I think of you every day like the sun rising that simple- that feel a gentle warmth on my cheek, on my eyelids, as I see you with them closed, I think of you every day – the guilt is the passion of the poison as I am a circled serpent bite embraced, I think of you every day, as I drive past, I drive from the freedom tower to the empire state as a made-up façade running along my side like a slide as the sun glides rises up like a passenger riding in a train watching scenery pass by yet, I’m in my car almost a dream like state I am so far – from, yes, so far from- you, I think of you every day and yet sometimes there is grace for even in this pit of despair from which I still breath and draw all air- for there there was always the truth there was and always will be love embraced and for that is all that saves me most days… most days.
notes… I wanted this to feel like my thoughts, stop and go, and yet flow – at times, is that not more real than perfection sometimes ? I realize poetry can just be this amazing stream but sometimes I am trying to create life, real life, real thoughts, and that is never perfect, do I want to create some perfect things sometimes? yes… but not this time, this is being life on purpose…
a friend, a co-worker (whom I always meant to hang out with more), is sailing off to another port, quite literally, a foreign shore, her departure has deposited me in a destination of regret, I must admit, for time always disappears when you operate under the easy assumption of unending days, days that run into days and into months… which breeds and feeds the beast inside known as complacency, ‘tommorow, the sun will…’ ah you know, no, time can not be tidied up and put back in the tube, we all know this intrinsically but do not put this in practice most days, we get lost in the germane no-name insane idiosyncrasies of the every-day, a moment gone is spent, and then there is nothing left, nothing left that is – but a side dish of regret, I could blame covid, I could blame a thousand things more, or I could just look in the mirror, I used to believe in fate, maybe I will never be the type to go full-tempt with such a fire, but a little push now and again might help… moments not had, are just utterly gone, out of grasp, we hear the advice “live like there is no tomorrow”… but how many of us really do, and how do I move my consciousness into that space, permanently, that is, not a rental, on the outside I seem like the most confident person you may have seen, a peacock head about, and I am to some extent on the common grid, but only on that little patch of known I call my own, my island, my temperate comfort time zone, a boat tied to the dock that dare strides outward into the water, right there, right there in reach, seaworthy, for I am always over prepared, enough rations for ten men, water supply for twenty, let alone enough for a simple tour on the bay for a day, to check out the other sights and lands so familiar on the periphery, perhaps, or I can step-back-nap further, into my hammock, in this space, my cut out paradise, alone but not lonely, this becomes a self-fulfilling mantra after-all, and the more you whisper in your own ear or to your own heart, like breathing air that contagion spreads and takes over the essential blood in your veins, reinforcing domains, self set fences, like an attraction at the zoo, exotic at a distance, but at the base level, nothing more this world has not seen before, I wear the coat of confidence, so well these days, so well none can tell at times that the material might be cut from hole cloth, sometimes I feel like a 3 sided house, hoping no one will peek in the backyard – and what they might find there, I feel like Truman in the storm, without the fortitude, or the script deciding my destination in the right direction, but worse yet, I am the man in the moon pulling the strings, I have the keys, hell, I made the locks, the doors, the walls, all of it, but still some part of me remains institutionalized to myself, I can not fly, I don’t have wings, but I can break free, not just try, to go forth and walk out on that dock, untie my own creation, have faith in my preparation, I can always return here, or retreat here, but I am tired of just dwelling here. Surely, I will miss her, no doubt, she will never know, or maybe she does. The internet allows interaction, to be sure, crosses oceans, but nothing is like the experience of face to face with the instant reaction, there is energy there, an exchange from one life form of now to another, so now there will be one less patron @ my local bar, just a soon dusty photo on the wall, of the gone by that have passed through, pleasant memories, but not of now, the most important of time, lost, the now. so, with that, bon voyage…
notes: sometimes I get personal, this is my blog right ? I am not some mysterious artist, I am not trying to fake you or trick you, this is me, bleeding me, blind me, dumb me, flawed me… just me, but still this was all stream of c, duly noted in c.
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.
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
I can not remember all choirs of turns that lead to all, this
I will rebuild, but something less
as this, has levied a toll
more than these words may address
notes… I am an optimist and realist both… so sometimes I need to reflect. I have made plenty of mistakes in my life, I hope to find happiness and also realize that the opportunities of youth are not there anymore, but yet there is hope, there is always hope, at least that is what I tell myself, I just hope that those I have wronged can forgive me, as I can not forgive myself. I try to believe that regret or the past does not matter. But the past is what is written, it is there, it is done, it can never not be… and that is what bothers me most. I know I can not change it… I can only change going forward, but it does not alleviate the past… and should it ?
This song really gets me, great art can often be simple, the premise of this song is just that, but it is not something we might always think about, or maybe you do, I can only speak for this pile of genetic material typing this post at the moment, perhaps it is the memory burned into my cinema screen of memory that I can not erase, that day, I am blessed or cursed with an exceptional memory, so every detail, even the feel… I remember, it all, whether it be guilt or regret, or the lens of time distilling away the non essential elements and leaving just one, love.
and lest I forget, I do appreciate all comments, thoughts, follows or re-posts (as long as ya’ credit me, c’mon!), or turkey sandwiches, man I love turkey…