‘available for lease‘ I remember this place I always meant to stop in but never did, cause and consequence.
notes… things change, this much we know, but do we? We feel like we are going to live forever, that all existence is now because of our presence, perhaps that is the spark of life deep down? I wrote this passing by this farmer”s market/garden store I have driven by thousands of times on route 27 in Edison, I guess I didn’t learn my lesson, after all the Parsonage Diner just down the street is now a Rite Aid for some time… I can remember so many nights rolling up on that dinner at some ungodly hour after a night of doing quite ungodly things, sure, Jersey is the land of diners, we have an over representation, but this was OUR diner, kind of the last landmark, the shore, the safety point of going home, the edge of the neighborhood after excursions into New Brunswick or Princeton or beyond… what’s the point? ah… you get it.
I did not know your name or your song or how long you have been gone
for I missed you my friend your peak in flight now laid here on unmarked ground to never know your voice or of your sound your sweet repertory rests in silence now the wind animates plumes like half staff flags placed upon this earthen tomb
so for this moment I take pause wish you safe passage into that good night.
notes… we have all seen the occasional dead animal here and there, not sure why this struck me to write, it just did, so, maybe because I walk by this spot everyday to the office door and notice the little local flocks of birds in their home among the local planted landscaping bushes surrounding what becomes my home most of the time to be honest. You get used to the little one scratching out existence in this urban-ish environment (Hackensack is very commercial and has the most polluted river in the country). I cherish my little friends, they help center me, on a bad day, I can walk outside among the cigarette butt ‘garden’ and see how nature deals with everything, it just does, with blind ambition, and there might be a lesson there, if I wasn’t some dumb human.
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and as always, any thoughts, critical barbs, long diatribes, structural critiques, letters of hate written using the blood of virgins… all is appreciated if not encouraged even. I do this to hone my craft and myself, and unfortunately I can not escape this form as currently constructed, so I have to rely on outside forces for feedback, as confident as I am I only know mostly everything… (wink)
“my sin is stone bearing upon my bones I wish this was a story I read and not the one I wrote”
notes… sometimes I dwell, I wish I was a dumb moron, a dump truck who could just tilt back and leave a pile of dirt behind, but I am just not wired that way, I wish I was an electrician so I might fix myself… but what else would I screw up in the process?
music? even on this topic… I am going light and fun here…
the lull of white suburban noise. I contemplate the sameness of my street, for me all this has always been here, but surely this hallmark will be gone, strange to think of dinosaurs, beasts, and all manner of creatures traipsing about this space where I sit now, concrete foundation in this tamed landscape, or so for now, soft sounds amplify in space like this, a neighbor walking mistaken for some demon lurking just out of my sight’s reach, until a bright yellow breaker rolls into view, and I concentrate on their steps, how uneven they are against the lose layer of debris that resides on top of the asphalt, the non perfection of form, scrapes of humanity, I could call this a soft cool breeze tonight, but somehow it is lighter than that, almost just the subtle presence of air settling down, not enough to provoke thoughts of cold, or flight back into my hole, still waiting for the spring, patience, I know, but still it wears thin on me, the dull low roar of commercial flight reminds me I am not far from the airport, I could go anywhere right now, but where would I go? where would I be? I have trouble accurately describing the sound of passing cars driving by, I know the technical side, tires on pavement in rotation against the ground, some seem calm, others rushed, as I try to make out the muffled music during the brief encounter, or to build a story about a neighbor filling a jar full of momentary assumptions flavored by flash judgements, based on a car, driving by, in only this matter of time of my arbitrary observation, a neighbor, I only know because their house is on the same block, a stranger, in any other contextual lock, the same person walking comes back from the other direction, on the sidewalk this time, not sure why, variety I suppose or no thought to it whatsoever, my direct neighbor across the street gets delivery, no signs on the car so I can only speculate, they had a little girl, she used to play outside, I have not seen her in a few years, how little we know about those in just the next house living whole lives next to ours, I wonder what lurks in the shadows and dark spots and corners, but in all honesty, there is nothing here that can harm me for real, this tame banal suburbia, the lull of white noise, the sleepy outdoor gaze of a jersey night
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notes… part of my Porch series, tonight spring crept in, I even heard some children plotting games from the yard in back of mine, just waiting until the spring shakes back and forth like my dog after a bath except spring is looking to shake off the cold yoke of winter, which certainly is stubborn this year. all thoughts, comments, questions, and quiche recipes are appreciated.
