The Leaving

 




















Copyright

2009

























































































The Leaving























Sweet “requiem on a dream,”

It slipped in easy, whispered in the wind as it was
Slowly leaving,
That it was taking all my colored leaves away.
These days
Nothing seems to matter.  I’d like
To help you, friend, but I’m
Walking off
To where no one cares anymore,
For a while.
I’m locking the door now,
Be back in a few years.  I know you won’t
Wait around.



&




Maybe I’ll go mad with my solitude,
But that is a path some people must tread.
I’ll still work and all, and eat and drink,
And old shows still provide some comfort.
I’ll live a full life and insane,
Watching full moons wane, casting dull shadows.
One may not consider me healthy,
But shade is a precious commodity, and thus
I’ll count myself among the wealthy.



&




I’m losing the closest thing I have to a passion.
Still, these are some of my happiest days, thus far.

I’m free of most pride, codes, and morals, and
Wouldn’t choose to care each day.

And I sit near the bottom, plod along the edge, lay in a bed
I never make, with comfortable crumpled sheets, warm with six months’ remains.

I’m losing the closest thing I have to a passion.
Still, these are some of my happiest days.

Thus freed of my reasons, I follow the breeze,
Adrift in the vastness of sky.

And I “live in the moment,” rise to the dream,
Float in a stream going nowhere particular yet.

I’m losing the closest thing I have to a passion.
Still, these are some of my happiest days.

And I’ve savored the moment that fades,
Lived for the perishable, cherished

The finite, mantle for an altar,
Festered like a good lost soul sore for Earth.

I’m losing the closest thing I have to a passion.
The closet doors are closing now.

Quit your watch on that catch phrase.  It’s already been coined.
Loose that poem’s waist band.  It’s in everyone’s laundry.

I’ve locked in my last combination of words,
And the clock has struck, so, “my work here is done.”



&




Fearing my chair will fall backwards,
From a rise in carpeted bristles,
Fearing my pubic area’s rise—nothing to do
With sex, thanks, Doctor—fearing my eyes will slide
Left or slide right, slip out of their sockets, or worse, fall
Back through the skull, worried they may be burned by some light
After widening lids—turn off the computer mid-work—and again, and
Again, and again, fearing the floor in the hallway is higher
Than that in the bedroom.  I’m naming a few.  A child outside cries, “Papa!”
All the cars, it seems, run louder these days, maybe because of the recession—
Can’t afford the parts to make them run more quietly?—But I digress, I guess—
There are walls and doors to close, and roses to grow and ascend them,
And medications to swallow, and bitter pills—but—and I’m not sorry—they will not
Be yours            right now.



&




I brought a chair ‘cause I’d like to sit here,
Quietly wait the tide.

Another dry but coffee brained author of six
Prints another quick witted, black-and-white book.

Let’s sit around, friend, one of these days, in high sobriety—
Coffee and a wedge of bread.

We’ll discuss the comings of the tides, what stones they bring,
In leaving, what they take away.

A stone’s pace in a gracelessly leaving tide
Must be deadly quick indeed.

But we’ll spin ourselves around the world,
Turn the time until it seems beautiful,

Take all the toxic talk, spin it up and
Spit out pearls.

If we could only dash them on the tides,
Adorn the final splash…



&




Oh, let’s go leap off a tower,
Take our cares and sorrows with us.
Guess we might as well
Take a pill,
Throw a pillow, take a shower,
Clean ourselves off,
Shave face.

See a film.



&




Misadventure.

No value.

Sleep over on the sidewalk.

In the morning rained out you will

Go back home.

Go nowhere else.

You’ve been a living success, so

Having nothing left to do, you’re

Surviving quite well.

No more drive.

No value.

Simple things are the same all the time.

Bored and tired.      And tired of being bored.

The brief sprint on fire is over,

But this cold marathon wearies the will.

Stop for a breather.

Never run again.



&




Legend

Alliances made with silent killers—
Walking softly in your white ghost makeup and
Sloppy drippy bright red grin,
Nippy with a blade, and playful with a Tommy gun,
Taking too many Ambien to sleep—
What mix was it, finally nixed you from existence?

You lived just long enough to leave us with a legend
In your prime, your finest character sketching firmly etched,
Detaching before you could even hear

            Heath Ledger
Start to fade.



&




I saw a young girl I knew once, grown into a woman,
A fine looking woman—she was a fine looking girl.
I’m sure she’s prospered well.

I heard her older sister’s getting married,
And her older brother just got back from the war,
A little more than a year ago.

