Friday, December 27, 2024

fake it till you make it

if it feels like depression

it possibly could be

not the definitive “is”

just the spatiality of “might”


the only thing known for sure

is the pain and pressure 

behind gray eyes and sinus

the throbbing that spreads

to ears and upper mandible 

a body sore when waking 


get out, show up:

fake it till you make it

or die trying 

Thursday, December 26, 2024

they are so hard to see

I always seem to be approaching things

working on obtaining or they

hover in the distance 

sitting in a basket

pending, waiting 

on others to follow through 

to eventually be deleted 

on the ticking of time


Wednesday, December 25, 2024

cold days and colder nights

the pavement extended until it didn’t 

in the near distance it halted at a deep chasm

unbeknownst, Life pushed me forward…anyway 

but here I’ve arrived and here I teeter

on the precipice of Effort and Why Bother


I was never good at celebrating Me


Thursday, December 12, 2024

thing 1 thing 2 ring a ding a thing thing thing

things that depress, things that oppress

the body, the spirit

external things beyond control; 

things major, things minor

there is always some thing


but here’s the Thing…

a thing already cracked

can rarely break; more

crackling only lets more light in

time and time again

Eleven hours of sleeping and waking because I decided not to take an antihistamine to help me sleep. I wake to sinus pressure, congestion and coughing, face ready to explode. 

I can’t smell much, but what does get through is the acerbic stench of mold. I’m allergic to dust, pollen and…mold. 

Next week, the university goes on winter break.

Next week the students upstairs leave for break, supposedly, again.

Next week, they should begin repairing leaks upstair, again. 

After Next week they should assess the mold

in the bedroom where I sleep, 

in the bathroom where I bathe, again.

It’s been eight months of next weeks, and each week I’m hopeful, again. 

Fool me once, fool me twice, fool me time and time again. 

breathing

      inhale, focus on stillness 

on the verge of tears but not

a dull pain of pressure throbs

      exhale, release darkness

warm, the little body heavy against me

keeps my spirit from caving

      inhale, manifest lightness

duality or the struggle of a Capricorn reformed

I am my age

but not

I have immense energy

but don’t 

There’s room in my life for love

but there really isn’t 

I’m too smart for my own good,

but kinda dumb on occasion 

And if it confuses some people?

Well, it confuses me more.

Sunday, November 10, 2024

looking deeper looking past

there’s no getting around this

Portugal - at least where I live now - 

has seen better days


at first I thought it wild, simply 

unkempt in a historic sense: 

sitting in chipped tile bench

in a park established a

century and a half past

I was left to wonder what

grandeur the city once knew 

but newness, idealization 

a sense of wonder 

has given way to daily life


the derelict homes graffitied poorly

walls streaked with damp 

paths overgrown and randomly kept

broken benches never fixed

broken lights never lit

bins overflowing 

litter in the streets

in the greenway along

the Medieval wall where I walk

daily 

bright ideas established 

never maintained 


a lacking 

of pride in work unfinished 

and a mix of happy angry people 

and clothes that never quite dry




existing is a chore

I think I forgot to enjoy my life 

in hindsight

I would go back there

to my forties to

my thirties, my twenties 

most especially my teens 

in hindsight 


frame of reference

my

frame of reference 

exists

in a different country 

in a different state

of mind;

logic

doesn’t exist

here

Sunday, September 22, 2024

night and day

 two streets over

my apartment off Largo dos Penedos

on the second floor 

is dry; there’s no constant barrage 

of black flies

my towel dries overnight 



alone is not lonely

after you

I was never good 

with another body

in my bed

sleeping


Thursday, August 22, 2024

morning ritual

she eats faster than I can make my coffee 

then takes my place in bed

that tiny strip along one side 

where she allows me to sleep 

expecting me to squeeze into a snuggle 

while my coffee grows cold on the nightstand

Wednesday, August 21, 2024

melancholic for the cicadas

everybody’s body

has a rhythm 

has a cadence

has a thump-thump

of a heart beating

of a hum in their ears

of a mind wandering 

melancholic for the cicadas

my heart feels off


Tuesday, August 20, 2024

and a rock feels no pain

I needed once


perhaps I’ll need again soon

the impermanence of a lover

the depth of knowing 

with a touch and words deep

of a heart’s dreams and remorse 


perhaps I’ll need

the permanence of a companion

the depth of growing

with care and attention 

to life too quick to end

The sense of things

I gave up surviving for

 a fight to live in

a place of 

illogical norms where

the sense of 

things allude me:

