11/12/15

The stranger that I walked with (Boston 2)

When I think of Boston, I remember the smell so well. And the stranger that I walked with, I hardly remember what I saw. But it's there somewhere in memory...like the cold rolls down from the hill, and there's a shiver I've had this whole frenzied week still. This weary body settling soon into the weekend and a different kind of quiet.






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11/8/15

November tides.

Sometimes the tide changes. Sometimes you don’t recognize - any face you’ve ever met anew - cause the world, is movin’ all the time. But you and me and November — we’re still the same. 
The silence and the miles — and California — everything that I don’t know, of all your 9 lives now. Out there wild. 

Just a never could be, now that it was — and I have known it. Known the thing worth missing — and a soul that’s true — a history that causes you to swear; if we met tomorrow how I would smile. And we would know each other still, despite it all. 

So where have you been babe? Cause I’ve wasted time, and made some things, — kissed a few and tried — missed everything at the end of each. Dreamed at the ends again of you. Lies and strangers, how they seem — like meant-to-be, and then, like nothing, all at all. Yes I’ve travelled, with quiet touch, over unfamiliar streets and skin...and yes I forgot for awhile and moved on. 
But there’s always a nighttime under the milk way — with a story to tell you — that I’d rather spend as us. 
That’s where I have been this second long year on — and it’s that sharp elegant month again. That commemorative time where I do think — of every circle I’ve made backwards. Every way in which, with the candles burning -- we stripped everything off back then. And how maybe that won't go. Maybe that's my lack of communication's cause unto. That's the one to beat. 



Or maybe I’m just writing make believe and metaphors, for those cold winter mornings all ahead. Maybe love — is some sweet strange combination of all the breaks you felt the Earth into, and there's magic — in a few different favorite hearts that you made all up into one. Combine it all — and hide from the rest — unto one great masterpiece, and see — life is funny dear. 
And wonderful. 
And that's the only good lie.
There’s beauty still ahead. Most importantly there’s the next you and me, who time has made of all of us  — time, time again for home… Can’t wait to see it tell. To tell a story to my children, of how it all went up — to November and to hope.
To moving to the sea.









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throwback, last november

We put our armors down finally, for all these battles -- final. Heavy and heaving in sweat there's just the end, been crossed. How did we get this far? How is it that I can truly call you a friend.

To hell and back - we've survived.






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10/22/15

Here, strange.

What’s this hangin on me, like diesel mutant muck — ruining the waves of the sea, that are oh- so majestically wide and far out still away… Far out can it now be? And aren’t we saying that in all our writings states apart, there’s always a way out place- and a way out way- and wayyy, whoa, all the things that are lookin’ scary. “Scary good” ain’t that the phrase we’ve been sayin’, cause it’s October…

Oh October, right before the very good — the cosmic month for me when things go so right, —turn right— the cosmic falls, and the place with the log on the lake, and the dusty old crystals I need to replant… All the neglected things in my movements, our moves (they’re good), — and ah hell, a hurdle of deep dense forest too over there. Time for an autumn cleansing, time for a cleanse of a weekend, a walk in the woods —lock the doors while I’m out— inside after all… Or maybe I’ll go out. Maybe we should park and play. 

Maybe the town, and the streets with their seasonal noise — have got something more to tell… Listen like we listened all those years ago in the street that I know and that same damn story that lives inside, in the cobwebs of my missing top hat, in the rings upon my fingertips (though they’re newer), and the lines upon which I do still dance. 

Dance, ah… dance. Can’t we just. In a smoky. sweaty, heave all at once -together with strange sensuality of the nighttime, in the city near the center…of right there on the spot temptation. Tempt all over again that body of what you want — that forested place of where you go to believe and let go. Let go in the only way you can, loosing rules, with another soul. We’re souls rising high against the dawn that makes you smile and trap me up. 

What are these words I’m sayin’ now? That mess of mood board, don’t you see — it’s Thursday on the night where the clouds angrily slide past the moon fighting for the warmth grippin’ the air ill-timed cause it’s gonna change either way. Can’t fight it now it’s here. 



Sweet strange scary here. Slate. 






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10/13/15

May the moon rise (Boston 1)

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When there’s thoughts to have next to you, so quiet.
When there’s a place- and a bench for sitting at the end of an old lane, that faces the haunted harbor
And don’t you know, that it’s there. 

In a cab in Boston going in the wrong direction in the right…and those big globes of light at night, seeing them dance (though they’re still); its all movement in the nighttime. Every night that you yearn, to see that missing moon up there - the black clouds blacken and nothing is right — but in just the pace of an inhale there it is, WOW. -pause- See the vibes shining in your mind, so coming fast that you swear — didn’t all the streetlamps just get brighter and dimmer? Weren’t there shadows dancing? Wasn’t it…
Makes it all feel so enchanting-uneasy- you fear and you draw…it in inside. 

