DOORSTEP: poetry

A long- awaited moment of eye contact, in a place pretty far north of here. Where it was fucking cold.

DOORSTEP:

Do you expect me not to know you?

Do you expect me not to run my fingers through your hair?

Do you expect me not to grasp and hold on tight, when the wind whips my hair, and the cold shivers my skin?

There are no words spoken, just an embrace.

No words are needed.

The silence speaks volumes, as it always has.

Words are just clichés, as is this.

My bones are old and tired, but I feel so much stronger here,

even in this strange place, because I hear your laugh and I see the brightness in

your eyes.

After all this time, you are still pleased to see me.

December 2008, home, but not My Home.

AT THE END OF THE WORLD: poetry

Curious imagination stream while walking along the eastern beach of Whidbey Island, maybe 2006, and dreaming about the Kraken. Because that's normal.

AT THE END OF THE WORLD:

formless and nameless in the endless sea,

deep within the bowels of the earth,

she is sleeping

black and green

deep and dark

and slowly churning

every deep breath an earthquake

rumbling from the bottom of the ocean

a quiet roar that i feel in my bones

. . .

scratched across desert sands

my hands tired and bruised

painting faces in the endless earth

the words and history

the voices of a thousand years

still echo, deep within my mind

a thousand years and each breath

lasts a lifetime

. . .

and she dreams

monstrous dreams

of the sea sucked up

and tumbling the earth into her terrible maw

for she shall awake

and swallow the world

. . .

and i, a shadow of myself

a small and broken thing

. . .

quiet echoes through the halls and caverns

and dusty footprints to mark my passage

time has come and time has gone again

and if time had no end there would be no need

but i am writing the universe

pages upon pages

and when there is no more paper

and i am writing on the earth

so that someone will remember

. . .

i, a shadow of myself

if time allows

will take it all in

so that this will not be forgotten

i am

patiently waiting

pen and ink and steady hand

in a house at the end of the world

LOOSE GROOVE: poetry

Tired, cracked fingers stroke old strings

I’m searching for a melody

I’m searching for a memory

I’m remembering your skin, just seconds from mine

I’m searching for reflection.

staring into this glass

watch the seconds drift away

I’m searching for a melody.

The curve of this body, resting on me

hollow, cool and comfortable

these fingers bring out sound

I wrote a song to no one

Won’t you write a song for me?

Trapped inside, yet somehow feeling so exposed,

alone and naked.

I’m searching for as memory

Tired, cracked fingers stroke old strings

Bring out a sound so familiar

So comfortable, so unchanged.

December 2008, nobody home.

DRIVE: poetry

After a drive to Bellingham, to see an old friend.

DRIVE:

IN TIME you shall remember me

When you have known all there is to know

But what will you know?

Miles walked, and further still, until

You fall into grace-given sleep

I believe in your past, as I believe in your future

As I believe in the sutures hidden beneath your skin

Scars you will wear forever, and

will never see

Grace be, and yet she has abandoned me

Swept away, like sand I cannot hold

The tighter I grasp

The more falls through my fingers

I sit, bled dry, yet bleeding still

Just a ghost of my bones remains

Just ashes and dust, scattered across

The cold and cracked earth

Pull my hair up

Hang my head down

The Old Flame is dying

and all the hands are shivering.

You, my child, must know as well

like all things, this too must end.

December 2008, drinking whiskey

STATION: poetry

Stream of consciousness narrative from roughly 2004. I guess that makes it a poem.

STATION:

wait.
there's a voice in the fog, my head's in the clouds...
i'm on a train to somewhere else.

there's a pretty young thing, a heartbeat away.
my fingers don't quite reach. i'm in a different place.

stop.
where the air is clear, and i can finally breathe.
the sky hangs heavy here. i can barely see past the length of my arms. there are faces that wait behind every corner. sad faces, with hollowed- out eyes, and cold, cold skin.

these colours are dull. the sky is grey and blue. your hair is black now, in the charcoal mist, and i can barely see your face.

i have been waiting for years, head in my hands, watching the clouds roll by. i have been biting my nails and holding my tongue, and tasting the bitterness of bile in my mouth.
black clouds across the surface of the street, wash over my feet, roll and billow around me.
i have been waiting for years. my back has grown stiff, my arms cold and tired, on this bench at the station, where the lights grow dark and darker still, and the air is thick and tastes of dust and dead insects.

i wondered where you have been. i wondered if this was how it was meant to end.
but as the train rolled up, none of that mattered anymore, as i stood up slowly, worked the stiffness from my joints and brushed the dust from my arms and legs.

and i walked up the steps and boarded the train and i sat, and the old days began to slip away, and all that matters in the darkness doesn't matter in the light. and as the light overhead flickers in and out, the doors closed behind me, and i begin to forget.

and as the the train pulls away, i hear a sound from somewhere, quiet and almost impossible to understand. maybe, just maybe... but it grows quiet as i leave the station.

wait.
there's a voice in the fog, my head's in the clouds...
i'm on a train to somewhere else.
i will sleep 'til morning.