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s u b w a y v z i s t i o n

lay low
the wind will crawl
and find you
skin and bone
a fixture
bathed in the cool television
flowing cast on the ripples of
your spine curled inward
the stretch of ribs
to the sharp angled hip
tilted leaning
and beneath
the darkness
of the buffer floors
from the street
through the doors
you floated like a traveller
on a breeze
of frost
the chill in your teeth
as pure as a white
overcast sunday
breathing shallow
head on a towel
the perfect maze
of a small ear
a stud glitters
bright as a shard
while the snows
and righteous

a wind cries
beneath the strata
and crumpled relics
of a love
kicked over
and broken
purchased with
livid lies across
the pallid easel

all of it needful
and tidy and painful
lessons and logic
a night drawn

syringes and
into the ghost
where the
angels have
and the votive
and mary

but love


Editing stage: 


journey, wonderfully written piece of poetry. loved the imagery, in fact you've inspired me to go word rambling!

"Death" is nonsense: what is there to die?
"Life"? How could " life" "die"? That is a contradiction
in terms. Can "light" become "darkness"?
"Light" can only cease to be apparent

Wei Wu Wei

I perceive a delicate and sensitive portrait,
using a color rich palette,
on a theme of grayness
bone crunching desperation
crushing loss.

yet, his (the subject's) strange integrity
seems not so strange anymore.

Educing empathy for a demi-lost soul,
struggling with his own unique existential befuddlement,
has been accomplished through your enchanting use of words.

(WOW, I hope that didn't sound too academic-lite and sterile!)
'cause I"m not that guy....really, I'm not.....I mean it....I'm not a snooty-coot kind'a guy...
no sir... that, I am not...

I'll try to comment(?) more in the future....though sometimes you are very challenging

stay cool and loose


As the other two say a journey, sometimes it is hard to see the whole story as our thoughts flow on differing waves.
Yet I detect that there is a love in there that has faded though remembered in finite detail, as a first love never forgotten.
Loved the journey all the same, Yours Ian.T

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

Period of time was the west..
We read westerns My dad loved them
Adopted dad...real dad..
They had radio serials growing
theatres to see...Audey Murphy
and then ...oh forget the authors name.
prolific...He took them with him when he
worked extra gang up north..

He was not a deep seated thinker
and straight forward kind of person
He was bright but he didnt wear it
on his laurels..
He was connected but it was not
his cutting bow edge.

His loves were his wife and second
wife and the few girls he dated as
a youth in his thirty two ford convertible
his brother and sister and mom dad
were close

My mother had some affairs and the
men were all alpha types of their time
hard workers with cash for her..
she worked...associated and mingled
with the doctors nurses parties in
the fifteen mile distant major town
a tourist place of brick with rivers lakes
on hills of glacial hardwoods..
a mysterious depth to all that that
ran beneath the social comraderie
and gossip for its days then...

My love's were the brilliant women
who befriended me first..always shooting
the stars for others guys..
I was never the One.....
because I never went or pushed beyond
the formal and raw
My mothers instructions were clear for
me on protocol and where she figured
I may end up...

Which did happen..although my ex and
my child whom I see occasionally now
twenty two are heart and
in memory we burn like stars

There was always a great gulf in my
relationships personal
(My old lady yellling downstairs to see
if I brought the rest of the clothes from
the closet.some shifting of material in
the housing apartment..home here..
always working for the ladies one way
or another....)

Gotta call work in and tell them Im coming
and bike the seven klicks through its
suburban beauty at the foot of the escarpment
the little family ski hill I love to watch on
the ride there and back when its busy.
Which it always is.

I never had great money for toys
but a comfortable enough life..
then great losses
and hardships
Not jumping into relationships
or friendships that would
allow me accomadation like
some....I was careful in my
pick and choose..

The women were beautiful
and pretty whom would sit
with me....The oddness of
my character would draw
them.....The hesitant considerations
of lines and entrapments of the
heart made me lay down for
the most part at the edge of
forest chatting and chumming
with those whom wandered
in the arbour there

The few close ties are of the
nature that are in transit
a kind of voyage experience
so the detailings of those
times are engrained into me
like the etchwork of prints
or the decorative feel of
weaponry and leather
a tactile visual stimulation
rather then the more impact
that the joy of a gutteral
and physical thing...

but my contacts with the
ladies runs longer then their
flings....they would still
and do keep in touch
and in that I have a more
intimate contact then by
remaining just a lover

Because of the abandonment
issues and my mothers crazy
view of women...the
the dominant part was hammered
out of me....I wondered if it was
there at all and see that It is indeed
intact in me.....
Every woman wants to the be
special one...or wants you to be
the opposite in a dance..a game
a show....Boom Boom Bang
and it was something....

The fuel for writing was the many
moments....and the many brief
all part of the control which frustrates
we had so much formal
and it has carried me a long ways

practical over foolish abandon

I was allowed much allowances

This was a foray into the darker
the characters are twixt themselves
both broken
female on the floor
as in Wyeths painting of the girl
in the field and the farmhouse
on the ridge

Or Boris the famous sixties and
seventies artist...the archtype
standing and the female at
his feet

neither of these did I run
but with the advent of Fifty Shades
of Grey and my slow emergence
from the forest shadows into the
main Playing..Game feild its all
coming to light

I dont run on money....and you need
money to play....Gifting is important
and required...dinners out..
thoughtful notations and touch
ever so much required

basic constructs although society
has many constructs today
but that was the basic build of
my core....birth to five

the quiet aftermath
of words....actions
like a scene
building that tension
the bridge sides
its length and span
that story in the middle

and the non description
so the reader can associate
with the abstract blurriness
like a mist...
a rain.
a snowstorm

did they fight..yes..
something knocked over
television set..
lightning come and
gone...the potential
females are equally
as agressive
I like the fiery ones
then the crumple

the games next move
does he leave
take her hand
they move back into
the routine
pick up the peices
call a cab
dress and leave

they are open books
fallen from the shelf
tumbled and

even today in real time
I look for the eyes..
the moves
intellect and the
vivid...the design of
and odd eccentrities
nuance of the tells..

sit alone in the mall
my spot sipping coffee
and writing in my cell
phone or black flip pads
take smoke breaks out
back holding doors
for others or conversing
sharing cigarettes

all the while my mind
turning over the wheels
of all fabrications and
thoughts... are not too
formal at all
and No. At times I am
very rude and crude
and brutal with how I
just say things..
shot from the hip
like that....

becuase it might drive
a lot away...but it cuts
through all the static
of chatter...
down to the brass
where everyone loves
their falsetto voices
and trimmed plating...
Im the worn one
from the grit and grind
pitted and bitter at
but with an understanding
that this is the way
its going to be
and I can dream
and craft my fictions
here of what may
or what might...
rather then what
actually happened
which is what some
good writing is

Forgive me for all this
long entry
but sometimes as you
all have enquired its nice
to ride along with the
author and writer
and poet
and for many writers
authors poets
this is Life..
This is the Reality
defined by our transcripts
and traipses...

Now I gotta go freeze
my butt off out there
in the snowstorm
and wind..
bUt it keeps me

thank you!
Mr Esker...

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