My old high school friend also mentioned then that his
Younger sister was getting married.  Then he talked about
His challenging college career,

Said he’d accidentally snorted pure caffeine
Sucked from some tea leaves—at least he had some fun.
And they’re all moving on,

And I’m moving on.  We’re beginning to differentiate
Between who’s who and what’s what.  I ran away early
From the “moving up” game,

And hid where people seldom find me.  I was always
“The Watcher.”  But I don’t like to watch too much these days,
Though I listen, and “catch wind.”



&



I’ve never blown through your leaves,
Even though I’ve always flown.
I’ve known the ease of never being known.
And the minute that I’m gone,
You’ll be laughing at a joke, and a perfect stranger
Will stumble and say I “croaked,” “in the middle of the night”
Of my life.  If it seems lonely to you,
To me it seems just right.  I’m the voice
That whispers, never wishing more.  And though
You may count my credits on one pointing digit,
At least I wedged my foot in the closing door of time,
And woke, and fidgeted, and took the time to rhyme.



&




Continual curses lose their meanings, when only verbal, on the giving side.
Perennial blessings depreciate when implied, and places we hide in troubled times
Become comfortable homes, when “over-used,” and “avenues of escape” turn into
Expected stops along the way, desired pause for play.
And in the spacious bubbles we build campfires, huddling ‘round their flames,
And the shadows thrown are our friends.



&




I was sure this was cliché.  Thought I’d lifted it from
      Somewhere.  Anywhere.  All that’s left are
Word combinations, anyway.  Combinations ‘till the day
We’re dead.  Oh, it was so good, when it was
“One verse down, 999 to go,” or so.  So good.  Now it seems
There are far fewer verses ahead than behind, even if I’m groaning on.  Maybe I’ll just Rant and pass it off as something.  An old car groans outside.  What began as a delightful
Little sadness, is not as beautiful now as it once was,
But that’s all right.
Maybe I’ll get married, have children—for real.  Well, probably not, but if I did, I would Tell them—
Don’t do what Daddy did.  Don’t be yourselves too much.  If you want to be happy, maybe you should stay between the lines, ‘cause there are monsters waiting on the outside.  The world was old in my day, and it’s not getting any younger, barring stuff like nuclear war.  
Well, I’d love to stay and      chat, but,
The clouds outside are pouring rain, real rain!—really?  Well, who’d have thunk it?
I think I’ll go outside and fill myself with the good wet air, get all drunk again,
Feel the syndicated crocodile tears, falling softly.



&




The rain falls on petals of new flowers in the good old meadow,
With the shade that passes long and quick for old souls.  Slow—

Take in

            The moment.

List the tapping on the petals beneath the clapping on the leaves.
Love is a labor to stay young seed against elements of aging relevance.
Hear the harmony.  Lisp the melody.
Now the old is new again in the rain.



&




You’ve lived on a ledge, never ready to plunge,
But don’t live there too long, or you’ll have to plunge into life.

I’ve been shot over the top of a great summit, just adrift in a swift breeze—
But that same breeze can’t ease me down.  And it’s such a long way down—

Oh, I’ve been floating and fading so long above The Living.
Maybe someone will help me—put a bullet through my balloon.

My will is so soft, after soaking so long in a nice, hot bath.
The truth is I know it’s going to cost me; it just hasn’t hit me too hard yet.



&



So this is the true end of the dream
(Which hopefully isn’t ending.)
The sky is bright light blue
And clean.  The straight and piled snow
Could not be whiter.  On the sleeping tree before me hangs
A light green lopsided box.  I didn’t know in days before
But in the sober light of a final dawn I suppose it’s a
Bird house.            Happy birds.

Don’t begrudge the tub dwelling toilet child,
Or his bedfellow of their pains in
Coming out to a suddenly colder world
When the condemnation they knew would come
Has come.  They knew, but it was
So damn easy choosing nothing.

--Friend, I don’t know
Where or how I’ll wind up.
This has been like a cancer.
If only one of us can survive,
Surmount one more summit,
Climb the last hill, and we’ll
Face off with pistols.



&




















Parallel Leaving






























Those Were the Days

He comments on a new film in a poem of a volume from

Killing time.  Never having paid any bills yet, sits by roadside

Watching the travelers’ trends.  A wild wind is blowing, strong enough to

Pull him along, but he’s got his safe brick box to go to, when the watch is done.

Soft bed.

He doesn’t sleep well.  But—

A soft life, with sufficiency of walls, and doors with locks and chains and bars

Has him sold.



&





Stop for a day.  Stay for a year.  Here is

The last minute you will ever pocket.  The clock will repossess

Your life.