you warned me but I came anyway still unprepared and by the furies down the phoenix rain molten bullets perforate penetrate my mental armor leaving searing, smoking, holes and I thought myself ready to bear out my soul false bravado is a fire of cold fear would have been a sharper advisor but the time has passed for that as an empire is in ruins littered, broken doric plumes, in uneven piles with no fiddle to play or gambit to last I’ve lost, in pyres reflect here in the hopeless corners of the darkest men
the gentle but solitary coo of the mourning dove the last ten top feet of copper fading atop the highest trees three quarters full day moon above artfully placed against the blue even surface features visible to this naked eye, and onward the call woo-ah, coo… coo… coo woo-ah, coo… coo… coo robin’s still bickering, over this lullaby a jack’s seasoned camo so sublime even a good size one nearly escapes my view a bird of prey enters the scene across the street I carefully stride forward, closer to identify and get a clean look with a great whoosh down in flight crossing my eyes a falcon’s unmistakable lines for a moment all other sounds commit to silence I was not the only one paying attention.
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notes… wrote this sunday night (I thought my post sunday made more sense to post with the St Patty’s theme, call me pandering, I agree), I have some crummy photos of the falcon from my phone, which sucks because I had it framed against the day moon, a huge bird of prey sitting on a perch in my backyard under a day moon… damn I suck, lesson learned, I will bring my SLR out more when I write… but it is so apparent the world is ready to bloom, to explode, I can feel the feeling building each time I go out and listen, spring is ready to break through the not so perma frost, I can feel it.
MUSIC, as always my friends I love to infuse you with my musical madness…
And… to be fair, I was at this show, I have seen many shows in my day (thousands), and I am a total metal head… but this… this… she owned everything from the material, the performance and the crowd…. this was a special night, thank you Tori for all…
sitting in an irish bar, alone in the month of st patrick having the obligatory guinness of course, sunday bloody sunday comes on there is no tv to stare at, in the corner I have chosen so i do not have to pretend I listen in to the revelers recalling stories they have told each other a hundred times I catch now familiar names and begin to experience the stories myself landscape absorbing the tales their jocularity is infusion even if, for just a moment i finish with an ipa feeling I have interloped quite enough i leave a good tip as if to stake a claim but I am just passing through a phantom in a local’s place drifting between stories and pints
notes… written tuesday 3/12 when I decided to visit a local irish pub for some grub, this to me, is observational poetry, I am trying to take you into the moment, not sure if I succeed, that is up to you, with those eyes, reading this with your mind, thanks for the read, your comments are always appreciated.
A rare saturday off for me, I must admit I slept in (I love laying in bed listening to binaural beats as nature rages outside whipping across the bamboo I planted making such a specific sound), I am a big believer in recharging batteries of the self, especially since I work 6 days a week and more than 9 hours a day usually, what sucks is friday peeked @ 70 degrees but today? not so much… barely 40’s, what a tease, but it was warm enough this afternoon to sit outside, let the dog roll around in the yard (man she hates to be clean), and sit and just let the breeze wash over me, let the sun warm me enough to be out there, watch the birds, try to sound locate the calls of the familiar ones, and for once I just did voice memos into my phone, so here they are….
“those pure of heart but grave of experience are doomed to make mistakes”
“tangled wind chimes only sound in the strongest winds”
“the songbirds call against the coming of the night for soon they will be silent”
notes… like my last post these are haiku to me, at least in spirit, I clearly have no control of the muse, she comes to me in all forms, I admit I have fear I will lose the talent to write, there are times I think what the hell will I write next? and some panic there, but the muse, so far has been fair and keeps delivering the mail to this address.
