conversations (with a muse, or something other)..?..!..?…

conversations (with a muse, or something other)..?..!..?…

women s black and gray long sleeved top
Photo by Two Dreamers on

“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…

blur close up coffee cup cup
Photo by on

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.

Flagging down Blog readers.

Flagging down Blog readers.

photography of airplane during sunrise
Photo by Anugrah Lohiya on

For some reason today was analogy wodan’s day… I thought of my blog in some weird ways… like, what the hell is the point?  Do I have a target audience ?  Do I know what the hell I am doing in the first place?  Well clearly I am just trying to figure things out as I go down this yellow blogging brick road but as to the other stuff (thank you for your patience those on the entry level floor as this thing is only 4 months in).  At times I feel like those people at the airport with the light sticks directing planes, other times I feel like a fly fisherman trying to gently cast these tiny flies perfectly onto the gentle ripples to entice a bite, hell, other times I am just throwin’ chum into the water.  I guess I should just have faith that it will sort itself out, but my mind is a churning machine, it likes to work and let the demons speak (in tongues I suppose?)… how the hell do you fix that?  or do you?  or do you just… be… so easy to say, so damn easy to write, so damn hard to do… but you have to give the effort, give it a try.   Anyway, totally unrelated, here is something I wrote today, sort of tongue in cheek but touching serious themes.  It has been awhile since I posted something from my whimsical mind, if you go back and read my stuff there has been some more “light” stuff here and there, I can’t be the brooding boy all the time, that would be boring and leave you snoring (not good for blog readers, I heard)…

futile duel” 8.29.2018

fear –

you dastardly fiend

you perceived thief

I am through with you

I throw down the glove –

you look amused

but I am quite serious,

I endeavor to end this (and you)
I’m quite tired of your ever presence

and yet you seem like you have done this before


so the appointed day approaches

pleasantries exchanged in formal courses


ten paces drawn

I draw quick – and fire

waiting for the hit – or, a hit on my person,

but nothing

as if ever, nothing

and I hear your coy laughter


your experience – matters.


many years from that day

and I feel the dud thud of pain

I collapse (but smile),

those around in a panic about the matter

and then it hits again,

the laughter.

abstract art burnt color
Photo by Pixabay on

notes… I used the word “dastardly“, admit it, you’re officially jealous…

music…. hmm, I have to say this is what I was listening to all day (totally unrelated to the post, just what I was jammin’ out to on this crazy hot melt down of a day…)

Faun – Walpurgisnacht

German Folk Music (the english name is Walpurgis Night)… I know – you may doubt folk music being totally awesome, but listen to the chorus section at about :47 and tell me it doesn’t rule…



green leafed plant on drinking glass with ice and water
Photo by Oscar Mikols on

you have me, on the rocks” 8/4/2018

the ice melts, so suddenly

your eyes melt me, so subtlety

your voice, a symphony

the words – no matter


of such sweet notes

the nectar of honey bees

the sound hones

the buzz slides across my lobes


dance me in a daze

and I look lock gaze

the fierce fire

of your eyes

burns me alive

notes… is there a person, that one, that can just melt you with their eyes?  put you under that spell?  that you just connect?   I guess I should consider myself lucky that I did have that once for some years, and perhaps look forward to it again should fate shine her little light onto my tiny patch I’ve carved out of the universe’s darkness whole, I can only hope because the alternative is definitely not of hope.  I posted a word with “middle english” origins because… some of my favorite works are of the time. Specifically I am referencing two things Heloise and Abelard and also Alexander Pope (I won’t say he is a hero of mine, who knows such things, but an inspiration ? and a fantastic poet ?  yep).  Note the last line of Pope’s poem (sheer brilliance imo):

Such if there be, who love so long, so well,
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint them who can feel them most.

music… yeah, I am big on the music, I am so….  currently obsessed with Anna Murphy, so this song fits…

Anna Murphy “Lovelornia”

her vocals are transcendent, it really makes you believe as an artist that talent is out there stalking and taking down prey (for all of us to consume)… all for us to enjoy, so go out there and look for it… additionally I am always looking for new music, so if ya got something ! tell me dammit!  I only have so many hours of so many days to search on my own, while I am a great excavator a little help is always appreciated my friends ! Be well all!

Fire, when we were.