Suffer the rest of your meaningless years, clichéd,

No shade in the sun, defeated further every day—life is

A sentence of death by slow torture.

Just a

Turn of a key, a simple injection—but a leap against faith

Is a leap into hell.



&




Started the day pouring part of a can
Over the hunger, felt the emptiness squeeze inside me.
Nowhere to hide, and I can’t run
Much further, either.  Out of the void, forms a deepening dread.

After breakfast, not much to eat, still I
Nervously cleaned out.
Oh, I’d love to swerve again to a pleasant place,
But I’ve likely exhausted all my blessings.

I’ll be there, but I’ll be unprepared,
And the underwear for the laundry disappeared—
The only good pair, no money for a new pack.
Please excuse the disappearance

Of a better man, who grew up and gave way
To me.  Oh, a cave would be a nice place, with a few
Amenities.  Where do those come from?  Hard work, which
I should’ve done, but I had to spin out something meaningless.
Oh, I’ll write myself into the grave.



&




Belly burn—the crawl to hell becomes a little swifter, switch a meaningless pleasure
For meaningless pain, sometime.  Life, drag me slowly from your car so I may smell
Your fumes, and celebrate our gaseous state.  Every day can be a pleasant morning.
Speed us up, and I will mourn our transience.  Or travel barefoot the gravelly road
To the grave.  I would’ve saved you something of mine, but all I could leave behind
Were some pebbles.



&



Like a burst of gas, I’m ready to quit, lay down on a grassy slope,
And let the soft sweet blades whip at my body.  O soft slow cloud, take me away,
Through a sky that doesn’t moan anymore.
There’s a stronger breeze.  The grass encircles the sky in furious green flame.
Where I’ll find myself when this dizziness passes, I’m still uncertain.  Hope for Heaven,
Expect Hell.  Oblivion sounds nice enough.  Maybe I’ll end up at the bottom of the slope,
Someone looking over me, calling me
A fool.



&



Addicts suffer for their addictions,
Battle no battle.  Oh, but we got time, before our next
Last ride.  But we’ve seen the best, and we’re going down,
Down, down.  I’m an obsessive compulsive addict of
Time, and I can’t respect a deadline anymore.

I’ve been sitting on a frozen pond, pushed across the ice on my ass,
Kept out of commission by a combination of laziness and obsession,
Destined to make the most of a dim situation.  “Oh, but you can change
Your destination.  Cease your constant caffeination and take these pills.
Then come to work for us and be paid.”  To bad I kind of like my situation.

And as life has no meaning, what’s the point in living?
Make a thing and sing a song about the pains it took to make,
But when you’re done, you’ll have to leave it all for good.  But still you love it,
Or some survival instinct thinks within you, believes you should remain.  And some
Dimming curiosity says another look is worth a climb up the hill.  Still,

I’ll have to mull this over, probably forever.  I’ve made the most of a dull situation.
Now the brightness of the lights is grim.  Too much excitement for me.



&



A similarity between living and dying?—
I got one:  both involve losing or leaving.

--You there, LedgeLife, you better plunge back to earth
Or you’ll be pushed.  Land in a grave of sorts.
Have to claw your way to normal.  Do they beat you with their shovels
While you’re down?

LedgeLife speaks of leaving.  He has left before
Friends (acquaintances), family (fathers and uncles he’s rarely seen.)
Motions and notions.  But how can a moth leave its flame?  How will he
Leave behind heaven with grace?  He
Probably won’t.

He speaks of losing.  What has he lost?
Nothing.  Just yet.  It’s next on the list.
And the hand that holds the cup and saucer
Shakes
To leave it on the table.  And the head that sat in ledge-life
Aches
To lose its medicine.  To take a walk through city streets
Crammed to the brims with better men—a rat
Could get killed.



&




Escapism is a familiar theme for me, a recurring dream I wander onto
Habitually.  But it will save me no more.  It is streaming to a dead end,
And I know my self must be a dead friend for me to continue, though I
Saved him in the forest once, at the price of my conscience.

I am addicted to time.

All actions now scream at me not to be done.

Thus acknowledging junkie failure to commit, shall I admit myself?  There are
Jails for people like me.  They would force me to work, and
Work me.

My self must be a dead friend.

Thus acknowledging junkie defeat, a surrender to circumstance—I always went
Where time took me.  My angels and demons have danced around me for so long.
Now they will watch as I stumble through hell.



&




I feel lethargic.

Faces in the trash.

What did I have again?

Cherries.

The new oven, white, of course,

Bears the BURNER ON light

Burning brightly, lending a sense of

Youth at heart and hearth and home,

Warm                  ravioli—

          I’m cooking beans.

