The Right Column
The Sea as it Rages in a NorEaster

from poem page 168:
        Weepy walk to the edge of time where the windows of luck have shattered
   into a scene of somewhere else, some other play
 curtain opening.  New curtain opening.  Always
     another curtain opening
 and us always being in the audience.
  Roll film.
    no bombs falling from the sky like Europe 1939.  No
   midnight fire fight along the ridge-line and in the valleys.

  And we forget it all  as if it never were
  as if the fact of murderous past
  can just be erased
 to not remember those be-sainted dead
    glad in the rivers of blood that flow the Heaven
  dead  to the Earth but let them live within lamantatious psalms. 
  Did the last generation weep enough for the sins of the many bombs?
  Do we live in collective denial
     that these ages of rage, so close in the past,
    having just passed.  It's endless
    these remembrances, these
      memorials.
   We need to remember the holy 
                     dead which is all of them
  confessions of pasts lost and not remembered
  to confess  all that I had done wrong
  sainted or be-knighted or bedazzled by 
     eddies and currents
  pulled down through ruins of gorge and grave,
  slippery ledges which fall down towards doom
    with the mist of forgettery
  as if it never mattered.
   I'd wait for him here.
    sometimes I can still recall his smile.
  It's been a long time since I forgot
           to love him like I did today, my sorrow.

  Give it a week, a month, a year,
   it will be as strong then as now.
   And I pray to be rested and ready for you,
   always waiting, always planning 
                    for the best of times with you
   no mountain too much of an obstacle, 
  making better plans and charting
   more accurate maps
   and ways to ease this sojourn for the both of us.

  And that is how selfish it seems to think of just you
 like fixating on a single artist's grave
    like it is a sacred spot of pilgrimage.  
  We needed the saint to lay in the Earth 
                             as a saint, holy relics.

  No body better be stealing any bodies from the grave.
  Saints in Heaven intervene when situations warrant
 nothing remarkable that I've done, nothing
   I've written.

  Move along.  Move along Angels of the Evening Commute,
  no one to collect here, nothing to recollect,
  no sorrow happening autumn sunset 
                 at Hildreth Street on the Dracut line.
  He could write about those things.  Me
  I could only stand there and watch the dusk
 smoking my meager roaches,  
             chugging my three dollar a six-pack beers
     

.

Mertle and a Red house
is very very Christmas!  This house is in
East Woodstock, Conneticuit.
Photo taken Dec 2006


stop bumming about 
plumbing and call
a reliable professional
for help!
 
The best idea about
a slow drain is to 
call a reliable router
service.  They come
and route out the 
drain outside of 
your house (if you
have a newish house).
Don't waste your time
with drain cleaners, 
call a router company.
Routerman in Framingham
is who I used and it
was very afforable.