a place where

to exist is a chore


Friday, August 02, 2024

sweetest girl

She watches listens

movements sounds

out the window cracked

slightly open; sadly 


comfort and constant 

adoration housed

on a leash fed twice daily 


I cannot give something 

other different wildly

running in a pack; sadly 

I watch as She sighs

curling into my side to sleep 

Tuesday, July 30, 2024

nature v nurture

to enjoy time at home

time alone

to prefer gatherings 

of close friends 

to prefer loud spaces 

in moderation 


the guilt of societal pressure to be

something someone other than yourself 

the guilt of Mother…

Monday, July 29, 2024

morning

the acceptance of a thing

is not an active search for it; 

her gaze keeps me tethered 

through a soul-dark moment of

labored breaths rattling in a 

chest in a half-lit room

Wednesday, July 24, 2024

summer

it’s hot; too hot and yet 

the cold of winter crept

into my bones and settled 

muscles bones sinew tight;

the older I get 

the more I have to move 

the less I want to

why are my legs so cold

when the heat suffocates?

my own thinks

left to myself I

worked too fast

connecting dots completing puzzles 

logic patterns and finding 

things out of place 

but thought - think - too slow

when expressing verbally 

I need time to pull

the right words in the right order 

from the spatial cacophony hovering 

my own thinks just out of reach



impermanence

I have no spouse no

children few 

friends limited

family; 

slowly I erase public 

traces of existence



Friday, July 19, 2024

even now She sleeps

She ran wild in

open spaces dangerous

curious kenneled

in the cool of night and

heat of day physically 

spent, did she find a

moment of rest?


unkenneled, She ran in

recognition of face and

voice urgent, needful 

Birdie! BIRDIE!!

then roamed again

as if she had not seen 

enough everything and

knew what my presence meant


once home She slept

pressed firm against 

my side moving

room to room 

eyes on me always

all night She slept 

our morning walk slow

with glances occasional






you can’t take it with you

Travel and time changes left me with no sleep and a body that moved with little to no conscious effort. It knew the list of things my mind had laid out. 

Waiting in line for a train ticket home, I tried to function appropriately. Peripherally, I saw a slight man hobble, one person to the next, speaking low, one hand grasping the support he needed to walk and the other motioning to his mouth, a universal language for eat, food, hungry.

Without thought I mimicked others with a shake of my head.

“Não Portuguese…” I stumbled to say, brain processing slow. 

He moved on as my mind processed my actions and my hand dug into a small pocket past a single paper and into the coolness of metal. 

I motioned him back. Holding his outstretched palm, I deposited the five or eight euros. 

What was that amount to me?  My next week’s groceries is his meal today. 

Monday, July 15, 2024

mouse along the wall

my superpower is invisibility 

in any proximity in any

conversation group or even 

one-on-one; I say a thing any

thing and I am wrong even 

when I am right and when 

discovered I am right, the thing

I said  becomes that other!s 

thought idea solution

they move forward while 

I watch, a mouse along the wall 


“I am Superman and I can do anything…” ~ I am Superman, The Clique 

a thing

too oft I ponder

a thing without 

remorse anger jealousy 

always I wonder 

a thing without 

answer solution resolution 

it’s too late to ask why so

saudade sets in the periphery 

thrumming 





Sunday, July 14, 2024

in sleep

sorrow sits heavy in

my eyes when 

you are not looking in

my chest when

I watch you breathing

heavy in sleep 

Wednesday, July 10, 2024

yestermorrow

I longed

to be seen and touched

and heard; made my days

Hallmark and herd then

I wondered 

at the world; wrote of

lovers and loss of

love tinged by grief 

I thought 

in fractured syllabic utterances 

scribbled on anything near

I lived

like tomorrow would 

never manifest 

because yours never would


but tomorrow became today

moments of fond recollections 

and longing has cooled 

Sunday, July 07, 2024

whereabouts

 we announce 

going to the store

going to pick up the boys

going to the doctor 

going to the bathroom 

going to take my pills

going to shower and crash

as if our whereabouts 

are a thing of worry 

and still we ask…

                      where is…



Sunday

the betrayal of 

old injuries throbbing as 

new are… mending?