A conspicuous            cherry pit, like a

Bloodied ear.            What did I have again?

         Cherries.

Blore!                        Blaar!                  Blurr!

            Bleary day.                  Now I

Made a decision.

It slipped my mind.

Then it tripped me.



&




Didn’t

I

Cut my body,

Blew the wound

On a wall,

Went outside, and a dog

Chewed the remains of the shell.

My soul flew halfway nowhere.



&




Unable to keep the rhythm going, on

Last breaths,

Just weep

As your time bleeds away.

Watch the world spin

Meaningless, but still

Beautiful in your youth,

Feeling

Alone.

Fate is riding on quiet waters

Up to your bare feet in the sand.

It will

It will

Drown you.

Still you wait.

Sit.  Wait.



&




















Miscellaneous Lines

































Seize the bull by the veins.

Let me learn from you, O drunk and ruined one.

Blades of grass,
And a dry, broken staff,

I look old in this angle, by this light,
Looking sideways in a darkened screen.
My eyes wear dark flowing capes—
Congratulations, O super hero, for keeping the Sandman
At bay, O sleepless beauty, to all the world, despondent.

Once was a pharaoh, given twelve years to sit over his empire,
Chose to double his reign by keeping awake the entire time.  Did he succeed?
I don’t remember.  Probably dosed in his chair.  Was he deposed for sleep on the job?
Who knows?

Who cares?

But who could’ve deposed him?

Who cares?

He was a god among men and women.

Who cares?

He will rise up again, with plagues and locusts.

No he won’t.  Who cares, anyway?



&




Just

Pepper the paper—

Miscellaneous lines—

Loud!—

Poke a hole in a wide space of white.

Thread a string.  Attach a joke.  Let slippery things slide

Through a drain.  A rainy day can last all

Day.            Pray for guidance if you choose.

You can hide in a closet ‘till your steam come rolling out.



&




Just

Shitting stanzas,

Objects in the moment

Appear monstrous at first,

But we become accustomed as

Friendliness accrues.            It is

A piece of soft plastic, black tipped,

Sticking up on an open pack of TP.

O to be a machine that paints things black

Serenely—but I have my substitute.  Shitting stanzas

Is the finest thing I can do with my life,

Inhale the moment, pull a smile out of nowhere.



&




I am a weed growing at a tree’s feet.
I can withstand the falling needles.
But set me up with a date with a spade,
And you’d better cut me down to the roots,
Or I will take my vengeance by force.  Of course,
I can’t really run, but I’ll send out my signal for trouble—
Which you have graphed, but cannot translate yet—send for weeds
To take flight and sprout all over this lawn.  Attack again, and we’ll
Send out for more.  There are trillions of us
In the surrounding area.



&



Stick a hand in the bowl.
These fish are fickle ‘till you feed them.
Then they are devoted
To the food.
When they have partaken of the sacred flakes,
They go back to lazy swimming cycles,
Picking fights at the twitch of a tail.

Just      piss your blessings in a pot,
Saved for later.  If they are like wine,
They’ll likewise sweeten.
But mostly they’re like piss.

Put your kisses in a purse.
A curse pursues you, smiling.
If your nights are cool,
And your days, delightful,
They may remain as brisk as always.
If your life is hot and humid, who knows—
No one said there was no risk.

Stamp your yes’s on your ass
And stick your no’s right up your nose.
(Maybe they will bleed out from cracked membranes.)
Or put some stock in fear,
And when the water rises higher than you’d like,
Why, shell it out.

A snail slicks serenely up the bowl.
He feeds off the fish’s trash.
He doesn’t fly, and he doesn’t crash,
Just watching the world on both sides.
The little steps you may or may not take,
He takes in slow, sure strides.
No need to worry for this fellow, he’ll get there.
He’s getting there.



&




Have you heard—
A will
      A way
A pill
      A pay
A bill
      A play
            On words?



&




Arising any given day,
Accept the small curses falling upon you
As all in order, well in hand.
Every rose needs rainy days.

Frame the frozen moments
When things change.  Take a challenge
And use it.  It’s a beautiful day.
Every green thing sways in the breeze.

But oh, let’s all be trees.
Words of wisdom come and go
As twisted sheets of tin foil.  Mind—
The wind will always take its ease,
While blowing as it please.



&




For every laugh there is a groan,
For every path, a stumbling stone,
For every half, a half unknown

Lying in wait to sour the sweet,
Shower on the sunny retreat,
Cower at the meet-and-greet.

And Blessing can be Curse disguised—
And sometimes lessons of the Wise,
A Guessing Fool can render lies.



