Spare Change and Poor Thoughts

Hello all. I return. So little to say, so little to say. I think I might take a break from the blog. More often my visitors are googled here by my fortune-cookie pilfered topic titles rather than an interest to read poetry. Rather disconcerting. I am, however, actively working on putting together a chap-book. So hopefully in the not too distant future I'll be updating with that information. My apologies if you actually visit this site often. I shouldn't be gone too long.

Honeybees

All the honeybees have gone
somewhere far from here
A great escape
to 1968
and all its sleepy ways. "Surely"
She says
"You must be crazy
for all the weeping
you've missed.

God, damn, you must be crazy."


She sleeps away
the sunlight, claims
she's seen enough
and the praise is misplaced.
Doesn't like the nights
alone.
Chain smoking bootlegged cigarettes
while her children
dream. "Surely"
She says
"You must be heartless
for hanging around
as you have.

Dear God you must be heartless."

She fixes herself tea
milk and too much sugar
before the sun
can show his evasive face.
Sips
Gets lost in thoughts of honeybees
and sleeps away the day.

The More You Say, The Less They Remember

Boo!
I live and breathe. Isn't that an odd saying? How would one live without breathing or vice versa? Alas, I digress.
'Ello all, 'ow the 'ell are ya? I'm doing alright. Been a bit of a mental hermit, but that happens to the ol' River Man too damn often to consider special. I've been writing. I've been drinking. I've been working. I've been aimlessly staring at the wall whilst sitting in my boxers and fighting the male urge to grab the old gents due to the healing stab wound in my left palm. Porcelain should only be broken by hand when you are a lawless teenager. I'm too old for that nonsense, I've learned. Meanwhile, when it comes to social interaction, my box has been empty. And in that, I've withdrawn into the aforementioned mental hermit stage. I'll be out soon, but in the mean time I don't feel like engaging in too much verbal meandering. On top of it all, I just awoke from a nap. I call it a nap, because if I say it is my damned in ability to get a straight nights sleep, I'll just get pissed off again. Instead, I say I've adopted the fun habit of a filling my nights with a series of naps. Isn't that superb?
Oh. Go watch the following movies:
The Man From Earth (a couple cheesy moments + cheesy ending but an overall damn good flick)
The Air I Breath (damn good flick)
Gabriel (need I say it again?).

These have not been suggestions.

Go, watch.
No, wait. Read this first.

Reign

TEMPORARILY REMOVED

Many a False Step is Made by Standing Still

Greetin's readers. No long winded jazz tonight. I'm a bit out of the babbling mood. Having done nothing productive or even reasonably close to 'active' in the last 4 days or so... (not counting a short bike ride and shorter walk), I'm brain dead. Odd, but nevertheless true.

Here's a piece that I want to play around with a lot more. I'll probably post a highly edited version in a few months. Why post it now, you ask? Because I want to damnit.

Sonido Del Alma

Rising above those angels
Flesh
In aluminum and faith.
July,
Like the hide of alligators,
Wears gaudy
And magnificent.
Those angels
Find rest beneath the wings of men
solace with god-awful breath
and an inflated ego…
softly seducing sleep
with sententious verse
they can’t recall the origin of:
This is the sound
The soul makes when
decamping
This is dread for doctors,
Parents,
Children.
This is the sound
The soul makes when
decamping.

Mother forgive me
I’ve cursed your name
And now taste salt in effect.