morphing? pain randomly

fucking about on whim


Tuesday, July 02, 2024

family

I communicate on his terms; call 

on before after days of celebration; visit

mostly in the silence of being present; listen  

to occasional stories of sudden remembrance 

of surface dwellings never deep rarely about the

familial unit that was the first in which 

we are the last; he is the last to hold my story of

a youth soon only known to me, a youth spent

grasping to manifest a thing I never knew

a thing others called family 


Saturday, June 29, 2024

grandmother

half-light of a red glow 

through shears drawn loose;

morning chilled by the slow

creek of a lazy fan lulling

from above; 

                    the glow was 

burnt orange in a different time a 

different place also on a lake but 

drawn tight, the sheers guarded  

flesh thinly creping, shaded 

eyes grown pale; delicate 

she lived middling to late

in the half-light away from the sun


fit to bust

holding space holding it

together, heart fit to bust body

constrained by a ‘have to’ and

miles of water miles of land;

static as the mind spins the

dial searching scanning for

that one good song on a

a county road while driving 





Friday, June 28, 2024

no title feels right

I

I looked for one

and found another 

the shelter had so many 

II

struggling with 

                        home

the concept the feeling 

I was without while in motion

of doing and seeing, settling in

III

shutting windows locking doors 

I left my heart in Portugal 

even days away are too long 


Sunday, June 23, 2024

little Bird

our rituals

timely tell us when 

to wake when to sleep when 

to eat when to walk when

to love when

not followed

she knows and demands

her little heart keeping time 

Thursday, June 20, 2024

learning early not to fly

they’re not all winners

my thoughts, my decisions

I think ninety percent and do ten

still too oft there’s a disconnect 

‘tween envisioning and execution 

like the clay whale I made

in fifth grade I keep in a box

most thoughts I never voice

skirting the wall for crumbs 

is safer than foraying 

for cheese on the table 


“…to the girl with the mousy hair…” ~ Life on Mars, David Bowie

Monday, June 17, 2024

crevice

time and space to sit

parse thoughts into this

and that now and then

marvel at the shape of

things how they grow

in sun in shade in the

crevice ‘tween rocks 

where they slunk away


“…nothing to hold on to…” ~ Ring on the Sill, Cowboy Junkies 

my dog wakes me with a pounce

wake a baby 

get sudden dirty looks

then an emphatic sigh

and a flop back to sleep 

there is no tit for tat

‘round these parts 

did he ask, sit for me while I paint you

pulling out the darkest red

is this what was he saw

or what his desire desired

or puzzled machinations  


the artist and their intent

admired then stored

in a box on a shelf


Tahitian Women on the Beach, (1891) Gauguin

these days

most mornings 

there’s a man of 

indeterminate age

sitting on a stoop

on the street 

calling in Portuguese

“um cão, um cão“

extending a palm 


focused many fly

by workers working

by waiters waiting 

by signs signaling 

those looking lesser than

what is deemed of worth 


with Birdie tightly close 

on her leash lowly

commanded to Hold

her gaze waiting for Ok

the busy street we cross


welcomed by ”bom dia”

and stares from passers-by 

as the man of 

indeterminate age

sitting on a stoop

on the street smiles



“I don’t do too much talking…” ~ These Days, Nico




 

Sunday, June 16, 2024

by sheer stubbornness if will

pushing forward 

pushing daisies 

not quite yet 


“My existence is a chore…” ~ The Great Hope Design, Sevdaliza

leavings

rhyme and meter well beyond grasp 

I gave and sold the world 

the words I’d learned, knowing never last

coming and going, ticking boxes

on to the next

shut the front door!

freedom bought and sold

to the years of labor

it’s realization traded

for a plot of land and home

somewhere with sky and sun

a place to sit and sleep 

a place to manifest 

space to be alone;

we all have dreams

and ceilings to shatter

prisons to escape 

but does it all matter?

Saturday, June 15, 2024

fibers

I gave up my power when I cut my hair,

a sorrowful but freeing moment when

realization hit that I live at the whim of an 

unidentifiable other; not a deity not a god 

not a predetermined pattern but

fibers of endless possibilities that

draft down to limited probabilities and

twist and draw fibers into the yarn of a

life unfolding; 

                        there are no roads not

taken or stitches to unpick

Friday, June 14, 2024

that was then this is now

where did the passion go but

to hours long passed replaced by 

motions that mimic living

so young so long

I  cannot brag

I cannot humble brag

I cannot publicly whisper accomplishments 

under my breath and yet

I have done things others can only dream


these things are kept in a 

drawer of facts and figures, papers 

brittled to be filed in a box with momentos

fondled on rare occasions of

remembrance to be wondered over in

melancholic thoughts of 

what when where I would be if…


I hadn’t learned to skirt walls, if

I hadn’t retreated from harsh words

and the pushing away, if

I hadn’t learned to deny my worth


so young so long


“…mother did it need to be so high…” ~ The Wall, Pink Floyd 

Birdie

she presses hard against hip;

the instinct to move, to

give way give space? I

deny I press closer and

she sighs into a deeper sleep. 

