wanderer passing through

Don  De Lillo, and loafers all around-

wheat field chino’s,

and a crowded summer in my hometown.

haphazard inspired: I wanna travel, ship myself, train hop

out ol’ Midwest

Kansas, Iowa, Nebraska,

    some nowhere town-

a cabin, and a lake

I’ve seen it, dreamt it, written it

before…

and perhaps out there’s a diner,

the kind, where old men meet, behind on rent

the bar: cold, metallic, water spots-

memories lined upon the conversations left

There’d be a girl, hair pulled back, all unkempt

eyes caught in a storm and oddly bereft

   Myself: Another wanderer passing through… 

and… I’d look to her to save me,

or maybe I’d want to save her-

but         ring on the finger

husband works hard, one boy, two dogs

struggling to upkeep the inherited farm-

I drink my coffee, read the paper, and my map

tip too much

and it’s off to Ohio, Michigan, Montana

in search of…another  ‘just passing through’

linen, and Sunday

White linen, and Sunday sunrise

 yellow light (soft,

with dust in the lines)

a slow dance performed on pale garment dyes

“Dad!!!  Mom!!! Wake up, breakfast!!”

Burnt toast, microwave bacon, and eggs-

Our toe head son, and his Sunday special

Well ,

dear, it’s seven years ago today…

and we’re still the best decision I ever made.

9 years ago today I fell (Cliffside, tempest stirred)

for the girl between the words.
*whisper, and a kiss on the forehead*

…sleep a while longer while I redo breakfast.

Better on paper

your wet snaked hair

riding hood under that

rain drop stare

 that back street light

cones a pillar of showers’ on the flooded night.

Oh, dark Raven with sometimes screeching green eyes.

…I do love you,

you know.

It’s just… hard for me to see

love isn’t really actually poetry

it’s not so much the same

as the subtle beauty of my dreams

at least…not always.

Not every moment

gets a thousand words,

we won’t always wake with the sun

balancing between our cheeks…

I mean, I’m not the man

my words often draw me to seem.

I’m not the lover I’d like to believe

…I’m romantic, nothing grand, just subtleties-

and seldoms, and few and far betweens.

Better on paper in all honesty

but if…you can see the me beyond that which you may read…

you’re more than welcome...

Dear,     I’m yours for the taking.

shitstorm back home

glasses, and laptop bound

In my parents’ guest bedroom

the night is clear as far as I know

there’s no rain on the window-

and all it took was a video clip-

memory flashes 2 years back

I was naïve, and curious, and

stepping; a child into the world.

Those first city streets…so new to me

My friend, we drove up the coast, and

flipped a coin for where we’d make our stay…

the Great NW debut day

We ditched the car,

lost ourselves, magnificent.

got pizza and drinks at some random bar

kids in denim jackets, and long sleeve tattoo’s

Graffiti walls, and brickredpubs,

oh, how I believed everything I was doing

all the people and things were wonderful and new…

and I suppose looking back.

I still kind of do.

(waking early in paid parking lots

Walking sun, determined to find that city flat

on no income, little pocket cash)

drunk on that birthday bottle irish whiskey

We slept 2 weeks in our front seats

of that jeep…

no ties, a life in between

the stories of love I’d left behind.

(trapped on a piano key melody off Morrison and 4^th)

Under a steady downpour

I soaked up the city’s lore

and erased my past forever more

glasses and nowhere but laptop bound

Back lost in my parents guest bedroom…

there’s no rain on this fucking window.

hell, it’s probably a shitstorm back home..

goddamn,           I miss the skies,  unowned

…the paths of so many streets still unknown…

A Great Discontent

Missing my first train

caught the 8:45 into work

I had cellmates on play

when I passed by old town salt lake

but what I saw instead within the window frames

my Portland streets a shinin’ rain.

three out of every seven days...

I glimpse flash book the only home

to which I’ve ever claimed ‘my own’

three out of every seven days…

an unsettling discontent-coffee shops, and café racers

Pendleton, and ash denim jackets.

I’d probably no more than a few bucks to my name,

and I was loveless and I was symmetrical

to the clouds in that Pacific Northwest sky.

