New Blog (Sort of)

this is not a poem,
the poem is elsewhere,
look here no more,
follow the link
& see

10:30 (am)

waited for the bus in the

too cold street, 7:00 am,

a dim reminder, cracking

trees, crunch of snow

packed into ice, 1^st ave at

the entrance Moore's

Meadow, the few cars that

pass, all focused on the

road ahead, bus arrives,

i enter, cold and waiting

(i don't understand...

i'm here
     --in this somewhere

motionless, a fear,
certain insecurities

unsure of self,
      voiceless,

the room     cold
     too much dark
     around my eyes

            i wanted to tell
            you how i was.
            to tell you where
            i am,

don't know if i'm ready,
the world is too big
for my small hands,

                                   a word

misplaced     my
     directions home,

the heart--
     forign ground,     a wild
                               encounter

     it's difficult,
           b/c i have a lot
                 to learn,
                              to understand

     the look in her eyes,
          the long of her smile

i don't want to be here,
this uncertainty, this obscurity,
the way       i feel
           when i look
                   to the ground at
                   your feet

love is a choice
     to choose, make
                                peace,

find what     i'm looking for

               to see what's right
                    there--

to know...

          in this place
          that we're still
                    here

called you in the afternoon,
listened to     our silence,
          static & a dial tone,

to grow up,
an instant,
to face the mirror
     & see
              myself/yourself

i don't remember,
     time--
               the only...

head out,
              back,

rootless,     on the edge, by
                  creek and snowbank,

when for a walk,
saw a histroy in--

     waiting,

                 no response...

This Town XIII (two days --

              my name is today,

                           i'll be gone tomorrow

his meticulous nature, --

            (two sheets of loose leaf

                         paper,

                                                      (leaving this

                                                                  town --

                        gone,

                                     left this place

                                     the other day                               waited for the bus

                                                                                         one last time,

                                                             never looked back,

                                                             forward into the                                     uncertain,

                                                                                                                           expectation gone

                                                                        leaving this town,

                                                                                  i know

                                                                                                 collecting space, --

                  she stepped out of the fire,

                  burnt ashes in her eyes

                                                                            the embers of her heart

                                                                            blown away by the passing wind,

this place let me go,

i let it go                                                                                                                       so long

                                                                                                                                               forgive us

                                                           two dogs fuck

                                                           as i walk by, growling

                                                           into each others necks

          looking through glass

          below the table, legs crossed                                                   broke down, interrupted,

                                                                                                                      stained glass

                                                              this is

                                                                           what it is

       failed history,

                 it happened

just like they

            said it would

                                                                                   this now is what

                                                                                                  needs to be done

                                          this here is what

                                                 has been done

(fell asleep with book in hand)

                       history & poetry coexist

                       a river across & through                        into & out of

                                                                                                               the same place

poetry begins & history waits

reshaping the old maps

                                                                           with familiar lines

                                                                                        crossing out the new ones

                              in time      as time always does

                                        poetry & history                      collide

                 an accident occurs          unnoticed

                 unaware

people wait on the                      margins

                                                                        & fringes

                                        these dots do not

                                                   connect to make shapes

                                                   but what happens

                         in between                    falls to the wayside

                         leaving

                         the others with

                                      the others

           as history begins

                       poetry waits

                                on the sidelines

              waiting to be written as poetry hides

(finding a dead cat in the morning before work)

it didn't just happen

beside a green

dumpster

it ended

in an instant

before it could really

occur,

nor did it wait around

for the right moment

though maybe

someone

drug it off the road

& put it there to rest

these things don't just

happen

like that,

we don't stumble upon them

& assume that they actually begin

right

there,

we go back & create

a story to make sense

of it

so we feel okay,

but it happened

& it's not

okay

This Town XII

with soft hands

i'll tear this town

apart,

rebuild along

missing lines of communication,

a history found

in debris,

shards of glass,

dirt trails with

cigarette butts leave

one night memories

across scattered landscapes,

someone asks,

i respond with plastic thoughts,

too lazy to carry the right amount of words