it could be good to mend this coat

in consideration of mending a coat, i look to the art of simplicity of items, i consider the art of fine tuning this wretched existence and recalling the history of myself.

tonight i considered that the only thing to really know is oneself and by the very shoes on my feet, must learn to reconcile the futility of being alive.

bitterness is an understatement, sadness is a blessing

to do without is the only thing worth while
to embrace
may have something to do with it.

i cannot sketch anymore except that which is in my mind. you say ARTIST. i saw, nothing.

it was all black and gray and the sparrows, they were pecking at my carcass with unease.

there was a sound, a soft cry,

it was the death of a sound
which carried me through, devastated over lost arches
happy to be back to the roots of contentedness.

the older i get the more useless i become.

what was made mention and counter pointed argument;

i did not stand my ground
and now look at me,

deserted fish,

a weakness prevails,
but it is my marrow

it is letting course take due course

via wind 
or
nevermind
what have you.

been told, i was, never listened to the migrant train of slender mind
echoed chambers of dust and dew and forgotten lovers
stabbed by beating wing of butterfly
hastens a tune, 
slowly breath
prevails

a small
tiny seed
of desparation.

Forgive me, it has been to long, like a wretched lark i have flown through rivers and come out on the otherside, daunted.

Are these words archaic?  Should i speak in the movement of my flesh across ancient scripts and canyon walls.

The drummer arrives every Friday evening and I dance and dance and dance to the beat and the sound of an elegant woman's voice.

Can I stop frowning on myself and see all the fruits and gifts of years passed, lovers come to pass, broken nights and soft whispered mornings?  A piano in the house, no door on the bathroom, hours alone, pressing pen to page, staring out at the world wondering, reading, collecting, absorbing like some uneducated vessel.

I have left the boat, I can sense it in my words.  I have carved out regrets and egrets on the wall with marker and admitted it was divine. 

There are ten half worked on pieces of furniture surrounding me, I am stepping infront of cameramen to catch an angle of light on this feminine piece of flesh.  Bounty, beauty, wishing to tend the fiercest garden, dreaming of a house stripped to the desparate bone.  How all good things take time, how all bad things take their time as well. 

Has anyone read this?  Am i crying out to the sea?  Am I just another sliver of moonlight?  Am I writing a book or a novel or piecing together all these written parchments to form a canvas made of hours of isolation and sorrow?  Am I just another moody twenty something crying out into the future abyss?  Do I HAVE TO CARRY ON? 

AND I PROMISE YOU ONE THING< IT IS NOT CHANGE I WISH TO SEE< IT IS A PLACE< A HOUSE> A MODE WHERE I AM NOT SO JOLTED> WHERE THE TWILIGHT IN THE EveninG IS ENOUGH>BECAUSE IT ALWAYS IS>

...i have lost so much trust and yet there are all these secrets of song I have been keeping.  I am afraid to sing out, but my voice has no other choice but to clear out all the forever secrets...there is no longer any tolerance.  I must sing, it is my elixhir.

FORGIVE ME PLEASE, THESE ARE USELESS SCRIBBLES BUT THEY ARE ALL I HAVE.

lettrist

the sight or vision ails
and rejoices seamlessly
by this body, a child seamless

dress me with your melancholic articles
clean this breath with your ads and pitfalls
and coming home

i have seen the pragmatic river
and it carries my name
the family

will it always be this wandering
away, to become a lonely vessel
hard pressed, then, to find supposed answers

the ones given to me by moonlight
and fanciful dreams
this cavern, i have come for rest

by no arms, nor medicine
dragged around
drugged and lifeless

for inside, a tomb is carried and filled
and to empty, is to heal
by our mouths

filled with butterflies, this chest, cocoons
and dynamite
we destroy instead of disassembling

the look, the awareness, the legacy,
the possibility of work and care,
careful trespass,

walking armless with no home to build or destroy,
harmless, these arms
there is no will to succeed

but the will for intention
the will to survive
a crusted foundation

brought to light by every twist
and exchange, every fire
and every frozen block of ice

build we must, or die,
die we must to the muscles which strain
and seek this urban ease with abandon

i have wandered there enough

he held it to my lips to drink, i took it slowly

the forest around, weeping

the eyes that frisk and partially drown,

the heart seeing nothing but ambiance and soft hands.

i can no longer watch this summer pass, for it has already begun,
to pass
and the strangled nights, the happy nights on the stoop or a
train ride to Trenton
marks the year
as your blood upon my tearful eye.

let us all rejoice.

why hello summer...


what have you in store?