The Apple's Lost Its Shine

As per an agreement I made with myself during an early rebuild, I have to address any listless feelings within 48 hours of their arrival. That didn't work out very well, so somewhere a few versions later I decided a week was a fair amount of time to hammer out the dents. Well, I returned to New York feeling out of sorts and have found the source of my woes in only 5 days. Celebration.
Pardon me, readers. Happy Friday. How have you been since we last spoke? High spirits and such, I hope. I've spent the last 48 hours watching Scrubs. Not the entire 48 of course, but most of the waking hours. Seasons 7, 1 and half of 2, to be exact. My mother -the TV worshiping doll that she is- would be proud of me, I'm sure. More on that at a later time, mayhaps.
  Yes, so what is the source of my aforementioned woes, you ask so sympathetically? (What... you didn't ask? Too damn bad. Read on.) I had this whole fallout a while back regarding whether or not research is where I really want to be. Ultimately, I put the decision off... but I hid it behind a thin veil of 'yes, it is'. I think I've come to the final conclusion in the last couple of days that it isn't where I want to be at all. I'd just grow to hate it more and more until I become the mess that I see in 95% of the scientists I encounter annually. I've realized something about myself that I think I knew the whole time. I can't be one thing... not really. My mind wanders too much. As a kid, when shit got to rough in the drug-filled foodless existence I called home, I would crack open some random fantasy/sci-fi book and I was gone. My mother was no longer doing the fiend lean on the couch, I wasn't running to the park summer afternoons cause it was one of the few places to catch a legal free meal (meals were few and far between at that time) - I was a fucking warrior battling every manner of dragon, orc and alien. As I got older, I spread my zone of escape to the wonders of film. Private I's, explorers, super heroes and any other character I could assume the role of for a couple days was welcome. The negative aspects of this all being that I would confuse my mental adventures with my actual ones. This was socially detrimental for a while, as I was generally considered a bullshit artist. I got over the confusion, or I got better at bullshitting, which is the truth I'm still not sure.
  Either way, I still walk into a room and within the first few minutes woo the cutest girl, kill the nearest threat and escape amazingly through a window or hidden doorway. This isn't always the standard storyline, but my point is I haven't gotten over my wonderful mental adventures. I grow wings at least once a day... again, digression. I think it's this whole dig that made me become a writer. I began chronicling and creating more of these bits. It's why I love writing. I'm free when I write. I'm my own brand of crazy and it is beneficial. That is also why the science gig might not work. My brand isn't meant for the confines of a lab coat and the same four walls. I should probably be in show business, but I haven't enough manic spouts to counter the self doubting periods. Teaching will continue to suffice, I suppose. I think my love for teaching comes from the performance aspect of it. I'm not #### to those people, hell I'm not even the River Man... I'm whomever has the reins to this beast of a body at that time.
  I've babbled on about all of this to get to the point that I no longer want to do research. Not seriously, at least. I may dabble in it for a bit and I will probably get my doctorate, but research is no longer my end all. I'm going to keep on with this writing jammie, 'cause I have a feeling my previously mentioned bag of crazy just might be hiding something that will get me noticed. And everyone knows how I loved to be noticed.
 As a side note, a few people who read this probably know me well enough to know that, even if I've never done something before, I'll assume I know everything about it and can do it first time out the gate. Chances are I might even claim to have seen something on it, or read something, or (forgive me) that I've done it before. Some have been astounded by my ability to actually appear as if my BS is valid, others see right through it. Either way, in these instances, I'm not fully lying. Chances are I've done it so many times in my head, I'm a friggin' pro by the time I have to do it for real. Or... feel like a pro. And confidence is half the battle.
Enough of this deep look into the mind of the River Man. Onto some damned verse. Enjoy.

Arizona

And he wonders why he falls
So easily
Like the ink to this page
The mosquito to light bulb
Love finds him and prowls
The areas of himself
That he can never seem to find

The song is sung
A thousand times

Will enters

  Bus
   Train
    Airport

Eye contact
His heart tap dances
Against his ribcage
His mind writes
A detailed story of their love
The intimate moments
Sleeping in on a Sunday morning
Nightlong conversations
And that awkward first utterance
Of the word he’s never said aloud before
But has worn lame in thought

Seconds crawl by
And with a blink
Inevitably, she looks away
Inevitably, He sits
Silently lamenting his inhibition
And his broken heart

