, about three houses down, something, surely a four legged thing, as best I could discern a deer, perhaps with antlers, I’m not sure, the form is also hazy like the whole lot of the world right now, I raise my phone up, pop on the flashlight app so cleverly in there, held up like a torch but not as bright, at least not on this night, the damn light is trapped in the infernal mist that is shrouding my sure identification, I swear the thing is looking at me, is it a deer? by itself, this late? I see them all the time, the local pack I mean, I know their work hours… and this ain’t one, my mind races to identify for certain, some fear has snuck back stage, coyotes have been spotted in the area and who knows, at this distance roughly could be the size I suppose, probably I am over thinking, but what throws my mind, the color seems off, for any creature of this earth, aside from a polar bear, which this certainly is not, I approach slowly, with caution, my flashlight phone is really doing nothing to help, and still the ‘deer’ stares right at me locked, surely my stealth is anything but, I hear no sounds, not even my own breathing but the white deer is aware of me anyway, as I am aware of it, just staring, the only two beings of the hour in a standoff, except I am approaching, these are my broken-in shoes, worn down like thrift store blue jeans for sale, walking in velvet, no sound, and I inch forward, I swear the thing has a glow to it, I can not describe it, except it exists in a mist, in it’s own atmosphere, the haze that is an occupying force, this night, I sense it might take flight, so I slowly, surely, lower the phone, activate the camera, get ready for the shot, somehow it knows, it looks forward once, and then back at me as to signal, I press the button, FLASH, hah, I must have captured it, for it is gone from view in the next instant, I hurriedly check my photos, nothing… nothing? this was a long few minutes of pulse to come up without a fish, there was something there! I swear! I check again, and there is a faint outline perhaps, a phantom’s trace maybe, and the more I recollect the white deer, bounced like a light-beam pinball behind the neighbor’s house, so fast, grease lightning, a trick of the mind? a trap of the haze? there were rumors that these parts were a farm long ago, I remember seeing a ghost chicken run under the car as a small child, but that was so long ago as to seem like a made up memory, I begin to wonder, and I look at my phone again, there was something there, an aftermath, a remnant, so what were you? the white deer.
Author: David Koblentz
lost.love.letters.

I only need to see
but routinely ignore
the empty sheets of morning
in that moment, perhaps a moment, something I usually do not think about on the way out the door, or maybe try not to anymore, but did this morning, how usually, how used to, I might find you there, and stare, watch you sleep, laid out, jumbled, or curled up in bundles, my love, your night black hair, with a few grays, even back then, in our twenties, how long has this been an empty bed, nothing between the sheets when I leave, the empty sheets of morning are all that greet me, how I have grown accustomed to the notion, a place once inhabited by two, entwined devotion, now just an island, I do not recall even arriving here, just surviving here, but here I am and here I’ve been, so long now… so damn long now… is this to be my end? these empty sheets that greet me every morning since.
spaghetti eastern…

.shallow shampoo
the simple things, right? in the shower this morning, fingers luxuriating in my now short hair, I suppose my mostly comfy suburb life never viewed a haircut as a luxury item, but I suppose it can be, at least a professional one, I was definitely a passenger on the bus toward mullet-ville during this quarantine as I could only trim my front and sides – somewhat adequately, what a difference now, I am reminded of how I used to make it a point to scrub my scalp to magically activate the nodes, to perhaps get the blood flowing or something, an anecdotal ritual to ward off baldness or summon youth or both, foolish, I know, funny how certain things ring true though and just pop into your mind instantly years later, as if you are walking through an old library and pick a random book off the shelf that happens to apply to the right now sudden situation unfold, I would not look good bald, I always have told myself that, maybe, maybe I will never know, but I am pretty confident that the whole bald thing is not for me, well, at least for now…

.speeding and relative consequences
driving to work the traffic is slowly gathering and coming back to normal, not quite there but there are definitely more travelers week by week, I notice a train crossing over the turnpike, I know, that does not sound exciting, and, well, it isn’t, but for all the times I have made this drive I can not recall ever seeing it, strange… the weather prognosticators have been wrong the past couple of days, I am aware a real storm is coming, but the little ones before the big one never arrived as prescribed by the all knowing weather gods, the sky is bright, there are clouds that look like inverted sand dunes, the type that look like they were imprinted from a chain link fence being pressed on the surface, I know it is a natural phenomena but amazing just the same, the NYC skyline looks like a cheap fake today, literally like a 2D paper cut out of what a ‘city’ should look like, of course there are recognizable forms, the empire state building, the freedom tower etc., but, maybe it is just the fact that I have driven by so many times, that I am not in awe, this sprawling metropolis at a distance, I know the streets, the smells, the sounds, the avenues, the parks, all of it, just from here it looks like a flimsy supermarket end-cap cardboard representation, flat without any juice… I suppose I am speeding, technically speaking, but sometimes doing 80 feels normal, earlier I was doing 70 but with no one around, no reference, no company, that felt like speeding, and now cruising near 85 mph I am almost day dreaming locked in a smooth straight ride, I hardly notice the Audi A8 barreling up behind me, I’m not hogging the left lane, I’m not one of ‘those’ drivers, I leave a good three cars of space in front most of the time, but the Audi just flashes on by as if I am walking, “now that is speeding” I think to myself, with a little disgust as I do recoil at those who pass through all the lanes weaving back and forth (“stay right pass left” ingrained like a tattoo in my skull), I suppose it should not matter much, but damn, I have to admit, it bothers me and I can’t bring myself to do the same even if, honestly, in the long run, it is not a big deal, funny the curbs we place on our own roads…