metaphorically speaking

the larger front burner doesn’t work

to be accurate, it doesn’t stay lit

the switch, the knob, the controller of 

gas doesn’t stay connected…

they installed the vent after two months of

cajoling now none of the burners light;

setting and resetting the requisite parts,

and I still can’t boil water 


Thursday, June 13, 2024

unraveling

One - You can’t rewind

I like to do things 

I’m good at

some while others

not so much but enjoy 

and if you do them better I

wish you well but let 

me have my joy

let me learn and do

in my way


Two - Mother was a dancer

I took classes in ballet 

but my ankles were weak

so that stopped; I learned 

guitar, cello, flute, piano 

I wasn’t a prodigy

practice was too loud 

so that stopped; each in turn

looking inward I learned 

to read no book was denied 

no music no film, so I 

consumed, lived my youth in 

my room in stories

in words humming

I read outside windows 

watching others, watching 

mother dance: wondered halls

between rooms of learners 

while she preened

in learning I excelled

something she couldn’t…

but that stopped 


Three -Little 15

It was a long time coming 

the exodus of the familial unit

since my birth I think 

one got love then two then 

by the time I came, 

I think they were all just

done: with freedom I 

floundered in the forging

too young too fast: now

unraveling

slowly

there is no heart

pounding through my chest

I feel too old for that

too worn too burned by

too many false starts and ghosts;

yet in the half-light, an ember

glows softly, slowly, unnamed 


Wednesday, June 12, 2024

morning

She sleeps deep, her little body heaving with dreams as she breathes huge gulps of air, belly rising, belly falling.


Saturday, June 08, 2024

well I don’t hardly know her

is time ever wasted?

are there really things to be learned?

does a wasted youth produce a productive old age 

or just a mourning for a life that never was?

I worked hard to get what I want but all I got was tired.


“But I think I could love her…” Crimson and Clover, Tommy James and the Shondells

until she wasn’t

a life in place, love all set, 

it all allowed for a sleep of

storied dreams played out in scripts

rewind edit replay

in waking hours of wash rinse repeat, 

of work of school of making a house a home

she wrote of things made sense in half-light

she wrote fueled on tea and sugared toast

until she couldn’t until she shattered: 

in her sorrowed hours

of the heaviness of a death she mourned 

in the vastness of a light slumber

she woke into a life out of place 

all that life he was there but not: 

while she was there all in

until she wasn’t 

“Anyone who’s had a heart, wouldn’t turn around and break it…” ~ Sweet Jane, Velvet Underground 

Friday, June 07, 2024

whence

It’s a place somewhere between awareness and sleep, a particular exhaustion that’s not exhaustion.

A fleeting moment of time when the day is too hot but the air is cooled by shade and the stillness broken only by the oscillation of an over-used fan that clicks as it sweeps back and forth in the soft glow. 

Absent is the lulling swarm of the cicada drowning out the persistent reverberations of a heart pounding wild, un-rythmic and breaths, shallow, laboring to find its depth. 


Sunday, June 02, 2024

I remember loving

little lines, flesh

not so taught, exhaustion 

in the mirror

there were lovers once;


I remember loving

a body on fire

with a pulse quickening 

figments of imagination 

bled from veins on wrists 

ink on paper, scratch scratch

on fingers smudged 


the fan oscillates, cooling

in the late morning 

a body on fire

with the hours of existence 

Monday, May 13, 2024

thought crime

Moving today/tomorrow. 

Waking slow. Is today a holiday? Birdie thinks so. She wants to snuggle in. 

But we need to eat, walk, take a cold shower, face the day. 

Waiting for the dark of no electricity at the old place. My timing has been off for a while. 

Remember when moving was much like changing jobs; every time the rent went up, when the raise didn’t happen…change. 

Then one year became three became eight became a want for roots. 

Marriage was my constant. The thing that grounded me. The thing around which all things pivoted. It was my constant until it wasn’t. 

His tiny mind thought there was another, an other love for me. He couldn’t rationalize that other was his. His friends, his coworkers always before me, then the IMs.  