The Pleasure Of What We Enjoy Is Lost By Wanting More

Greetin's readers. Happy Thursday and all that. So I am back in The Bronx. I'll tell ya, I've never loved this city more. That may be a lie -- honestly I'm not sure. I did miss it though. Los Angeles is an alright place, just not my cup of tea. Then again, I was only there for a total of maybe (and this is being generous) 72 hours. San Fransisco is awesome, aside from the weather being shit. It's July, San Fran, warm the hell up. Overall though, my favorite city from the trip is definitely Seattle. I could see myself moving there for a short stint. Though, I was informed by a lovely drunken gent at some pub that the men outnumber the women about 5:1, so I may have to find and bring the mrs. first. Not his exact words, but then again I use gent purely out of respect and not because it fit his delivery of this information. All in all, a good trip.
I wish I had the urge to divulge all the details of the trip, but in truth I don't. In short, LA (shitty bar), Drive, San Fran (Cold, great people, nice park, nice skyline, Alcatraz!, Coit Tower, crooked street), Berkeley (nice school, nice tree, awesome library, good food, disrespectful peon hot dog vendor), drive, red woods (simultaneously amazing and monotonous), drive, Seattle (first Starbucks, Space Needle, great beer, great people, great vibe, awesome dog, good music, beautiful cityscape), all night drive (lots of coffee, more coffee, even more coffee, lots of bathroom breaks due to coffee), San Fran (great people again, good night), LA (good food, great people, nice bar, The Dark Knight), flight home (red eye... couldn't sleep).
Hope you enjoyed. Now, I wrote a few pieces while I was away. Not as many as I'd hoped for, but honestly more than I expected. I just finished the first edit of this. I'll scan a couple others for the next few days. Enjoy and good night.

Another Monday Night

It’s midnight half a world away
He assures
Himself slipping the blue Tuesday tie
Around his neck,
Monday night
Sometime in July.
He’d lost count of days
Since the seventeenth of December.
His firefly
Making snow angels
In the freshly layered
Yard
When she should have owned the skies
A week before.
He’d counted his blessings
In marshmallows floating just below
The cloud
Of steam rising from the mug
He’d carried to her,
Hot chocolate – her favorite winter drink.
Her mother
Used to have it waiting
When she would come home from school.
It was fitting,
This parting.
They’d met
Over hot chocolate and snow angels
In her parents yard
So many years before.
He’d been too much of a man to lie
Down beside her then,
So he admired her from above.
This day though, he sat
the mug just below
The arc of her left wing
Lowered himself
Just far enough that their hands occasionally brushed together.
She took hold of his,
Thumb gently working
Into his palm. Slowing. Stopping.
So she could admire him from above,
At least that’s what he imagined -
Still. Sipping his Irish breakfast tea
Mulling over
The revolver in his lap
The bullet in his hand
Another Monday night.
Load. Spin. Cock. Place. Smile. Squeeze.

It's going to hurt...

'Ello and all that jazz. How fare ye? Good, I do hope. Happy Thursday. And happy July at that. A friend of mine recently asked why I often open with 'Happy [day of the week]', citing his disbelief that there is such a thing as a 'happy Monday'. After making a Garfield joke in my head (I told ya, I'm a dork), I explained my view that we should be happy for every day that we get to take another breath. My saying 'Happy Tuesday' is not a celebration that it is Tuesday, but rather that we both made it to that particular Tuesday. Think of it this way- today is Thursday, July 10th 2008. No one has ever experienced a Thursday, July 10th 2008 before today and they will never hereafter (barring the unlikely invention of a time machine... in which case... fucking bastards. I would like to play with the time machine...). This is your once in a lifetime opportunity to make Thursday, July 10th 2008 the best damned Thursday, July 10th 2008 possible. Good luck with that, and Happy Thursday.

I'm currently finishing getting ready to head out again. I feel like I just got back from Mexico, now I'm headed to LA for a west coast road trip. LA to San Francisco, onward to Portland and up to Seattle before heading back down to LA. Atleast, I think that's the plan. When one has the memory of a mentally challenged goldfish, things get fuzzy. I often wonder if it isn't early onset Alzheimer's. Not a single member of my family has been spared. Maybe I'm unlucky enough to bear the load early. Heaven forbid. Off of this depressing digression, yes?