Back in the even, weekday-ordinary evening — the woods shadowed back over, and turnabout street on which I now live (some inhales later), the trees, got nothing more to say just yet…just sweet quiet. And I smile at their golden branches — cause I know, we know, they’ll change…mend to the blustery cold sharp winds a’coming — branched into something intricately placed. Cause we find places. New ones, wonderful, -stroll against the wind through, as everything is unfamiliar kind of wonderful… and you can’t remember the last broken break, or entire weekend alone in bed for one. Isn’t that a blessing — and a sacrifice of the words halting on the other side. Isn’t that something.

Halt. But what’s the use of it? Let it, let the delicate faint lines form upon the very walls because it feels right. Left. Up and…well…
Let the ‘scape, and the scope —and hell, all of it that this season burns into the air, in oh-such-fragrant air of Baltimore — be inside plenty of blushed smiles. The day fog lifts and it’s a passion like never before. The leaves, the hot candlelit meals, the layers being pulled off - soft cotton sweaters - then the hot steaming showers when you thank the necessities and the stars. The cold and the heat. 


So dream another morning with me, so quiet. 
Dream amongst the thickened sheets of how we feel, rising high and rhythmically entirely holding on…to the sun piercing brilliantly, angles of the room. 
Beauty. Fall back down again and rest your soul, breathe. 
And that’s the closest lullaby, these scripts of prose. 
That’s where I’ll end for tonight — and may you sleep, in thoughts of magic autumn. 
May the moon rise. 






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8/28/15

Missed Summer

Guess I missed summer again. Guess I didn’t mind… But then I remember that’s a lie too. All those teenie baby smiles on his little face, all those it’s-gonna-be-alright embraces, all the laughter and the sun, all those moments to take it all in, …and every single time I wished for someone far away and felt it all the way through. That counted too. 

Count the ways in which a season slips by in the way you don’t expect. And I will love you from faraway forever more; old friends that have been lost. Old roads and signs - and that strange wonderful night in November — they wait and they age, and we take a new risk tomorrow instead. We meet another. 

Wouldn’t I love to say something stunningly new now. Wouldn’t it change the course of fate by mere typing….with a slig of bourbon and gulp down of humidity, here we go. Here the dreams come true. Here upon this, and here upon next. And what was I saying? Ah hell another swig… 

Cause memories all sound better this way, and we do better as adults these days. We love and we teach and play with the kids cause they’re all precious things that age. Then you realize what you said — that you grew up. 


But you’re the same. 







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8/25/15

Down the road

That same song was playin’, as I looked out at the early evening city and took a breath — of finally cooling air, in, atop the drying dust of the day and mud on old shoes… And I thought about what I used to hope for. That it was disappearing… in the slow lane going down the highway — with this heaviness and this new patience, it was on the journey to gone for quite some time past and now…Gone. Maybe that was finally alright. Maybe I could smile about it, cause now I'm free of it, of being trapped inside your own wish, that's failing after every risk. Maybe it was after, after all. 

Cause the hot late-summer blood in my veins, it feels like the best of who I was before everything…went differently. Differently we go after so many chances, and we let this beautiful life change us. For love, for passion, for epic unexpected thought-it’d-work nights. Ah, but the nights… Fail again into something great, lay next to me, and maybe we’ll just remember the trace of moments I know this tired body has embraced, under the stars —— and let it come alive anew — jumping-into-their-arms without looking back kind of way…

…I could go for that kinda’ choice tonight, I think, as I get back in the car and turn right for home. For running into something, for risking the full throttle of what we have of roaring insides still. Still, after another day that felt like a year, burning alight a night, before that call at dawn — could be something. Really something we could have. Something for the next day. 


For now I’m not sure of the next words — I forgot them all this long strange summer along with everything — and now it tickles on my fingertips and the questions not asked on my lips, to talk of everything next. So what is everything now? Maybe tomorrow I’ll know… cause suddenly it’s all catching up and I’m tired. Letting the eyelids fall with the Book of Then put to bed. The hopes that never were that don’t survive. Everything that went differently…even in the place, that deep forest, that I loved, where I fell in love all those years ago — there was nothing to feel of before. There the hopes fell into the sand and I didn’t notice. 


So goodnight to that ever after and this tiresome day, there’s a beautiful morning coming in hours, even if I just sleep till then and wait…



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4/13/15

We move in spring.

Standing by the open screen on the second story of my little place, breathing in the Baltimore air with "thunder only happens when it's raininggggg" playing over the whoosh of cars and the sun setting - won't be home for long. Won't be long before there's summer - slow, hot sweat dripping down the center bony line down my chest, straight down… like it was the other night. When it just was, we were playing that same tired old game of not saying anything at all. Been so long since we said anything of souls and spirits, any of us that is. Rather stay in the momentum of our generation - with you remembering lines over all the parts of me again. Rather have not known, but now we know. 

