Introducing the Hibernating Box (I Call Home)

So much energy spent playing nothing,
the green light of my sound,
peering into the black,
of a fan-blown room.

The only sound of a restless sleeper,
folding and unfolding sheets,
rearranging and retrieving the pillow,
creaking up and down the steps to my loft.

A source of distant speech lies on wood,
creeping towards an equilibrium,
lighting up under the cover of darkness,
telling how soon the morning comes.

In the drawer and in the bag,
the simple socks of a day's walk lay,
rolled and wrinkled, white in all,
here lays the essence of my kind.

The News Waving in the Front Porch

Leave the skillet on the burner,
eggs in the fridge where you left them,
straight from the grocer's,
baskets holding my brunch in the corner,
the once frozen cranberries,
still floating in their reanimated juices,
out of the kitchen, reading the mail,
you come in to feed the kids,
and go from the room, the living room,
towards your solitude.

What an ending to a day,
collared newsprint slowly peel off my head,
as I ascend for my bed,
a rest from some unpleasant, familiar feeling,
the taste of the routine,
to which I submit far too much thought,
an unwelcome remorse,
and the only escape is a door with a slippery knob.

I have only to close my eyes,
and imagine the incandescent shadows,
burning waves into the plaster,
my coworkers who ate their fill for lunch,
while I sat sideline, gaping,
imagining that the sky had unleashed its heat,
and I need not wear a hat,
outside a new warmth would come down.

The Pensive Carrion Crow

Nothing speaks volumes like the written word,
to sit down and commence the reading of a book,
it is a weighty task that sinks the mind into a vase,
like an old coach to a tired soon-to-be-sleeper.

Perhaps if I took all the letters I have written in my head,
and formed them out onto a firm paper in front of you,
(but we must be very ambiguous as to who, only natural),
they would together form the single word sorry.

Enough already, though there wasn't much written in the first place,
perhaps I feel sick in for thinking so, and so here I go (away)...

Bird, Black bird, pinioned feathers and fair ring about the foot,
standing, positioned in the middle of the alley-way,
cracked pavement, crook'd down the center,
vaulted drive, a river leading the way, wheels surrounding,
and you will fly upon the encroachment of the croaking thing,
hoping yet to return to your plunder, a bin labeled garbage,
waste management, you hail with a gleeful 'cauhw'!
you don't think of it that way, considered not to think at all.

It's all in a perspective.

Departing Reason

The feeling of cold hands on a hot head,
fighting a cough as the door opens to the low 50,
food-stuffing the same wafer cereal with plenty of milk,
remembering to fidget with my scabs filled with sheet fuzz.

Who spoke of the wise growing wiser?
Or a young man becoming younger?
If gravity says down is the way to go,
how can I come to argue otherwise?

On the beach of my mouth I laid down the rules:
1. Run don't walk
2. Don't look from side to side
3. Give everyone a wide berth
4. Limit location constant to ten minutes
5. Don't stop thinking
6. Don't stop to think

...depart and close the door when no one will notice.

My Unresolution

Waking up and looking into the bathroom glass,
you still appear to be waiting for something to hit you,
a cold cup of water thrown in your face to wake up,
far from the top, I've come down the stairs to breakfast,
I don't care to wander in the morning, my mind does on its own,
the cracking of cereal and water slide of the cow's produce,
and the spoon seeks to feed the mouth, its counterpart eying the paper,
crazy to think, normal to not, and I thought I left bed at 9 in the morn.

The jazz doesn't wail or wind down the alley way in these parts,
although we seem to have a knack for shooting 'em up lately,
all the same, off to class where all seems sane, in the warm comfort,
were it true, but I lose my sight to the floor to which my neck bends,
"..ahh to sleep.." but my friend, that was a toast to death and not rest,
the crusade for my mind continues and I ambivalate as to whom is right,
head or heart, and the question of who can keep this history straight,
did Abelard really mean everything he said, and who's to say otherwise?

Following my study of our confused and bewildering ancestors I lunch,
in a Shakespeare: who can eat at a time like this, Branch, party of two,
search party of two, find the truth, tied to a forgotten cross in the Pope's office,
or bite your tongue and take what's spoon fed to you, sleep for centuries to come,
take the pill of inaction and seal your casket and, protected by indulgence,
go down to your spiritual grave, your body will follow soon after,
yet who am I to speak over the headstone of my ancestors of fault,
of whom I have dipped my bread into the cup with and breathed ash.

Rolling to a Stop

A view from above


and then things start to spin


it had to stop sometime


and, photographs, adieu for now


I will see you someday again, perhaps,


but for now, we stop.

Life at Night

Care for a picnic?


Everything is a whirl


A floating bridge at a distance


Traffic, at an even greater distance

The Twist and Turns of our Modern Construct

Get me out of here