I've been sleeping so sporadically lately. Sleepless nights and midday naps. Mexico somehow threw off my entire sleep cycle, and I was only in an hour difference. Cali just might kill me. Neh... I have a feeling it's going to be a good getaway, if unwise financially. This recession is really a bitch... that and all this debt. I'm down to rob a bank -- any takers? C'mon... a man can't pull that off alone... not smoothly. Don't you people watch movies? I need atleast another 5. 4 of you might die though, and the remaining one will probably turn on me in some grandiose plan to secure the millions for his/herself... until thwarted by my cleverly planned counter-stab. But we could disregard this knowledge and let it all play out - what do ya say?
Yes. This is what the River Man babbles about at a quarter after 2 in the morning.

Onward with the poemtry. I'll be back on the 20... should have written a bit on the trip. See you then.

Truth(Hope)

He sits,
this man (we shall name
him later) worked to the bone,
atop a small hill
of the greenest grass
imaginable (no, greener)
- learning to fly.
Humming softly a tale
of dragonflies courting the wind (sweet
maiden's breath).
The night sky
black as love
lost and buried somewhere
the mind won't dare venture,
where dear memory
abjures (there are some merits
in forgetfulness).
William sits (as promised, a name)
and contemplates
wings to carry him away, his mother's
voice as sweet as honey
to his ear (she would often speak
in song): "One must either
learn to fly or prepare to fall,
this world won't care
which you choose
when it pulls away
from your feet."
He sits, does William,
on a trembling hill
- the greenest grass one could
never imagine, patiently learning
to fly.

Greetin's peoples of the blog reading variety. I be the River Man, happy. How be ye?
Just got back from Mexico yesterday. I headed down to Merida for this year's ASPB meeting. What is the ASPB, you ask?? Why, that is the American Society of Plant Biologists. Yes, I am that cool. It was a good get away though. The food was horrible. If you are from the Yucatan (which, looking at my stats, I know you're not. All my repeat visitors are New Yorkers. Do I know you all??), I apologize... but it is true. The cuisine of Merida fails to satiate my pallet. What more can I say? Headed to see some ruins while there --Dzi something or another. Very, very cool. I have a fascination with past civilizations. Could have been a History major if it didn't seem so damn boring overall.
Anyway, the River Man has indeed returned to NY. Not entirely happily. But really, what can you do?
I have much to say... but no time to say it. Tomorrow, perhaps. I'm off to organic chemistry. Sleep well, dear readers.

Cutlass

Have you not learned yet, boy?
Wastefully pitching pennies into fountains
and buckets
and every manner of water filled vessel.
Running yourself ragged
with thought
and sick of ink stains.
Descending through the delicate white
of a cloud covering close to her.
Hurrying,
before the sun can consider rising,
to that bench
beside a midtown apartment
to serenade the stars,
seducing them into sending her
a enamoring dream of you.
You really haven't learned yet, have you boy?

Happy Endings

Greetin's and all that jazz, dear readers. How the hell are ya? I'm fine; thanks for asking. I know... I should have updated on Saturday... but shit happens. The shit can be generally summed up as alcohol. Too much alcohol. I was done a couple times over. That night I went to a sushi at a friends house. In Harlem. I know... Harlem and Sushi are not two ideas you'd typically link together. Nevertheless, it was a sushi and saki party in Harlem... on a Friday night.
I didn't really touch the saki. I'm not big on it. I did, however, annihilate about two bottles of plum wine. Throw in a couple shots of gin, a couple cups of cranberry and vodka, a shot of jose, a few beers and a glass of henny [more or less in that order] and you have one fucked up River Man.
One of the good outcomes, though, was a connection. I met some guy who'd lived in France and got involved with the whole Parkour scene. A scene I've been trying to dive into for about 3 years now. He seems interested in making a crew and getting some things done -- we'll see if it all pans out.
So, needless to say, Saturday was spent in recoup. Saturday night I had some 'hair of the dog' therapy. D and I killed a half a bottle of Patron.
Sunday... I don't know what the hell I did Sunday. Damn memory problems...

Fun fun. Onward with the piece.