His new marriage is as old as our divorce.

Sunday, May 12, 2024

obstacles

feet stuck in mud hardening

as the moist air turns into a sweltering 

humidity and the gnats swarm

deeply I breathe slowing to an eight count

in then out purposefully in then out

Tuesday, May 07, 2024

ghost flies

she looks at the wall ceiling doorway empty space

my own eyes take in too much light 

but I’m sure there’s nothing there

she growls suddenly alert -  I feel 

the rumble in her chest  as she presses close

little heart beating fast I pull her closer

to settle into a tight sleep after a big sigh



Sunday, April 21, 2024

s'up

collecting 

ceramic birds

wet socks

sand 

and fur


due diligence/but not always

Identify the goal. 

List actions items required to attain the goal. 

Anticipate challenges. 

Work each action item. 

Tackle any challenge. 

Tackle any unanticipated challenge. 

Be flexible if the path to the goal changes. 

Be flexible if the goal mutates. 

 

This will ensure you achieve your desired outcome, 

but not always. 


There is an unknowable variable at play.

This variable is the will of others. 

 

It’s okay to want conceptually, but not to want specifically. 

Take a deep breath. 

Be open to the possibilities before you.

Saturday, April 13, 2024

cyclical

I worked…
              and worked one
so young so long so much
scrimping saving doing…
               without
he bought my youth
with nickels and dimes

divorce and drifting…
                more than surviving 
eating laughing connecting
doing things going places 
I dreamt myself into a

segue of pursing knowing 
scrimping saving doing…
               without 
one, two, three, four, five 
jobs I juggled if I needed 
               
back into the grind of two
one to get by one…
if I wanted I worked more
              and I got 
sick tired exhausted 

I dreamt myself into
to the joy of none
scrimping saving doing…
               without




pictures of me

 micellar water, no lotion 

Lines

dry shampoo,, no water 

Gray


Wednesday, March 20, 2024

fistfuls of ether

in a place where I can’t breathe 

the weight of nothingness 

reaching in overlong, reaching out

gasping, grasping air in huge gulps 

fistfuls of ether dissipating 

eroding into a half-lit dark


everything is damp, cold with it;

flesh, cloth, moisture-clouded glass

lungs; things grow in crevices here

in the place where I can’t breathe 

Friday, March 15, 2024

22 years

tomorrow will be 22 years since you’ve been gone:

I wonder how you would have aged.

where would you be in the world, where would I?

could the world have been different?

or was your passing a fixed event, destined?

does life unfold the only way it can? 

could? has? will?  

Yup

Ikigai eludes me, fleeting 

on the peripheral, floating 

then suddenly wet grass and dirt

fur on the tile, blanket, shirt

waking to walk then walking

again and again and again 

Wednesday, March 06, 2024

busy-work

One of my earliest memories was my dad saying “up and at it” and “get’er done”. I’m talking early grade school. Definitely sometime between 3rd and 6th grade.

I can’t be the only person my age who had too much time to think while walking home from school that young, growing up too fast. 

So I’ve never been good at waiting or leaving things up to others, especially if  I think I’m not a priority to them. I’ve always preferred to do things myself, depend on myself, and own my mistakes when I make them.

It’s uncomfortable and overwhelming to depend on others, on someone else's judgement and determinations, excuses for inaction. 

It’s uncomfortable and overwhelming to exist in limbo, waiting, filling time with busy-work.

Sunday, March 03, 2024

cold has crept

Too late, the cold has crept

into bones and breath

temple to temple it stretches 

behind eyes taught


Gray skies, damp walls

a soul softly shackled 

to shuffling feet, legs

stiff with winter blues

Unmooring

The things I want to do are stuck until one little thing occurs. 

Shedding a life took three years. 

It was mostly physical; documenting my job at work, preparing the house to sell, gifting, selling, donating everything. Whittling away until my life was constrained to four duffles, three boxes, and a crate of art. 

The goal was clear, steps toward achieving my goal were attainable.

It was late March when I retired, early June when I drove cross country, and late July when I crossed the ocean. It was summer. The world was bright, a stunning white-hot. 

Unmooring took weeks. It was mostly psychological: depending on others, the impatience of waiting, the inability to take action. Limbo gave me too much time to sit with my own thoughts and the a lack of purpose except to “wake eat, sleep, repeat” overwhelmed. 

December, January, February, dark skies, cold, rain. Winter drags on as I drift without control. 

