someday,  when I am dead --
  maybe someone will read this?
 most likely, after it is written,
  it will end up somewhere
   gone --
       don't worry kind soul --
      what does it matter?
              as dust we were
            and as dust we shall be
          cast your poems
              into the wind --

     I 
      chasted
       that   
          poem
        as it
             circled
                   aloft
               running
                down
                 that
   mountain
      path
    from 
        where
      I   had
         written
              it --
       Past
            giant
                bolders
              which
            I always
          knew
            were there
       many camping trips
     long hikes up towards
         the ridgelines
       never rested
            never laying down
       long enough
              to
              remember
        their names
           And then
            driving 
        home and then
          never calling --
            

  I didn't call you for a
   lifetime of
     wandering away
  Back towards my car
     away from your house
     where everyone has been
          drinking
     since long before
         I got there
        don't know
        their names
        because
           nobody
        ever introduced us --

    Am
      I expected to
    understand
         the cynicism
         and derision
      and interogation
          as friendship?

    Do I exist
       so you can
       call me
         once every year or two
      (with a demandvitation at the
            last minute)
     just for your single minded purpose
       of not feeling quilty
   for having emotionally abandoned me
                           long ago?

 I was back on
         one of my funks --
    long days are glad days
         for me
   driving through countryside
        New England
           dreamscapes 
        of maybe just
          15 years ago --

    My life had rolled into a
          family fund
      And fewer friends --
       And no scale of love
     that anybody weighed
          my deeds upon --
      Putting my dried flowers
       in a broken vase
      and leaving it as
        chaw for the cats
       And in the basement
       a moldy couch --
        dusty blankets
      could I sleept there?
    Why would I want to sleept there?

    And I was a slave 
       to all of them
       having abandoned me --

    Why did I have to stay there that
        night?
     Just because she told me too
        so I'd be there to pick up
      in the morning when they
                   are all hung over?

     could I back up from the path I'd been
        walking (in my mind, the path into that forest of resentment)
     make it back to my car?
     drive off to some place other
         than where
     I am right now?

   A dark woodland?
      Too many beers at a picnic?
  Do I need to
     wait 
    for her to pass out
   before I can leave?
     Her strong personality
  leaning on me,  she's too drunk (to make sense)
     But what does she really want?
       Me to do her chores
   when the party has ended, take
       her responsibilty and clean up her mess.

  Many heartaches later 
    (and repeating this a bunch of times)
    I still had not found
     any family that wanted me --
   and feeling neglected
     and rejected
     I wonder away
       off into the wastelands
     of the horrible things that
      I imagine other people think
      and do
         making excuses
       for my Christmas friends --
      those once a year friendships

    And when the package came
                        back
    because you'd moved
             and you didn't tell me
       and I saw you
         outside of your folks'es house --

 
   I've moved on --
        I don't need to know 
   your sorrows
         anymore 
     And I'm not sad to say
    that if I don't ever recall
    your reasons or arbitrary excuses
      that you used to give to me
     And I wrote them into
      a poem
         like this
   That I would never want you 
              to really see --

   I am not say
      at not seeing you
    and I don't miss you --
     Do you really miss me?
      Do you really 
              still
             want
                 to be
            my friend?

     

The above poem is from the blue notebook with the reflective stars, written Jan 16, 2009

Charle's Bukouski says in a letter to a friend some comment on 'why do poets date their works' He derides this. I look at it like I want people to know that poems and fragment poems were written at the same time so that they can know that they come from a similar state of mind. When I wrote the poems all at the same time I want readers to know this. Maybe that isn't important all of the time. With these pissy, lamatatous poems about the problems of friendship and alienation, it seems relevant.

  Matches
      were on the table
   but after
         she went out
     they were gone.
 I mentioned this
        and was told to
      mind my business --
         my own business --
   And if I were to be a looser
         like I seemed to be -- no job --
      and gay -- no friends --
    then please excuse
       her
         for wanting
     to do better -- and she'd just
       write me off, leave me behind.

    I can't escape
        those memories --
     her give me
             the silent treament
    and being mean.
     Why doesn't she remember too
          and leave me alone?