10,957

Turning Thirty
felt wrong.
At 12:00 AM I recalled
a drunken conversation
from years before.
"Guys like us...
We ain't meant to make it to 30."
We'd laugh
proud of the prevalence
for a early demise
in our world.

Jay lived up to his word
taking 2 shots in the chest
at twenty-three.

Hector overdosed at twenty-four
speedballing in his mothers house
at 2 in the morning.

Eddy was convicted at twenty-five,
25 to life.
He lost the latter at twenty-eight
over a lunch tray.

Rich almost made it,
twenty-nine,
-- at least he left a son behind.

12:00 AM
and I wondered why
I was still alive.
At every funeral
the preacher repeated
"The good die young."

I found myself
repeating their words.

Heylo all. Happy Saturday and such. How was your week? I've been burnt out for the most part this week. Work, class and personal jazz.
It would appear I'm facing the music of my last fucked up semester in a number of ways. Beside the blow to the GPA and the extended time of schooling, I also owe the bastards extra money that must be paid before the start of the fall semester. Whoo-hoo. This is what I get for a series of shitty decisions. Here they are, in 'never do this' form.
A) Never allow the burned out friend whom you know to have become a loser since the days of yer youth crash at your place for an extended period of time.
    The River Man allowed an old pal to call the River Pad home for far too long. This led to our River Man's mind reverting to that of a 15 year old substance abuser. Only, the matured parts wouldn't allow anymore hardcore substance abuse, so our dear River Man became an alcoholic for a wee-bit. No No for real life.
B) Never begin to hang out with the burnt out friends new friends.
    This one was straight logic... shit attracts flies. Neither are the better in that scenario. But, alas, our foolish River Man dove headlong into the pool of irresponsibility and almost drowned because of it. Fucking idiot.
C) Always keep your number one goal your own advancement.
    I knew this... but ya know what. I said fuck it to the whole thing. Not an excuse. A sad truth.

But... I'm back motherfuckers. You may all return to your places of River worship. (Missed me, didn't ya?)

Cold

He couldn't disappear,
He was already gone
long before I was ever born.
The news caught up with me
at noon.
I was working then
cleaning buildings in the city
for shit pay
when she called
Hysterical.
I cried for her,
but made sure not to shed a tear
for him.

I created stories in my mind
beside his box
of the honorable man laying
on the maroon satin lining.
Tailored fine memories
of basketball games
and fishing trips
and anything I could think of
to later tell my children.
"My father took me hiking
when I was your age."
I'd lie, so they could feel involved
in some long standing tradition.
So I could feel he wasn't just
some household accessory all those years.

But the truth will remain the truth
whether dressed in fancy red satin
or cheap, knotted pine.

To keep up though, here is a pre-edit piece.

A Decent Earning

Summer heat
Window ajar and welcoming
every manner of summer insect
with half the sense to follow
the seductive flickering of
a candle by my windowsill.
Lit for the sake of scent, I claim
but in truth, I care little for
the vanilla rising from its flame.
I light it for the excuse
to touch the books of matches
strewn across my room -
relics of a past cast aside.
I no longer long for tobacco
(most of the time)
The oral fixation is gone
The tactile fixation is gone
I do so miss the lighting, though.
Primitive desire, I suppose
but in our modern world
fire
hands on fire,
is preserved for survivalists
and country homes.
And the striking of a match
serves to satiate my
city boy pyro blues.