Tuesday, February 27, 2024

in winter, the dying leaves of autumn rot

everything is damp here, and

where the dying leaves settle 

the path is slick on old

stone sidewalks cobbled;

a reminder of a day past.

happiness as two steps 

at a time were taken

landing, sliding,

skinning palms and knees

through jeans ripped

stained bloody;

portent of a marriage 

ending and a heart

never quite mending.


in winter, the dying

leaves of autumn rot,

not just here, but there

where I existed too long.

Tuesday, February 20, 2024

yester-morrows

sorrow sits, nestled in 

her palms outstretched

tinging a life of walkabouts 

and yester-morrows

Monday, February 19, 2024

guns or fireworks

My little ‘hood in East Dallas was sandwiched between one of million dollar homes and a ghetto I didn’t like to drive through alone. We were mostly middle class? Lower middle class? Monetarily thrifty? Just people with jobs who settled in to a place we could almost afford, or older residents who had purchased new and were nearing death.

When I first moved in, the house on the furthest corner near where I wouldn’t drive, caught fire. Curious, many of us flocked over only to see firemen pulling plants out of a smoldering garage. 

When helicopters were seen, we’d wonder if they were traffic or police. We called them all Ghetto Birds. Around holidays, weekends, and the random weekday, we’d hear loud pops and wonder if it was guns or fireworks. Flat tires were common from the foot-deep potholes and ruts. We knew each other, closely and loosely, wondered and gathered randomly, share food and woes. Some came, some went, some stayed, one or two caused havoc.

I woke up missing my house, the yard, space to dwell. It wasn’t much, the gentrification was encroaching by the time I sold, but it was mine and the people I knew were true.


Friday, February 16, 2024

oh Sisyphus, you’re a dumb f—-

For a long time, I thought we are all ruled by Karma, but no matter how much I tried to be good and true so that only good would come back to me, shit has always seemed to happen, often tides of it. All at once. One after the other. Randomly out of the blue.

Concurrently, I thought Murphy’s Law seemed more applicable: if it can happen, it will happen. My mother’s birth father was a Murphy though, so it seems reasonable to add ‘and it always happens to a Murphy’.

Lately, my thoughts wander to Sisyphus, rolling that boulder up that hill for all eternity. The moral is that he’s supposedly happy. Unlike Sisyphus, the struggle is not enough to fill my heart. I find it exhausting. Physically. Emotionally. Intellectually.

Sisyphus was really a dumb fuck. Was the path up the mountain so narrow he couldn’t step aside, let the boulder go, destroy someone else’s life?



oh to be the cream

the nearer I am to ether, the

 less consumed am I with those

 there already, or lovers past, passions

connecting to an eternal 

other;

           wrapped in self

contemplations less fragmented 

but prefer the resonance of

my own deep breaths

rattling in my chest 

Sunday, February 11, 2024

girl, you’ll be a woman soon

When I first bought my house in Texas, it was May. I’d sit at the kitchen table with the back door open, watching my girls in the doorway watching the rain, turning to look at me in wonder every few moments. They had played wild every moment since the fence went up, no leash tethered from my wrist to their harness. 

I wanted to open the door today and watch the rain here in Portugal, but it isn’t the same. There’s no green grass out the window, only cobblestone roads and neighbors that live too close.

The day is just gray, no sweet girls to observe, to adore.





Monday, January 22, 2024

we all age

The concepts of time and age are fluid, out in ether beyond my grasp, but a rock in my gut at the same time. 

We all age, but do we? Really? 

Friday, January 19, 2024

Xgen

 Lost but never found

Yet always knowing where we were

Working to fill the days

And buy the milk

The music that sustain/ed us.

And when you really-really need it the most, that's when rock and roll dreams come through” ~ Meatloaf 

in winter, Evora

it’s more damp than cold

laboring breaths of air too thick

sleep, deep, a clammy sweating

waking in a not too early morn

that’s overly dark, echoing drops 

pooling water on tile darkening 

streaks on the walls from the window 


Monday, January 08, 2024

home

tried it on today, home, the 

word, the ideal


is it Texas, place of my birth, my

coming of age, Where the hours grew to

years then deaths, Where I played 

in dirt and dreamt, fought to be


is it northwest Where my

father remarried resettled, found

new family, new life


is home a place, Where blood resides

fixed Where things are stored

transient Where I lay my head at night

Where I’m going

Where I’ve just left 

is it Where I’m from

Where I live now


home seems a memory 

not yet come forth