.arrival
the excitement, the actual palatable rise in contentment, from spotting a sparkling parking spot out in front of the office, waiting for the light left arrow green, the mantra begins in my head “c’mon man, c’mon man”, squeezing the wheel tighter just like pushing the elevator button a few more times as if it will do something to speed up the time, I turn and signal right to the curb, I look around, head on a swivel like I am stealing something, hello hand meet cookie jar, or maybe…maybe I am missing something? I double check the parking sign three times, a sign I have seen one thousand million times before, and I check it once more, I question in my mind what day this is for, maybe I should check my expectations at the door if this is what gets a rise out of me in the morning, I guess expectations are relative, and they are, first to the office this morning, no prize, no ribbon, turn off the alarms and go through that minor panic that I might forget the codes, as if the world would end or the building will explode, and the phone is ringing, it is not 8:30 am yet, don’t these fools know the rules? I feel like I am getting over on them by not answering the phone until the prescribed time, how we wrap ourselves in this world with the garb, the costumes, the hat and gloves, of momentary importance, which is surely not, just a wait station between things that actually mean something.
…definitely time for coffee, splash of skim, packet of stevia, and dive right in…
conversations (with a muse, or something other)..?..!..?…

“would you allow me to patronize you with lies
perhaps I might even tell you some truths”
I figure, what do I have to lose, but time, always the sand but there is no real point in paying attention to that until the end, and what can I do about that anyway, so perhaps a cup of tea, although I am more of a coffee wonk these days, years, how about a cup of earl grey, for bergomot is the most forgotten citrus, maybe, perhaps I can pull on a thread and work my own knots out or fashion a garment even in the process, I certainly have to bow to her experience but then again we all bring something unique to the arbitrary table, so let’s dance…
…and the hours pass on by, fantastical and intimate stories shared, in one direction, I never bothered to check her credentials at the door, and how would I go about that anyway, the tales seem somewhat legit, but who am I to say? I keep waiting for the reveal, the fortune nestled inside the cookie egg, or maybe I am missing the point of the entire exercise anyway, she controls me with her eyes even though the words are spun from her mouth, lips, lips that move hypnotically that is, I fear I am nearing a trance, scratch that, fear has gone, faded out like a shadow on a blank chalkboard moonless night, comforting darkness though, the soft kind right before you drift off to sweet slumber wrapped in your favorite blanket, to wander another world in your own dreams, is she planting seeds in those fields? how might I know, or even be aware when a spinster of such merit and age is playing with language so easily, are these stories that were ? or are to be? for me? or for…

orange blossoms and jasmine, or maybe it is the tea, her tea, sipped so perfectly without a sound, I see the ripples on the surface pond, the silence is a stark contrast like standing on a sheer faced cliff high above the surf, you can see the waves crash and imagine the sound they make hitting the rocks so damn violently but somehow romantically like a kiss, she sips again, just enough time to keep me from being fully mesmerized I think, of course she has had all this time to perfect her skills, like a linguistic surgeon, no, more like a veritable verbal ballerina, like watching a master paint a landscape effortlessly from the wrists on down, as if the very hand of the universe is drawing stars in motion right before me, all afternoon and into the night, the delight of her words is intoxication, is this love? or seduction, mental seduction as she penetrates my barriers with utter ease, doors open, my mind, and I am in rapture unable to decline her masterful invitations, invasions, all the while, somewhere before, I am trying to pull the pieces together, not sure of the whole outcome, like a puzzle- I start on the edges, a cloud piece to a cloud piece above the ground, but just the sound, I come to understand the yarn and draw of the pied piper’s lore, disarming, the stories flow…
at once swept up on a mighty ocean, the slick wet deck of an aged wooden galleon, rolling up and down in a violent storm, lightning flashes the night, I can taste the salt in the air on my mind, and then transferred to a conjured green wooded field ring, mixtures of pine and honey, a fawn on a sacred stump raising sweet lullabies from pan’s own flute, for even the butterflies pause to admire and sing along, their wings beat with the song, or perhaps in a desert, feeling the sun sap skin, coming upon an old sand ruin to know it’s story again, running my fingers along the edges and seams, where the mortar had been, and the hands of lives that shaped these rocks…
this is a transcendent tempest, a dream, a fever’s cradle, she pulls all the strings with my willing submission, truly I am smitten and drawn quartered in woven worlds, a web, a spider, a morsel wrapped up like a gift, for I am hers, so I succumb, she wins.
simple.
“sometimes you think the rain will never end
but it always does”
-me
ah, so some haiku, as I am known to not usually do (to form)…

little yellow star
buttercup
for summer has come
notes… well, I must confess I went full on form haiku here, but it makes sense to me, these little flowers in my lawn only bloom in the summer sun, I was out there sweating my,… well never mind, it was hot, let’s say it that way, but those little flowers, the only ones that populate lawns beside dandelions, have you tasted them? the name is not misplaced, they taste great, something I learned in day camp decades ago. and you know, I have not repeated the experience, I should…
the seduction of summer thunder…
does it make me strange to have an almost romantic affinity for summer thunderstorms?

