How does one know when ages end?
   The heartbreak isn't real anymore, it is
         only resentment.
And you've dealt long enough with the disrespect and
  ignorant hatred.
 
  The demons you both channel
     don't get along anymore.
 He has degenerated to his gullum nature
     and you have no more of the sick nurture left.

  Tunnels of hope into the side of the wind
   not saying anything to you about the sound of the trees as they sway in the gale.

   Outside of hope there is still time,
     so much time
   that piles up on rooftops where your down in there hidden under it all.

  Who will melt the glacier that has risen within our world?
 The love is gone, no one
     is going to call
   without mottive to harm.


     Such were his sad fears.

 And he was carrying with him a sad
   that wasn't anything to do with you.
  It was that type of hurt of life
    that comes from hard facts of the world
      banging on the door of your house.

  Off with a tent at highledges
    he didn't think he'd survive the storm.

  Lonliness is a dream now, yes 
       there is no body else here
    but I don't want anyone else here either.

   His quest to be away from the herd
     with nothing left to say to them, 
     the don't listen.

  Is pain of life heartache
     or good-lack of spirit?

  There are too many people lurking in his fears
   for him to make it real anymore 
  (without the custom of excellence that
      was to be expected from guys like him
    back in the day  that it was
      and fending off the surrounding
         resentments.

  Collars put on you
      are taken off and you are not
     
              here the page was ripped
      and the rest of the poem
       had floated off to the raspberry
             cholates of
        mid evening, and whipped cream
     used to soak up a spill and
        thrown away just like resentments should be.

  Broken hearted gay guys in the closet
     don't go and buy a pack of gun
   for their hun
        on a saturday right near midnight
   at the just a shadey-bit over the New Hampshire line.

  It was a Friday when he'd gotten the idea.
 now there were too many oppisites, it
hurt to think like that.

 Weren't there people there already?
     Did they really need another poet laurette?
    No body will care in future time anyway
    because none of them will speak English.

  He's perplexed. It's almost like a drink
       might make him think.
  But then it occured to him
      as things like this do all of the time
    that he had to move forward in his life
       and had no more time
    (there isn't any time)
      for hating and berating.

  By then it was dawn.
       the zommies were lurching in their spaces,
     the early morning mavins of the infinite jones
  circling those mini-vans that have been parked there waiting for their guy
  who's going to have the card to hold to have and he's gotta take it the part that is
    where you want to part  with it, 
     is any of this clear? because
        it's not supposed to be.

  Anyway it was like that, so he had
        to escape off
     into his poison yesterdays, as
     he would later call it in his
       journals which he gave to the tide
      at Big Sur
       in Jack's honer
       thinking that nothing will come
    of it but
          I found it all and
     gave it back to him
         when the acid had all worn off.

     He thanked me and thanked me and thanked me.

  See how a poet can make up
    things that don't matter
          spattering rain.

  The windsheild of this bus
       once was clean
     we thought we knew
      what the signs all said
       but the rain has made the colors run
    off and down and along
        the 
        spattering rain.

  And those people hypnotised by debate
    forget in their hearts how not to be mean.
     it's Saturday.
       with the rain
     And the end of an age.

 The great scism of hurt must end
     and free, now, wonder off
      into the tuckies of the temporary,
    states of mind through which you pass
    on through the night
    and into the coming day.

  All those deamons that
     they've been walking along and telling people about
   for all these long and lonely years,
  each line a crafted cliche for the day that it is.
       And not a single person left in the house.
    They all went down to the beach.
 Meanwhile the house got up and moved away
       like a slow slide animation,
   dwelling now gone, make a new world before you die so when you do you can go in it you imagine.
   Or that there is something there that doesn't remember you and
     won't be nice to you when you get there,
    loving the ride but afraid of the destination.
    Hurting inside that there are so many people lost and washed down within the tide
    and rolling around in it unaware
     of how to get up and back to your car and drive away before the sea rises from the approaching storm.

  But there isn't any storm.
     Not today.
   not for you right now.
   and if there were
     you'd probably hear
     because we've gotten good like that now
  as a society
  wanting to know when it's going to rain
 so nations don't have to go to ruin anymore
    with a little bit of bad weather like the markets have been lately

  Must have been a Saturday when
     he wrote his last poem and
   proceeded to the blog snot place in 
the secret elevator
       where he had hidden his reason.

  Reason can not be hidden.
     And when it lacks the hole is obvious.
    The one without reason can not see the hole from the whole, and will, in fact, confuse
 the two. O, maybe not. What do I know about
 reason excpet
it seems pretty obvious when people don't 
use it.
Everyone has it. Only some of us use it.

  Why so manic tonight, oh poet not-laurette
     fountion of finger rattles
   on an ergonomic board.

  So no body reads your blog?
    So what no body reads your blog.

  The links are gone, lost, do you
     have any way to find them?