(predictably somber)

three out of every seven days

A Great Discontent -I miss those days.

scattershot unsteady

Magic tee’s, and backward baseball caps

Widmer, and the Marlboro man

laughed about at the river’s ends.

my brother and I…we finally left behind those

Green screen tree’s and storm drain streets

back to the town that supposedly raised me.

                                   * * *

twenty two to twenty three

“this is gonna be my year”

and

“my goals won’t wait forever”

I ‘d try and motivate myself

from the covers of my bed

behind the apathy of my fantasy prose

and into the thralls of touring.

but vanity and the control of image

are an ever enticing and time consuming obsession

when the art is learned.

gyms, and fitness magazines

motorcycles, and tattoo’s

these sorts of things, I always thought to be no more than a ruse

for a man supposed to be of words.

but when inside a world not my own

I got told

there was money to be made…all I heard was

“there’s money to be made.”

 being poor, and being of sallow shade

I’ve let obsession take passion’s place.

(no route, no save face)

 But on some occasional irregular Sunday mornings

I’m woken to the sound of rain…

and for an instant I think of that time under the Northwest clouds

days when I knew myself; lonely, and honorable

and driven as the storm.  I would be the author who wrote stories

of heroes people could believe in again,

piano pieces to move a crowd

but then I listen, mutter                               ‘no, I guess not. even the rain falls different here

  scattershot unsteady.’

And here I thought I was ready…

I finish my coffee, and close the laptop then

put the baseball cap on for ol’ time’s sake

head to my gym to throw around some weights.

After all, there’s money to be made.

give me time

Dear,

my once upon a dream.

my motivation,

my patience holding

.still.

you know,

I used to have for you a name

but passing through years,

pen to page

there is little that holds quite the same

even the simplest of your hues have changed.

the only thing

that remains-

you’ll be a wonder to me

glowing even if only subtly.

poetry, without words

without warning.

this world is bland,

these days…

they’re Damned. right to hell.

I doubt if I’ll ever find you here.

but I’m closer. Almost ready.

give me time,

someday, for you…I too shall shine,

transfer worlds, love in kind.

just…give me time.

drunk...fumbling vehemently

nine days now,

Scotch, coffee, and toast for breakfast.

Love made us beautiful

love made us ugly

Dear heart,

I still see you here-

a shape so delicate

Indian fleece blanket you bought for our bed

playing chef in the kitchen- bacon and eggs,

coffee over winter’s morning

(open windows, a crisp new cold

how you enjoyed the taste)

Our cabin away from the city

beneath the aspens,

the place where I thought we’d grow old…

one year, ten months, a week, and six days

I’m alone.

Not that this is me asking you to come home..

just. I. I…don’t know.

I …some mornings drive down to that café

you liked so well, and order for two

imagine across from me is you.

( childishly shy blue eyes, freckles,

buried in breakfast)

and this summer…your flowers never bloomed.

so instead, I simply put out our

shot at the photo booth

(one backwards cap, stolen from me

in the frames, worn for two)

told myself instead of roses,

that’d have to do.

But nothing compares to having

                .you.

The fight,

I thought you…

you thought I…never mind

my wheels peeled,

and alone standing I let you cry.

love made us beautiful…

…

but love made me ugly.

Dear heart,

You were right to leave

Now, drunk…fumbling vehemently

I try to find better words than “sorry”

but admittedly

I’m shit. Always have been.

…honestly,

it seems most artists are.

although now and again,

a muse takes the paintbrush from our jar,

and allows us to work if only for a moment with the stars..

Thank you,

-L.

fumbling vehemently: letter on the laptop

Gabe,

my friend…

you were good to me these past few months

and as I’m sure you’re aware

I have no family, no friends

to leave my estate,

 the money from the fictions I’ve written…

they go to you.