the sound of distant thunder on the evening, no, not menacing, or foreboding, a promised release from the iron grip of summer’s heat, a most welcome visitor to this house in this hour, peak of summer thunderstorms have a different feel than other times of year, with sharpened brash fury they also bring comforting relief, there is the slow approach as the sound grows closer, the ground shakes slightly and then ever more slight, leaves tremble, forearm hairs begin cross conversation and stand on end at attention, every inch of air, every pound of ground knows what is coming, anticipation swells in all the land, then, without notice, without a proper introduction, the drops come, first, single file mostly, marking circular targets near my feet, then multiplying, uncontrollably, as if to color rain by number every square inch of space, soon all the ground is a tapestry of water either falling or catching or running, a thousand drummers pouring down aloud, no, now the sound of ten thousand drums exploding at once, and instantly the break, a crack of back, broken grip, snap the whip against the humidity’s oppressive lock, that stranglehold fades from the neck of day, freed chains drop with heft, relief, nature bringing balance back onto itself, in an instant, all the world revels in the scene, and I observer the cocoon broken to luscious butterfly.
the sound of distant thunder on the evening
carriage and main approaching
kicked up dust
double barrel loaded
the crash of thor’s hammer
electrical power to break the sky open
to shake – the very ground
bathed in streaming rivers
the world begins to drink
in sweet glory
the world will drink her fill
poking the haiku bear…

summer rain
water droplets suspended
on a spiders web
notes… so, I like haiku, in theory that is… I like the blunt tone but focus on nature/truth revealed (traditionally), however I just can’t keep myself to the norm forms, so this is 3/7/5 kind of a blend, I was out checking out my new bamboo plants after the rain (giant leaf and houzeau proud horticultural nerd papa that I am), I saw a spider’s web near the house anchored at the end of my siding to the ground, almost like a teepee, it was like a freeze-frame of rain, various size droplets in suspended animation, and these words popped into my head… there is more layers to this but I will let you contemplate that my friends…
I don’t endorse products or push links that make me money, so with no incentive I tell you that Lewis Bamboo is awesome, they know what they are doing and have great support, so that is why I linked to them specifically.
an affirmation…

is the price of life
forgetting your past existence
for memories are energy, and there is only a finite amount, sure, the universe is larger than what we can wrap our current head around but everything has bounds, everything has limits, what if there is only so much to go around, kind of a more physics way of approaching the idea of the Guf, a universal recycling program if you will, less ashes to ashes more us to us, obviously you were meant to be, you are here reading this, so that is proof positive, matter is not destroyed but relived or reworked, energy is the same, there is only a finite amount of material, and then pause on the cosmic odds, your life, my life, so strange to consider that stars actually did align for all this, the entirety of all existence is culminated in your consciousness, the grooming of billions of years, bodies in motion, the cosmos endless ocean, to produce that note, that wonderful sound of you, you were meant to be born and live right now.
modus onerariis

the passing of these blessed hours
for I have failed you
I can not recall the original station where I got on, they all seem the same, various configurations of brick and tile, metal bars framing stairs, all leading to quaint towns and their common squares, I can not recall how long this ride has been, as long as I have been, time pulls forward, always in motion, a frame not unlike an old airstream trailer I imagine, from the outside, the lulling rhythmic sound kha chunk kha chunk kha chunk kha chunk, the gentle up and down glide riding the waves over land and rail, a strobe light effect, yes, like flickering, but not like flame, mechanical, a robotic toddler playing with a light switch, on off on again, billboards and advertisements plastered with memories, some graffiti, some show ragged worn edges that have succumb to weather, there is only one destination and that is never back, there is never a moment grasp just a string of them, and all those who have passed through this particular car, for a conversation, a meal, perhaps more, but in the end I am here standing holding the strap myself, I suppose my legs will tire, eventually, and retire to the uncomfortable looking seats, but, the racing pacing scenes fly by, like movies marquee in my eye, a lullaby, waking sleep as to the passage of time, for surely passed, even if this is mine, flashing bulbs pop with cut scenes, cities, forests, oceans vast, landscapes familiar and foreign, laughter, tears, and the warm indifference of fear, the dream of love to transform this form sometimes a visitor here, the sweet songs that have been sung and those not yet composed, I wonder about the conductor, never seen nor heard, but clearly there is something steering, lines laid had to be built by some purpose, by some hands, by some means, but I am a mere passenger riding out my days, as best I can.
time is not sacred but a master
love is not blind that has no eyes
a feeling
a knowing
like a tide gathering to caress the shore
a train rambling on the lines
station to station with no stops
scenes from a life in between flashes
flashes of the lights
like snapshots
flashing bulbs
the highlights and the nots
rambling
rambling on down the line