Heh... a little homage to my spoken word days, inspired recently.

Now I'm off to get my passport. Later, mine readers.

Tea before bed

If I might recite
my finest lines in mind to you.
For you. About you.
I doubt you can imagine
the difficulty I'm having
in not kissing you...
holding you...
or just grabbing your hand
and declaring my affection
with a collection of words
seemingly invented with
the intention of my one day
using them to get your attention
and then when I have you immersed in verse
and think I've got a chance to advance
on you in person.... like this...
with the softest kiss...
lips to lips
heart to heart
in bliss.

Some random nonsense from an untitled series...

Dear Eros..

I've loved as youth often loves -
feverishly and conditionally.
A raging blaze quickly consuming itself...
And these infernos have suited
my often chilled heart
as a warm breath can ease icy fingers --

Momentarily.

April Closer

Greetings, all. How was yer month of April? Seems I'd gone AWOL again there. But alas, I've come back - declaring my return as usual. So how the hell are you all? How is the River Man, you ask? Peachy keen, actually. Normally I'd be dripping with sarcasm when I say that, but I'm serious this time! I've been feeling pretty good lately. Back on track, and all that jazz.
I'm not too happy with the direction my word is heading, but that is only because of what I've been reading/listening to. Many poets don't realize the influence everything around them has on their work. That Sexton-tribute that preceded this post was written while I was on a confessionalism binge. To be honest, I really love that piece. I'll have to tweak it a bit, see if I can't make it a bit smoother around the edges.
Yes, onto the more recent pieces. I'm going to purposely omit one that I've posted elsewhere because, upon further inspection, it needs too much work to see the light of day. The following, however, I enjoyed writing because it allowed me to delve back into the life of one of my favorite characters - William Purtell. Enjoy.

Mother

Such sour scented women
you surround yourself with, Will.

Clumsy bags of sunshine,
mother used to say
with little in the way of explanation.

"Who needs such frills?"
She'd quip in regard
to her lack of detail.

"The finer reasons why...
those are a divine lot
not intended for man.
Everything you know as truth
is true.
All the rest are lies."

Botherable

'ello readers. How fare thee, denizens of this playnet Earf? I'm pretty bloody good mineself. Clearing out the old brain-basket. Getting myself in order. It's been too long since I've been in order.
This will have to be a short talk, mine friend, I have work.. and am already running late. That much hasn't changed. Enjoy.

My Dear Mrs. Sexton

TEMPORARILY REMOVED

And Runeth on...

A jumbled mess from the Purtell series.

Requiem for the Moon

O! Sacred lunacy
Moon born madness
Born on a cold night
Bed of glass beneath her back
Onlookers hiding behind
Their dirty, bedraggled curtains

O! What words have I
To fill this noble cause
Of life? Dear life.
What right in telling
Of it's trouble
What judgment in my youth
Surely, these queries
Be asked of me.
Surely their answers tailored
To fit their finest idea
Of my image

If, by you, my image
Is to be found on page
In ink. I say it is
Better found, perhaps,
On midnight train rides
In darkened windowpanes.

"O!" They will say – seeing me
"O! It is you, who wears youth
Like a disease. You who is
Curled and
sick with lack of years
Whom we found clutching
His stomach by the rose garden.
Sick beside the angelicas
Ill beside the lilies.
Beaten by stone and river.
Bloodied and bruised and laughing

To which, I could only reply
"No, Not I. It is not I."

Standing tall there
Against plain white walls
Stained with dusk
Empty was I
A pen run dry
A page left blank

During this dawn of green
Discontent.
A symphony carved of cement
You were there,
Sipping coffee in
The early hours
Of the morning;
Speaking of me
Sipping lager in
The later hours
Of the night.

Sad
lovely
forsaken things
You and I
By the riverside reposed
Riverside
Cigarette smoke – thick
And overbearing.

Like this lasting gloom
We wore around our
Quivering bodies.
The sweet recluse
Of this.
Our dear moon
walked the
Hardwood
With sunshine at her feet
O How I loved her

How I held her
In my eye
A Queen
Born
from the blinking eyes
Of angels.
And she would nestle me
whispering
"Dear, the company you keep
Is better kept afar."

I sipped her advice,
Generously given,
Beneath these ashen stars
Burned into the ceiling.
Lighting my cigarette,
She offered more
And I softly replied
"Thank you – but
I've had enough to drink tonight."

And Runeth...

An early piece from the William Purtell series.

Frostbitten Footprints

I've held the fleeting
teardrops of the moon,
A sylph lazily
caressing my back,
Undine tenderly
rubbing my feet.

Were you awake, then?

My breath tracing its way
through November air.
My hand tracing its way
along your November flesh.
You were asleep, my love,
and in sooth I poured the sand.

Runeth...

This piece was scribbled onto the back of a postcard I had in my pocket while up on my uncles property. It was during the first rebuild.

Casanovia

Take the time
in youth to
Follow the flames
down
Ledger Lane Road,
just past
the bones of old
Patrick's farm lay

Cazenovia Hill.

Beneath the birch,
bare and tall
and ghostly white
some claim angels
come to sing,
others hear
the Devil's song.

My uncle swears
he heard that
birch,
beautiful and bare
whisper death
into his ear.

I've not much to say for that tree.

I've Less to say of that hill.

And the River runeths again...

And so I return. It's been quite some time, aye? Well... in the time away I lost myself... a couple of times. I'm in the process of rebuilding. It should be a while but I have high hopes for the new version of River Man.

I've done a bit of writing. I'll post some of it today. But first I want to post some random thought I typed up about a year ago. I just found it and thought it suitable to post at this time.

To fill in, recently a good friend of mine passed on and it really made me think about where I am going with life. It is unfortunate that sometimes it takes death to remind you of life. This post won't be a poem, just a random thought.

A son, father, brother I've been... an uncle, nephew and cousin as well. A painter, a roofer, a fryer and busboy. A helper, a porter and superintendent. A lover, a patriot and fighter of the good fight. A poet, an author, and dreamer. But I've also been a pothead, a coke fiend, and alcoholic. A pill popper, tab taker, mushroom muncher. A thief, con man, drug dealer. A stickup kid, a gang banger and an animal. Through it all... if I can say nothing else... I can say I've lived. And because of such, I can die a satisfied man. So don't cry when I go: smile because this has been an active and full life; and I'm ready for my rest.