The rain coming later tonight and it feels inside, greater than the night just closed - it feels like the grasses even, are reaching up in slow unawakening, and stretching in quietly openmouthed yearning for the thirst. Taking action in their next action - in it grows only more. For the knowledge of the rain and the caress of every bead of warm chilling dew after a long winter's wait - builds only desire for the next. And after the long winter - we've come blinking outside as strangers. I'm a stranger to myself, and she seems so strange to know, like all of that. Wonder if any lover or friend, they're always claiming to be both, has known the pattern of the outstretched beating of my heart - besides the pulse it gives to him as he goes faster. But still it gives in that, arch your head back and gasp - place of quickening song. Faster we're burning through our youth in sprints and halts. Halting entanglements. Get lost in the spell of crackling the incense lit…and let it fill the emptying room. The drapes and trinkets all packed up - allowing the ghost to play rhythms against the little bits of lights, the songs it knew - reminding me it's time to move. So move on. 

We move in spring. We make the left or right decisions that last the year through - we begin the things that in autumn's glowing light - feel so faraway and so fundamental. How many times we've made the last decision, the final break - the eternal coming together, cause this time it will grow in botanical curves and BE. This time everything will just follow in a line to the oceans of our memories and see? how you'll seem to have made sense in wandering. Hoping our best darling is waiting there. Everyone has a best. 


Best of everything is yet to come. As I sleep tonight it'll flutter over eyelashes and then walls and trees, across the secrets webbing together the next great wonderful big story to tell. The raucous time in the funny youth, that oh… what we would give to give again. Give into me and how you'll see…we'll see whats buried deep beneath a foundation you can really quake and crumble and dance along the cracks it forms… happiness is there. That's happiness. Summer and the end of circles around the town.  









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1/24/15

drown & survive

The cold heavy rain, 
the ghost of you here, 
and everything going round my aching head. 
When's the good of this coming home to me? When will all the words I need to hear again be said - cause it's lookin like the sea is callin me to embrace - to know finally, fully, that this journey of your great move, will take the years away. We're moving away, from all the beautiful innocence that was - 
from all the promises constructed in whispered night, 
and the charcoal paintings that we made of touch - under those same stars all the way out there where your heart is locked up guarded tight. 

Let it unbound. 
Unbind every weathered mile of you. 
Give me all of you to hold fast unto, as we go faster...I can feel you here as if you've just gone and I can feel the weight of every mistake. But haunted always near is the great mountain of what shuddered between us - of what does still. 
What's the charter of meaning beneath, well, any northern star? Where's my transient nerves when they're needed most for a great dive... Can't seem to stay or go - 
the moon hangs low upon every tide. 
Hang low and swing among the cliffs of undefined, of passion and unplanning - swing upon my soul. 
See the world in my candlelit eyes and know it all again. 
Know that we've been promised for so long that there's a goodness in yearning. 
Yearn again fully and be drowned.
 Be taken by the sea with me and how it sees of the divine noble being trapped inside. I'll swim in you until the breath calms - until a great silence gently softens all to sleep. 

All the dreams dearly dreamt on lost ships at sea - they can be - and we can be, free. 
We can have this love and still make it back.





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1/6/15

Tale as old as

It snowed today - beautiful chaos - and I missed you, just like every day of this bleak winter. Missed that sigh you make after a long fable-story you're always spillin over to tell. Miss the smell of you and that gaze, that treasures all the wildness in the world, in me. Listened not, to a single syllable spoken to my ears, I only listened to the wind. The wind now shrieking into the icy midnight - how I envy it. The hushed longing inside where it's safe - it only settled quietly into murky pools of eyes - and slowly follows all along in understood strange companionship. Think the strength of it though, could reach those miles to the California coast and sing, sing, sing all hollow - between those mountains that go climbing altitude to new ideas. Can you hear it? While you smoke that cigar and ease back…with a squeak, into an old rusted plastic-seated chair in your little yard - where the wolves don't roam but you hear them far off - and into that moon, so big and warm, changing everything, you watch…Listening to the wild desert night, and realize you hear upon the ocean breeze….suddenly whispering, with a chill - "come back to me"…come back to me…come back to her… 

/// >

Twist fate if I could and return to her. That last night, that last night, oh darling that night - if only we'd known then what must be said, what would end - through your storied window still I would've climbed. Felt like climbing all the world heroically, racing down that highway yet again with a borrowed, stolen car - felt like laughing at luck - all just to know such sweet kisses she saves for me, sweet skin and moves…same sweet eyes she had years ago and now, looking up at me were cherishing inside the flickers of light, like magic in my veins. I could lose, or find, everything there. I could have, have had  -like joyous capture- all of her and still… Still I hear her on the wind. Why's it follow me so far away? Thought here, great here that is, finally I'd outrun it - know she's gone from me for leavin', for leavin'… -I left her kissin me goodbye in that old satin robe, holding back the door we'd open and closed 'few times over already. Over, was ticking on the neon clock and it was an hour past my time for really leaving, for the long drive, -for join over everything, all wear towns and thoughts, -back to the coast of dreams. Back in the coast of dreams. Still I hear her callin' me, and I think of home…






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