year end of the thoughts...ramblings of poetz
from two oh seven to now...eight years on Neo
forty one in july that year....seemed unstoppable
the world...tipping then in its peculiar ways...
my clavicle yet smashed from a cycling accident
my world not upside down...

ploughing through Sextons book still..
new room mate..(female)
just now dealing with the ex's that I still
undeniably in love with

all my good and bad and ugly sides
thinking I know it all...
feeding the black wolf and white
rationalizing that I need them
for this work
of life and living..

Bought an Olivetti 1972 portable
black and white....plastic grey
case...
Thinking I can push my body
myself to keep up with everyone
at this age of 49

I write three sites online
if I wanted I could publish
but I know the limitations
of my style...I have read
the great gifted ones and
they pushed themselves
above and beyond to work
their craft...I am lazy coming
to the machine and tapping
in works off the cuff raw as
they are....Anyone can have
a great intelligence or basic
working intelligence and
be a great poet....Its the
vision..a channeling of
creative fire. A passion
something of magic anyway
that shines...

I would buy books once
spend money on them
instead of whiskey or gin

jacket covers I would read
and critiques on the back
all well and said

shorts as minimal as they
come and advertisements
for movies...put together
in such a way that I would
pay to see them at the
theatre and the movie
sucked but I loved the
trailers.......

I was hooked on how
they could move people
through the doors on short
words..short poetic lines

there are beautiful beach wanderings
bits of fragments
but of the ugly animal inside
all flesh and writhing construct

someone sent me a line from Kerouac
"somewhere along the line the pearl
would be handed to me"

Ive removed the top portion of this comment
for two reasons
First the pearl is made within a shell and must
be removed to find a pearl
and two the pearl is a shell conversion
to remove the shell of a pearl is to find the
grit
Like the partical of dust in a snowflakes symetry

sulken shadow
how I hate the smell
of the workhorse engine
coughing

damp coffins of preserve
glistening like frost lamp
fire

muses mine is away on
temptations strife
here on the island
knowing that to explore is
to find a shore with a sun
in a world of degrees
that great arc

Ive no hunger to look
longer through it
my fingers still like a cough
on the keys

sat at afternoon sunset
atop the steam train
loved artifact in her corner
of the old yards

trains parked on their rails
traffic on the street
people on the walking paths
and the lake golden and alive

so much missing between
a daughter and father
we cannot fill in missing years

struggling to overlay lives now
staring at one other as we talk
realizing our eyes are the same
colour the structure of the face
the mannerisms of hand posture
likes dislikes

poetry is lovely
a love that is given
but I seek a love
I can consume
and be consumed by
and so I hunt
and wish

the great challenge
is the great mystery
of treasures lost
not found

that is the passion
and she will emerge
from these mists
and what a passion
this shall be..............

here bony words collect
in black and brawny cold ember scatter
no handy tin
a sauce jar
screwcap
with its few threads
turned like the wheel of time
for all these thoughts
let loose to smoke
they are full of briny smoke
like adventures to tame
and masking tape
entry written in smudge
sharpie pen

tussle
listen can you feel the rustle
crepe wind seeping
and secrets keeping
like ironed lace

fortifications of intricate
treasure scattered in
the fissure like poems
melted with folded rains
keep
words kissing twin
image
the solvent juncture
like heart halves
and sunlight beating
plutonic sonnets
beneath the halo
mists
and annointed wrists