Ya’ know…

I still recall that day eight months ago

you rode up crazy on that cruiser

leather bomber like the one

I wore at your age…

 rifle in hand, thought I’d have to shoot.

you skid across the drive, 

got up,

pulled slowly off your helmet

(hands all held high)

fumbling vehemently

asked

if I could teach you writing-

the art of language, words…

some bullshit form…of prose

my friend,

as I’m sure by now you know

I took advantage of your kind ol’ soul.

dying there, under those autumn leaves

I just needed someone to mend to me

When it comes to writing,

all I’ve never known

(basically all I’ve ever told)

what you have heard a thousand times

Love did make us beautiful,

love did make us ugly.

like some woven reverie, or unspoken memory…

(her smiling, roses in the garden

her crying, my old Triumph drivin’)

But boy,

…here’s what I didn’t ever explain-

those stories, the words, language

that brought the romantics to my door…

it was all her doing.

Before her

 I was whiskey drowned, memoir rambling,

You must see

it was Her who wrote me…

My lover, oh the way she shined.

her hand in mine…and then God! how she made me shine.

Those years. They were my best work.

I so feared she would leave.

…and… my friend you have read the rest...

her story clutters itself within those last few attempts.

Gabriel,

you’re a good man,

and a better writer than I ever dreamed to be

(some sort of untapped seed, a redwood tree)

 so son,

don’t make the mistakes I did.

A muse is few and far between

so when you find her

(bare witness:  a woven reverie,

an unspoken memory)

I beg of you,

use the shine she lends

and write her a fantasy

escape…and may you never leave.

(to hell with money, I’ve left you plenty        

as far as writing-those words belong to her anyway)

your friend,

-L.

Underneath a Raging Sea

unready

There were politics on tv

in my head, an old western movie

running my favorite scene

repeat-repeat.

in the foreground: my cousin asked me

Do you really think you’re ready to be married?

…

Sao Paulo,

Curtains gently moved with the wind

 standing in the doorway to our balcony

10:00 am sun beating.

her aspen hair

wild with the morning, evening still set in her eyes

she takes a sip from the Arabica roast

and treasures the city view as she always does

children, Football in the streets

then as I yawn, flips her head back to meet me

whispers those few words in her natural speech

(“Ah, meu amor.”)

I’m driven to wonderful insanity

…

somewhere in Galway,

Maybe a cottage outside the city

she’d have something like coastline eyes

(the Bays’ waves crashing in against the Cliffside)

Shades of brown, a whirlwind in the storm-

amongst the blades of green

and paths still new to me

I’d walk with her,

sometimes talk, mostly listen

to the words she’d sing

about the books she’d read

and all her overthetop philosophy

some sorts of Transcendentalism far beyond me.

our life,

our own sort of discontented peacefully.

…

retrieving life back into reality

I forced a simple smile

no, I suppose I am unready  to be married…

I’m still far too engaged in my own many hopeless stories.

fumbling vehemently

morning light coddled the mountain;

an old Indian patterned fleece blanket

wrapped his too frail shoulders-

at 87, December 29th...

that day he looked old,

more so than I’d ever seen

with nothin’ to him

but a cup of coffee

and a stare to the tree’s.

coughing in winter’s seed.

                I’d probably never know what he had on his mind

except a longing for more-

but less

all at the same time..

I mean, he was a simple man

complexities as such I’d couldn’t understand

lived on little.

a laptop, caffeine, scotch,

and words...oh

how he loved his words.

this is how I knew him to be-

was as he is

seriously solemn human.

his past hung between the wrinkles

deep within the pools of tired eyes.

waters where romance would’ve once swam,

a girl I imagined he chased away

(though he’d never directly say)

just brief rants, enough to let on, but not a clue as to more…

a cigar in the air, bedridden, and fumbling vehemently for his glass

“boy,

 love made us beautiful..

but boy, did love make us ugly.

like a woven reverie, or an unspoken memory.”

               

                I heard this phrase many times that winter

up there in his cabin beneath the aspens, and the

falling snow…the house that’d come to be his tomb

that last time I let him to his rest-

with his passing words,

hand on my shoulder, an unquiet mutter

“boy, love made us beautiful,

but boy…”

his eyelids fell for the last time that night

and under a bereft voice-I finished for him

“did love make us ugly…”