Gwan Do Ya Ting

'Eylo all. Happy Saturday. How was the week to ya? Pleasant, I hope. Mine was just fine. A decent mix of work and play. Made some purchases this week, most of which were wholly unnecessary, but would I truely be the River Man if, in times of manic upswing, I didn't buy some shit I didn't need? Please, don't strain yourselves. The answer is no. Luckily, I was in control enough to not make major purchases, as I have in the past. Though, in defense of myself, most of my major purchases turned out to be good ideas: A new computer (this one), A new computer for my sister (aw, isn't he so sweet?), that bottle of Henny XO (mmmm, that was a good buy). On the other hand, I've had some notably stupid and unnecessary buys: The TV incident (two large TVs, two days - one tiny apartment...), the couch incident (I thought it would fit in my house, I really did...) and other such gems.
The purchases this time, though, are minor... sort of. The biggest buy and thus making it the most unnecessary is the new phone I bought. Pantech Duo. After rebates and discounts for upgrades, I will have spent about $200. Did I need a new phone? Not really. Did I need a smartphone? Nope. Did I even want it when I put the order through? Eh.. sort of. If I come to my senses, I'll sell it this week.
I also got a juicer, as part of my new 'must get healthy' kick. I quit smoking, started doing some of my old calisthenic routines, took up boxing for endurance, and have now begun drinking fresh made veggie/fruit juice mixes. I used to be is such great shape, it pisses me the hell off. If I flex, I can still see 3 or 4 of my once chiseled 8 pack. My obliques have long since vanished into obscurity. Arms lost all sense of definition, forearms shrunk a good 3 inches beside losing definition... so on and so forth throughout the River Man entirety.
I don't understand how I let it happen, either. I used to enjoy working out. Time to enjoy it again. And to drink some fresh juice after... yeah, we'll see if that part happens.
Other purchases: RAM, a SD card for the phone, a decent luggage set (for all my travels), a new hoodie (mind you... it's summer), boxing equipment, and something else... I just can't think of what the hell it is. Eh, money comes - money goes. I just gotta learn to slow down the going.

Today's piece is proof that I don't let these rough drafts rot on this blog; I edit damn near ever poem I post on this site. Some I edit a few times. Some I scrap, and they remain here like ghosts. This piece was posted some time ago, edited a while back too, but... it's proof. So, yesh, enjoy.

Late Night Drive

Hung over
Chasing phantoms in a
Fog covered field
Grass flicking morning dew
Onto my feet.

Mem’ries rise like
Clouds of smoke
And lines of white
Draping the sky in
Love lost
Longed for
Hung
From Orion’s belt

Dangling
Dangling in the cold moonlight
Peeking through the trees
Caressing the crowded leaves
And love’s lonely toes.

Love’s stolen bones,
In heaps beside unruly bushes,
Reek of horse manure
and mint leaves.

And youth…
Laughs at me.
Giggling somewhere unseen
Strung to a lattice
Of painted metal beams;
Crimson metal beams.

A lone thought, amidst the scenery, summons me:

OF all the things I’ve been
I think I liked myself the most
   And I wish so goddamn hard
     That I could find him
       Out here
         In this haze.

I just read the last poem to myself a couple times and laughed. I make a reference to my long hair in that poem, a reference so rarely made in my work and a reference never before posted here. I laughed because I recently cut my hair for the first time in 8 years -not counting trimmings to make sure it didn't go too far down my back. So yesh, The River Man has short hair now. An inside joke, I suppose, but nevertheless I laughed. And now you know.

Twenty-Two

They call me a dreamer
because I believe in the sky
and dangle lines of verse
from the stars at night.
But how would it feel
to grow old and die
without a destination in mind?

I don't want to know.

Trust Your Intuition... The Universe Is Guiding Your Life

EDIT: I'm getting a lot of traffic to this page because of the title. If you did google that amazing saying up there, do not be disappointed. Look around the blog. The poem in this post is admittedly subpar, but it was posted for a purpose. Click on the huge banner and scroll a bit. In the end though, if you don't like the vibe, trust your intuition. It won't steer you wrong.

'Ello River fans. Happy June. Sorry for the hiatus again, life can be a time consuming sunuvabich sometimes. It's been very strange in River land... every time I'm inspired to write, all I write are stories. This isn't too bizarre, as I've always enjoyed writing short stories, but normally their appearance was evenly dispersed amongst the poems. Stories have been dominating lately. It might have been due to my shot at screen writing, a side project I'm still half engaged in. My first film idea has shifted dramatically from its origins. Maybe I'll post some scenes on here after I shoot them.
So far as the old writing a moleskine worth of poems a month, I figure I'll get back to that sometime in July. I forgot how easy it is to be prolific when you have nothing else to do. Last year this time I essentially said 'Fuck the world' and went on a literary journey. I wrote a lot, but got very little done in real life. Reminded me of the movie Pinero - "Anyone can be an amazing poet if they have no responsibilities." That might not be the exact quote... but you get the point. So, upon returning to real life, I have been shell shocked in my writing.
I somewhat fear for the future of my work. I'm going after a doctorate... that can't be good for the free time deal. Eh... there is balance in everything that requires balance. I'll find a way.