Fire, when we were.

man and woman about to kiss each other
Photo by Ana Paula Lima on

our fire” 4/16/18

glen miller orchestra sounds fill the room

mind seduced ‘in the mood

I picture us dancing

I could see it in your eyes

the world could feel our fire

every room lit full of envy

singed by the heat

radiating like a star

from our desire

as we passed by…

I remember, our fire


is that the crackle

of rain on the window

or the aged voice

of this old recording

I remember…

our fire

notes… this is very personal on many levels…  although I listen to what ‘some’ would call horrendous/awful music or cookie monster stuff (death metal) but at an early age I was exposed to Big Band era tunes, specifically by my father who used to take us (me and my slightly older brother) to work with him running his provision route back in the day through central New Jersey. We would ride in his truck picking up the meats from the processing plants (ie slaughterhouses essentially) and deliver them to pubs, strip clubs and restaurants…. sort of the seedy side of life when you see a pub in daylight, I remember the musty smells, the sort of… wood gasping out the wounds of the night, sunlight hitting places it shouldn’t dare (much like a vampire’s lair)… it was all so surreal, and in neighborhoods that are now destitute unfortunately,  but always we would be rolling down the road in that big yellow truck  marked “Freddy Kay” (my last name is so easy to screw up my parents would always abbreviate it to make it easy for the rest of the world), just that big yellow truck rumbling down the road, so loud and creaky,  making every bump known and holding on to the rails on turns (for dear life), so distinct, all the smells and sounds, and then there was the radio…

Make believe ballroom time

I had no idea about the music, but it was so… confident, so composed (and had that vintage feel because you could hear the flaws in the recordings).  I loved it.  And now it is just such a reminder of my father and our time together.  You know that time in your life when you think your parents (or one of them) is a super hero ? This was that time.  We were delivering these huge boxes of goods to all these places, sure, I knew my way around a hand truck but a huge cut of raw brisket? not so much. I was a small kid, an undeveloped kid… I was always in the “lower 10%” in terms of growth, and that freaks out parents, but as it turns out, I was normal in the end (well, at least growth wise, everything else is still up for debate).

So, this poem is more about my love for Mirsa, whom I left a long time ago now, everything was just easy with her, it just made sense, but sometimes things just don’t work, I am sure we are both to blame but I really hold myself responsible right or not, I visited her after I left… a couple of times (she lives way far away from me, literally 1000 miles)… and we still had “it”.. the chemistry, I guess that is the worst part, people could smell the connection on us even after a few years of being apart they thought we were together when I visited, that is the crux of this poem, we exchanged emails recently (april) and that was the spark for me to start this journey into blogging and sharing myself with you, anyone who reads this, it reminded me of life, of happiness, of love… it was so easy with her, and the world noticed and I failed her, or we failed each other… but I gained back something I had lost a long time ago.. a passion for life… even if I wish it was with her I have to bring forth that verve… and who knows, someday, maybe my love and I can be together again, I don’t think so, but at least I have some hope for the future, and what more can I ask… but hope, and love… and faith in the same.

Lampreys and the Theory of Simplicity.

Lampreys and the Theory of Simplicity.


Often, well, more often these days I am trying to look for the simple things, the little things, the beautiful things… all around us in everyday life.  Nature brings us so many of these things (including ourselves / humanity itself).  So this brings me to my toothy friend, the Lamprey (often improperly identified as an “eel” which is way more evolved…oddly).  This strange little thing, a marvel of engineering really, has been around some 300 million years on good estimates (based on the fossil records). So… this strange little blood sucker with barely developed systems has been around longer than us by a long-shot… Humans.. the pinnacle of everything? hmmm ?  Just some perspective (we have only been around an absolute fraction compared to these slimy little bastards). So I felt like posting just some of my simpler poems… to communicate a simple thought, or feeling, or moment… sometimes I am just a simple one minded thing latching on to something for dear life.. and other times I am matryoshka doll…  life is like that, I am trying to unpack my dolls within dolls and just be my core for all the world to see… we’ll see…


I can not express

in these words

what life is

to be

without you

(*note: this is my version of haiku, I think it encompasses the feel of the form)


in length

I am a rope

bound together

in knots

frayed ends

holding on



(*note: another haiku feel for me… at least but also I was kind of also calling EE Cummings)



maps for planes

lights at night

to guide

lines of sight

grounded flight

(*note: haiku feel… damn I said that already… but this was specifically about Teterboro Airport which I pass all the time driving home or about the local town)

stairs” 6.1.18

I am at the bottom of the stairs

no recollection

of getting there

I look up

spotlight shines down


do I attempt

to climb my way out?

