Winter is not colder now than it was when I was a kid not colder -- how could it be colder than when I used to spend my days with him smliking his kind bud all alone after sking ahead Snorting his snuff on the chair lift chait two seats in front of me so he could get to the top first and not share. I felt slighted but stayed mum, dumb Looking back maybe he was ashamed and didn't think I knew.
My friend said he wrote you but you didn't write back so you can't be real -- I wrote you but you didn't write back and I don't care. I probably still have all of those old letters They most likely will seem juvenille to anyone who might ever read them. if anyboy ever will. Heartache costs more to you than loosing a false friend -- It also costs you the friends you could have had if you'd stayed away from soul suckers and energy vampires --
Love for you is what made me not see how catty and mean you can sound --- Now I see how you say horrible things (what things of me?) behind other folks'es backs -- I can't make excuses anymore I will disagree And challange you when you say those things If I ever see you again -- Maybe I'm just bing a coward in not wanting to see you?
When I was depressed last month it wasn't because of Christmas. I love Christmas -- It was because of how mean and unrepentant and self righteous people are -- I will not make that mistake again in thinking that she care -- But instead move on to a better future without ever worrying or caring what her concerns concerning me might be -- Free -- Free Free at last.
I would like to write a great and inspiring poem that would make people really start to feel -- and love other people. Not as they want the person to be but as those people really are -- No busybodies. No perscription for the holidays -- everyone fussing for the perfection of secret fantasies of 'if only' the holidays could become as such they perscribe. I can never live up to what you expect And I long ago gave up trying -- Why do you still act all pissy about it?
11:35 PM Jan 16, 2009
When I am done writing tonight maybe I'll find one poem in all these rants that won't be so personal and heart-bled like these last one -- True poems where I don't reveal my true self can not be true but can be poems -- I'm smart enough to know that personal pain in poems could seem hurtful There is a wasteland of past time in which all old friends have gotten lost -- When I reached for you you were already gone -- These are not just memories of my father --
January 26, 2009
These are fresh this morning. written in the notebook with blue reflective stars on the cover.
It's not a celebration of dissipation But an en entreatment to participation -- The Author's house where the bar is on the way to the car but he doesn't drive doesn't even care to be alive -- While stuppered drunk he seems envexed and stumbling he tries to overcome his perplexed confusion -- "Where is the chair? Who moved the table what happened to the half drunk bottle of port?" To the poet or the prophet, When he's off on his rant abour your fortune -- your happiness your coming to God, the landscape takes special meaning. Cliffaces are those obvious truths that we know but we have a hard time living up to -- faraway sky is the destination of dreams fulfiled -- the joy of creation that we don't hide or keep in a drawer. Or maybe it is just a clifface -- or maybe it is only yet another late dusk sunset missed --
Maybe the dieing novelist thinks of this as he reaches for his port -- "No cleche, Lord --" he thinks "don't let me die like this . . . " And if on his grave they leave flowers And bottles of wine Does that mean they also like to see the distant cliffs against the early dawn? When he woke up his head hurt like he must have fallen down but he doesn't remember And there is a cake pan on the kitchen counter but the cake's all eaten by rodents -- -- no -- And 47 candles are arrainged and scattered -- "Each flame they'll light for me I'll want to see" the novelist thinks -- and then he has those morbid thoughts about the poet's grave and the pilgrims who would come and see bear the curse of their love (not a curse, so why do you think of it like that?) And the unhealing wounds Which memories of the poet will let start to heal -- (And end their troubled dreams) Later if the wind is warm and souls are free that poet ghost comes and has a drink with me -- The kind of wine we drink is wine of God The cup we use is the whole universe -- This is but one cup -- a vast reservoir of experience of coming to know the real -- Like the river that windes off into the lowland forests -- Where tree canpoies try to cover it over, But the river gets too wide so when you are standing on clifffaces way up high and silhouetted against the eternity of the far-away sky the setting glow of early dusk reflects off of those open regions not obscured by the forest to illumine the sweeping river as it rolls away vermellion towards the lower regions of the world -- To where the river go we do not know and yet the river flow let the river flow To where the poets thoughts go we do not know and yet he is on a roll -- if only he could fix his mistakes (this could be read in the voice of a know it all editor or writing teacher) and remove his cleches "roll on, mighty river" "Roll on, mighty poets" thinks our brain-hurting novelist as he makes his morning spinny mini. Sometimes a cigar is not a cigar at all but the last giant spleef (so he thinks) of a dieing novelist/poet (as it)
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