Cold Tea

And she wonders why I want her heart.
She seems confused by all the things I do.
Searches for the motive behind this dance...
But I can hardly explain myself these days
-A clever ruse to guard my chest.
She presses on and questions my intentions,
Demands to know what I want from her.
When I answer "You"
She seems suspicious
of this long-haired Latino's sentiment
and asks again
"River Man,
          Why is it my heart you wish to have..?"

Because you already have a hold on mine.

'Lo dear readers. Happy Monday.
Ya know, I read a few blogs here and there and often see the 'I had so much stuff I wanted to talk about but now I can't remember it' post. When I see this, I usually shake my head, questioning the point of even mentioning it. Why not just shuddup until you do have something to say? Well... now I understand. On the bus to work I came up with what I believe was an awesome topic to write about tonight. I do know that it occupied just about the entire hour long ride. What I do not know is what the hell it was... and this absolutely void where even a shred of an idea should be is damn annoying. If I had the slightest idea I could build upon it... but nope. Where the thought was is now empty. In fact, when I do try to think of it, I end up starring at the wall for 5-10 minutes straight. So, it is not empty. It has been replaced by a mental vacuum. Hooray.
Either way, it was good damnit. Really, really good.
Onward with the poemtry. A short one.

Not Quite

It's true...
my past was written
in ashes and scar tissue.

These eyes have seen
many sundry things...

But never before had they seen you

and in that
they were inexperienced
and misfortuned.

Air Fuels Fire

WHAT?!?! Could it be? Two back to back days of posting?! My word, who are you and what have you done with The River Man??
To which I reply: Shuddup.
Hello, readers. I hope I find you all in high spirits and a relaxed Saturday vibe of some sort. I can't say the same, thanks to my fine skill for procrastinating. I've a huge paper to do, and two work and class filled weeks to do it. "But River Man.." You will undoubtedly ask "Haven't you known about that paper for about 5 months now?"
To which I will reply: Shuddup.
No, in all honestly, I've got to work on my time management. I've always relied on what I whimsically referred to as my 'last minute magic' but I do believe that my few years are beginning to dull the ol' noggin' -- 'Cause the magic just ain't what it used to be.
In other news, I received my much awaited stimulus check. $600.00 here and gone before I could draw a second breath. It was good, though. A couple bills we bearing fangs and poised to strike. I've managed to distract them momentarily. Thank you, failing economy.
Two days of near political conversation. Am I actually starting to give a damn about this country? It would appear so. Eh, the old noggin' loses one thing and picks up another, I suppose. Balance in all things, young grasshoppers.
Onward to tonight's piece... well... in a moment (my time of course) because I misplaced the bloody book it was written in. Only I can lose something that was just in my hands without moving an inch...
Okay. Somehow it was on the dresser across the room. Today's piece was written, I'd say, about 3 weeks ago on the bus ride to work. It seems it's another wrap around poem.
Onward with the enjoying.

Maybe..

It should have been
a warmer day
-perhaps.

Or slightly later
in the night
-maybe.

It should have turned out differently
of that much,
I'm sure.

And I recalled,
in the valley of that moment,
something a friendly enemy
had once told me:

"Babe Ruth had two specialties:
Hitting home runs
and striking out."

Well, it's been a while
since I've made contact
but I'll sure as hell keep swinging.

Next time though,
I'll do it on a warmer day
and slightly closer to the night

--just to be sure.

