090314A
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Snow huddles tight,
against the sun.
It suffers its age,
feeling the effects
of weather.
Wrinkles of light
along furrows of shadow,
as it shrinks back,
slowly losing strength,
but still holding on
to patches of dark earth
under a torn blanket.
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090314B
-----------
There is so very much that is broken,
that there is no way to repair.
Hardly anything ever remains,
that has not been broken apart,
the way shells are broken
by voracious appetites.
If there was anything left in it,
they have taken that out of it,
leaving the emptied husk.
Another season of cancellations,
among the discontinuance,
of cutting apart, and breaking off.
No one can really plan
for those types of desolation,
and all that walking alone,
past all the mended fences,
and the locked gates,
wondering where it has all gone.
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090314C
-----------
There is hardly anyone,
who has not gone over
to the other side.
Whatever side that is,
and wherever they go,
while leaving
various ruined plans
strewn about
among other types of failures.
The variety of defections,
that become the milestones,
marking the long stretch
of one's own fragmented life.
A scattering of moments,
all chopped up into pieces.
The way food is prepared,
by means of a precise kind of violence.
The long solitary confinements
of time spent searching
for what cannot be found
by any known means,
in any known place,
that chances to lure
with the usual promises.
The only escape,
being to close one's eyes,
knowing that dreams can happen
when eyes are closed.
Someday someone will invent
a jukebox that plays dreams,
that can be selected by choice,
from a strict menu of possibilities,
made available to everyone,
for an affordable price.
Until then it is a wild chance game,
as to what doesn't go over
to the other side,
and what doesn't go over,
to making it impossible
to follow.
I have never yet found
what does not go over
to the other side.
-------------------
090314D
------------
As the seasons turn,
on each other,
in their perpetual struggle,
each habitually disappoints
in similarly different ways.
Their changing tricks us
into those false expectations,
that say something will happen,
which then never really happens,
beyond vain hopes of change.
Each year brings its memories,
as to how I wanted to believe
that I would find you somewhere.
Last year it was apple blossoms,
that made me feel so very lonely.
I do not know what your season is,
so each has me restlessly guessing.
Winter is always a difficult time,
of white gowns draped loosely
over tangles of bare limbs.
---------------------------------
090314E
------------
Back around the same circuit,
to a perpetual square one,
and all that getting nowhere fast.
Running in the same circles,
until they melt you down,
into a silent trickle of despair.
It is not what you chance to know,
but rather what you might never know,
that really takes you down.
In the push and pull of it all,
you end up headed upstream,
as the floodgates open up.
It all goes down,
the way it always goes down,
and that is the horror of it all.
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090314F
-----------
One cries out in a wilderness,
where no one ever hears a sound,
and everyone ignores any meaning.
Never knowing what pulls so fiercely
in all the various directions,
incessantly pulling it all apart.
The way the wind leaves tatters,
where various flags once waved,
their fading colors.
All the empty places that one becomes,
having witnessed the pastimes of strangers
but not wanting to contaminate their illusions.
That haunting sense of teary empathy
for all of their laughter and sufferings,
in what they remain so scarcely aware of.
Everything gets torn away,
but there is nothing much inside
whatever is torn open.
There is the habitual pushing aside,
that comes from falling short,
in all that scrounging for bits and pieces.
It is all about all of what cannot be done,
rather than what tends to fill the spaces
the way mortar fills spaces in walls.
---------------------------------------------
090314G
------------
No point asking me what I would do,
when it cannot actually be done,
as is true about anything that I would do,
if it were possible to do anything.
Time spent filling in time,
in between incessant reminders,
as to how it all amounts to the same
more poignant instances of failure.
The kind of detours that go a long way
to get to nothing beyond more dead ends,
despite all the misleading indications of maps,
teasing with the idea of getting somewhere.
Nothing one can afford to open up about,
knowing the guest list is again a blank slate,
the names having been rubbed out,
leaving little more than random numbers.
The kind of continual blood loss
that never has any chance to heal,
but never leaves any stains or bruises,
until eventually there is no strength left.
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