&




--So we might as well enjoy the simple things,
Weather they open doorways to the complex or not,

And tread the paths of whimsy,
Weather the bread crumb trails lead to genius
Or geraniums.

We’re all on a flimsy treadmill anyway,
Dancing in a field of the great Farm, so,

The cosmic, the common, the comical—
Are all really common, anyway,

And we may as well pause to ponder, for, the Good Lord
And someone know all the paths of wandering, like the quiet
Of a still pond.



&




Was a soft log for a pillow,
And a fog fell over the hill.  Oh,
You should have seen it.  It never was.
But it was where I was.

Let’s all roll down the hill, shall we,
Saying, “Weeeeeeee!”
The ground below’s another pillow.  Plop!
--But the dream, it didn’t stop,

And the land went on forever,
And a river streamed to nowhere,
From nowhere.  Still it was.
Just      because.



&




“Jack and Jill went up the hill,”
While Jack and Jim went 'round the rim
And brimmed their cups, and had their fill.

Jack and Jane at home, remained,
But Jack and John went on and on,
And conned 'lil Jane to a walk in the rain.

Jack and Joan were long gone, long gone,
By the time Jack and Jordan could look for them,
And failing, lay down, wailing and moaning.

Jack and June struck up a tune,
And Jack and Jud waltzed to a jukebox—THUD!
Jack and Janice sat and swooned.

Jack and Julie, acquainted quite newly,
Spoke to Jack and Jules, who laid out all the rules,
And said, cooly:

“Jack and Jesus would be grievous
If you went and played today.”  They played anyway,
And Jack and Jesus went to pieces.

And Jack, and Jack himself, went back,
“To the place from whence he came,” sat back,
And changed his name.



&




The morning’s raining sunlight, washing on the hoods of parked cars,
Again.  There may be nothing to complain about, as the worst is just around,

Behind, and ahead of us.  And the raining morning sunlight is washing on the hoods of
Crashed cars, and some of the survivors are dancing in the ashes of a highway fire.

Now skin-deep in musical suicide, while the peaches are in season,
And they’re bleeding, dripping from the tree.

Now wading through a shallow tide, shin-deep in fluid suicide,
Washing up on a crowded beach—don’t bleach the stains they make,

A mincemeat wedge
Of flesh,

And lemon drops
Of blood,

While keeping constant vigil
For a wish,

Until the music stops
For good.



&




Rain in the closet, animals in pinstripes and fedoras
Pounding fists on desks, impatiently waiting payment

Acid fedora man walks the streets.  From up his suit his throat
Glows green.  The air is thick with yellow glue.  A glue of life—

One ignores it.

One abuses it.

Both are blue.

Well, “keep this under your hat”—but at friendly meetings you must
Lift it, and certainly at church—

Better use a pocket.

For your pain.  Just

Keep your rainy days in the closet, and your
Rainbows of epiphany—why should you be so colorful

And bright?

The rainbow was a promise on pain of death.

Don’t make rainbows you can’t keep.



&



I am relaxed as the cool breeze flows around and through me,

Cycles and collects.  It tastes the souls of our places and is intimate

With us of ourselves and others.

Change passes on the road beside a sidewalk remnant,

Like a cool aluminum dream.  Hello, cool roller.

I see it roll ‘till it kicks a tall building.  Rolling back—

Slip a penny through the top and drink to Lincoln.

Think of mania, depression—Time

Is a human being.



&




Out a Window in Soft Rain

A squirrel high-white-ringed-tailing it, across the green,
Behind the garage,

A blackbird, quite leisurely sweeping the air, ‘till it reaches
A tree.

The squirrel, returning now across the lawn, poking around, decides to climb up
A tree, finds a branch to chew nuts on.

As the rain becomes heavier, the blackbird remains on its limb
At the top.

Looking back at the squirrel, I see it has vanished again, into the gray
Somewhere.

The rain has ceased falling now, and a little sparrow sits in the squirrel’s tree,
Shits from a skinny branch.



&



Things That Aren’t, in My Experience,
While Making Good-Looking Couples on Paper:

Eating tuna while reading Poe.

Tuna fish and poesy

Blues.  I’m

Ditching the title here.

Poesies aren’t always rosy, sweet or sour,

Light or dark.  I like poetry’s gray areas,

Where one may water a seed, and plant a rainbow, as I’m

Letting the title slide back in.

(Scratching head.)  Actually, just      scratch the title completely.

(Scratching head.)  In fact, I’m out of gas or juice.  My goose is

Burnt.  My blood is brown.  I’m ready to

Move on            run off                  slip away.