  Let them be lost, they no longer matter.

  The links have been depricated, and exist no more.

  Shoot a ball off to the green off in the sky
     of this site
  by clicking
     the picture that you find
     somewhere upon this page.

 What is reason?
 What is sanity?
Why does a middle aged man ever ask
     questions that don't have answers?
 This is like archiology of past falacy of mind.
  I've got notebooks unkind
  of past thoughts that I tried to write down.
   and now, with a frown, it is over
    and I'm rolling on.

 Rolling on.

  And as no one reads this blog
   it will all seem the same
     no doubt to some, it'll seem
           incredibly lame.
       But why the need to assign worth or assign blame?

     there are pains
     that you can  only get from a backstabbing friend.

     How far down in does the knife go.
   Here, let me cut your steak with the knife that you stuck right through me.

  You, too, my son?

  There you go, world
    the poet documents it just as he is loosing
    his fingers because he's running them too fast.

  How does one hope for forgiveness?
    I know all the dumb and lame stuff that I've done
   what do I know about you?

  I'm sorry with sarrow and I'm not going to 
        bother worrying anymore about any of it
    I write here, but imagine, reader, what
  the real truth is? 
 The hurt that is not to be shared?
     There are flowers blooming in one field 
   while the other one has dried up and wilted.
  why is any of this my fault, a reaaason
  to spread the hurt a little farther afeild where
    here are too many people waiting there for you to
sling mud on them
  It's their dream to be abused
    but you've got to wake them up.

 Wake up, wake up you readers of poems.
   Stop spreading hate and derision.

  It took until the very end of time
      or at least until Saturday
    for Fred to Forgive
       himself and anyone else.

  Broken hearted melodies
       he whistles as he canoes towards the falls.
    Oh, what Ophellea has done
       he thinks he'll do better.

  So someone's yelling form the bank
      and calling out that
    he'd better start paddling or he's 
      gonna go over the falls
      and maybe just drown
    for no reason at all
       but just for being stupid
 and getting too close to the falls.

  "To who
     do the birds sing?
    for why
    do the leaves grow?
   How high
      do the clouds rise?
    How far
       as the crow flies?
  Tra lee laa lee laa lee laa
    I'm going go over the falls."

  Can you make an audience weep?
     Why do you want to make the crowd go home crying?

  There were birds in the theatre now,
      in the open air
     a flock, flying
      in form as if descending
       but rising
    or both,
    hanging like the spirit
       coming down to you
 landing,
       flying,
            rising,
     as the play went on and then
       and actor cries out
           "Ho!"

  The first time he'd thought of the image
     of those doves landing on his higher mind
    he knew it was only one dove
         and it didn't need the world to know, just him
     and it was like, forget this for now,
     don't be drunk with this, this
       is real 
    and you don't need to be a fool but
        be wise with the knowledge of the 
      real.

  Had there been a rain shower that day?
    The streets were wet with electric gray.

  My heart,
     of the very many hearts
   is the one that I must use for me
   and I've given away most of my favors
     for a chance to grovel at the Yosemite of you.

  And I've failed in everyway that makes the world less gray today.

        Of the very many Saturday nights
   with the rain and the intermitent August moon, full above the world,
       there is only the thought of us
  finally being apart forever and
        the sound of tires squeeling on the highway.
          

 If you walk away from a car
    in the night
 out in the country
   and then go walking off into the woods
   on the side of the mountain road
    you might fall down in a ravine
        and never again be seen.

  It does hurt me when you are like this.
    I've hit back at you with the way that I think won't matter,
  you've become the master of bad feeling.

  And you've tried to make me a slave to it.

Now that we are over it's
    Ok for me to feel sad for a while
      about all the wasted years with you.

  How hard am I?
     so soft that I  let you poke me these
      very many years.

  When it is the end of forever
     there is a relief that you feel
     as it dawns on you
   that thorn has been removed.

  Those lingering pains of life
       that plauged me for years
   all went away
      with the end of that age
                   no longer with you.

   All of my aches and pains will melt away
   now that I don't need to bloke
      the disfunction of you
   from my waking mind.

  It's like eing cured of poiison ivy.

  I've become obcessed
      with writing little shards
  of breaking,
        no longer want to be your pisson,

  Fractured with hurt
     I've got to move forward.
  thought that there might be a call
      and an apology.
 
    But that hasn't happened.

  The drama all seems staged,
       the hurt a calculation
    to make the pain more intense
      as the  knife turns.





       All of that time
   that I wasted
      with you
         is now over and you
     are like the headlights
      that disappear
     around the hill on the highway
  never know who is inside the car
    like the lights are alive
       and they go
  and they fade
     and there is no one inside of you
      who I know anymore
   and the hurt is too much for me to bare 
      to let you keep going on with it like you do
      and It's Saturday night
        with the rain.