Two lines that you follow,
Not single file like elementary
School; Two lines not paths, for
There are many paths one
May follow and can cross.
Two lines where-within
structure meets premise
Meets subtext meets
clause meets
Purpose meets context meets.
Meets muse. Two lines where-
Within everything met; in between the
Lines, if you follow.
Plume to ink to sheet
Within two lines you follow.
There is a well I’ve
Known.
A deep grey space that
looks like day old clay
where to
sorrows fled.
I’m sad for sorrow’s sake.
It was deep and grey.
Dwell the well,
Where I fell heavily.
Damp, cold, deep grey
crevasse
Where I
Laughed.
I smiled, as
All the sadness died upward,
Up and Up.
All the way to well,
for sorrows sake.
Doctor
still man
Who took
Me in
Who said
I care
Or so
He
Did
n
‘t
.
Steadily walking along the
Storefronts
Of Bleecker Street
near Charles.
Steadily walking along
what came upon
Me on my night walk –
Not upon me, rather what I
happened upon;
A bar with a blunt name.
A waste truck pulled up.
After, a party of few
Came out to smoke
For outdoor chatter.
Stunted and
Sober the walker.
My foot lay flat
On the wall
By the bar that came
Upon my walk.
Not that came
upon my walk, rather
That I happened
Upon.
Like a mighty feat,
Running on the track
And field,
And a winning
Streak, almost like,
Where were the opponents
Kind of streak.
They all saw it,
And were overt with zeal.
They watched him from the sideline…
They shed tears of elation.
All pains and losses gone,
All and all overcome.
Those with whom you
Sat, and jotted down the where
And what have
You. Talked
About
The where,
What have you
In
Lobbies of buildings
That.
In rooms with walls
That talk, not if they could.
Where do we go now?
We(you).
Placate the fools
With disconcerinmemt.
Flattery goes a long a way
For the ones that
Looked the other way
When their leaves
Fell in Spring time (For when do
Leaves in the Spring Fall?)
And when we hear your
Clamour of
Thorny tree-branches
Wont in the cold,
I can only return the favor
With my spring time fall.
People that
You don’t know,
(I.e.) like
“I know you by this many degrees”
Kind of People.
That you met
In your trauma.
The people you met
Before you may have started
Falling from your synthetic
High;
from the smoke and the fire.
With whom your white flag
You.
From whom the white flags
You.
In those days I’d sit
By the window sill
In the cold dark daytimes
Of Winter.
I’d hear the blinds in the kitchen
tapping,
Then a chill followed by unwelcome cold
Breeze, from those gray days.
It was not morbid.
I was younger, Reveling in possibilities.
My friends would call me in the
Evenings, and we’d be
Be 40 year misanthropes
In Manhattan bars.
I was in the mindset of returning
To that small, wooded college
upstate NY, as I took a personal leave.
A sea of papers covered my
Bedroom floor with sophomoric attempts
At a novel.
I didn’t mean to make those memories,
Such is the way of nostalgia.
I’d let the tap from the blinds on
the window Keep calling me. I’d light a
cigarette and smoke.
Meticulously in moms kitchen. Letting
My thoughts ruminate. Giving into short
circuitry.
I didn’t need the Spring to
Bring me to my senses. It was still cold
Out, when I arose from that state
And closed the window shut.