(*note – I wrote this in my basement, here in the northeast US we have “finished basements“, essentially totally another level of the house underground, I was doing some sit ups and looked up the stairs… hence the thrust of the poem…)



you were once a confidant

a neighbor

a friend

a lover

and now

no longer

simple line” 6.2.18

I point

there is life

there is death

your only disagreement

a single breath

support” 6.3.18

bridges built

bridges lost

bridges burned

I drown so fast


you are my flower

to plant

to water

to love

my treasure

to love


Notes… as always I appreciate all feedback… I welcome criticism.. in fact I invite it, I want to be beaten up because I do not have your eyes, your ears or your mind, I am not looking for acceptance or sycophants, I am confident in my own dome, this, my home of words, but I want to understand other people’s land that their voice is planted on… because how else can I grow… if I do not know what else is out there in this virtual planet?

Music ?  I thought you would never ask…

Phillip Glass “Glassworks”

you have heard his works before, you probably did not know it… if you did know, well… kudos my fellow traveler.

Gravity is a toll road.

Gravity is a toll road.

person holding a chalk in front of the chalk board
Photo by on

Often I think about how we fill our minds up with ‘stuff‘ (thank you George Carlin)… How easy it was to be in the blissful cross-hairs of youth.  Innocence is just one of those things that can not be put back into the bottle (as much as we may try).  I used to feel a sad pity for those with special needs but now at times I am jealous (to an extent as a mental exercise) that they can exist in the perpetual bliss of unawareness.  Sure, I would not be who I am if I was not self aware… but the pull of that other option, the temptation is certainly there.  Self awareness and in my case overly active brain is tiring at times… maybe that is why when I am on vacation I prefer a lonely beach so I can pretend that the waves are washing away all the crust the world has built up upon my hull…  but it takes a toll… how much? We will never know.  But if you do… I would love the answer, please tell me so… so I can truly rest before the true (final) rest.  But I suppose, like everyone I will just be out there sailing the seas of thought seeking islands of legend… and then one day running aground near some nameless forgotten port, sinking, absorbed into the shifting sands at the bottom of the ocean of time, my particles to become the building blocks for some other creation… be it animated or not, a crab perhaps but I would hope for more…. but like all else I am not in control of such things.

simple observation” 6.10.18

children playing

children’s smiles

making up games

rules are loose


made up races

I miss the whimsy of youth

notes on the poem: I wrote this in a rest area on the GSP… (like many things), a couple and their kids had unloaded out onto the picnic area… and just… the kids did what kids do, making games of the world, amazing, I miss that.

musical accompaniment…

for whatever reason… this piece came to my mind:

Jean Sibelius – Symphony no 5 in E flat op 82

I like the peaks and falls, and the quiet parts…

Invading thoughts…

Invading thoughts…

war chess
Photo by Gladson Xavier on

home invasion” 8.18.2018

hostile dreams

haunt these

my lonely days

of this existence

among the people

who occupy the spaces

like so many chess pieces

I am long tired of the game

I can not seem to win

lose, or stalemate

or even more

move off this board,

endless gambits

my mind is on fire, no, it is at war


if I can not find rest

in my sleep

wherever will I find it?

when I’m dead?


hostile dreams,

as of late

they infiltrate

my perimeter

my daily thoughts

a train wreck

my horoscope


hostile dreams

they penetrate

my fortitude

my fortress

lays in ruins

not from attrition

but from the constant grind

of never ending erosion

exploiting the cracks

I have left –

the signatures of my neglect


hostile dreams

they have overrun the walls

hardly a pause

my resistance

is merely whisked away

my army


in their space

empty armor husks

strewn about like so much relics

less steel than one step from dust


hostile dreams

they permeate

saturating my pores

stretch the air

the stench

overwhelms my nose

I can not escape

sensory overload


I have lost

the will

the will to fight,


now I lay me down to sleep


by these hostile dreams.

musical choice ?

my dying bride – the cry of mankind

one of the worst band names in history… one of the best bands ever… many a night or a time they have been my muse, my drowning, my immersion, I like this song because it is like a hypnotic meditation (with the constant sound in the background from beginning to end lulling you into contemplation or maybe sorrow… or maybe both, the world is not always cotton candy and apple pie… I would love for it to be so, so sometimes even optimism needs to sleep, for a time)