Rain and Hunger

Heylo there, mine readers. How fare thee this Friday eve? I'm tired... but really now... are you surprised? Other than that, all is well. I got my passport a couple days ago meaning it took all of a week and a day or two to get the damn thing. And I was going to be a fool and expedite the damn thing. Maroon. I thought there was some sort of crazy delay? Eh, I'm not complaining. Way to go, government -- on this topic atleast. Whoa, no worries. This is a politic free zone, I assure. Religion and Politics are two of the most pitiful things to fight over, in my opinion. And my opinion is golden, damnit. Therefore those things should not be argued about henceforth.
Heh... fat chance of that, aye?
Onward with the verse, mine readers.

By Chance

TEMPORARILY REMOVED

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.

Goat anti-Rabbit.. no wait... Rabbit anti-Goat. Whichever... it's your peptide and mine.

Greetings, my loverly readers. I still haven't got much to say. I'm feeling awfully burnt out lately. My mind needs a vacation from me, and I from it. It's getting cold in New York... and it's still bloody August. What a state this world is in.
The next two pieces express two completely different ideas. That is exactly why I am posting them together.
Enjoy, mine friends.

Paper Clips and Plastic Cups

5 am
swallowed in rain
and the world has given up on summer
and he has given up on the world
and he's given up on finding
pretty words to
explain himself.

Some Arid Sunday Song

Rain drops falling slowly -
Soft kisses on my flesh
trying to seduce me...
No need, my dear. In truth
I'm already in love
with this world. Its wonders
long ago claimed my heart
engulfed my soul in song
And I, in return have
tried to ink a tune in
response. And I will try
until this pen falls from
my lifeless fingertips.

The Shadows are casting Us

So... I haven't posted in ages... again. And I don't feel quite like babbling... again. Been up all night... again. Got work this afternoon... again. Life is a big fucking ball of redundancy. And cynicism.

The following poems be (yes, be) about half edited. I got a couple things I'm feeling unsure of... but at the same time... I love them. So... read, absorb, enjoy.

::Bow::

Jim Irving’s Monster

When it began
They came for him
Sporadically
Peeking through his windows
Once or twice a month
Watching
Always watching
Never touching
But in time
They grew in courage
Entering if only to
Misplace his ashtray
Or steal a cigarette

When he could take no more
They came more often
Robbing shirts
Or books
Or any random thing
Left out for their hands
Until he nailed the windows shut
And added three more locks
To a thrice locked door.

For a time there was peace
Before their diligence
Kicked in
And they would come
Every other night,
at times
Making their way through the pipes
In the bathroom.
When he grew aware of this
They bore cavities in the walls
To listen to his thoughts.
They crawled beneath
The concrete tiles of his
Single bedroom apartment,
Every so often
Lifting a stone to revel in the madness
They were causing him.
Every night they came
Whispering taunts just
Loud enough for him
To catch the final breath.

It wasn’t long before
Emboldened by his torment
They came in the light of day
Whispers growing in volume
until they were little less than
conversations for his benefit..
Conversing his death
And how they would see to it
How quick
How slow
How painful.
He suspected everyone.
No one was alien to this plot.
Friends. Family.
All craved nothing more
Than the end of him
Everyone but himself
Was the enemy
Until he himself
Was the enemy—when
He caught the whisper
In his own mind

He
Was trying to kill
Himself.

But he couldn’t let it happen
Couldn’t let the beast in his
Mind be his demise.

He
Would rather kill
Himself

Death was surprisingly silent
Peacefully so.
Needle dangling from his arm
Though he couldn’t feel it
Couldn’t taste anything
Couldn’t smell…
His sight did little more
Than distinguish light from dark.
The light was fading
And the dark was growing darker
Darker still
But he cared for little then
He was happy knowing the eyes
Beneath the ground
The ears behind the walls
The voices in his mind
Would cry
Because he had stolen
Their prize.

Conejo Malo
(落とされた天使のダンス)

I was afloat
Roaming the fields
Of Hypnos when
Morpheus, treacherous
Curséd bastard
Came to me in
Your form. Your face.
And I, being
Foolish and fond
As a child
Found life again
Among these damned
Kinsmen of death.

Your voice was as
I’ve remembered
Melodious
And adoring.
Your eyes pierced me
Vivified
The slumbering
Essence of love
Aimlessly veiled.
Your smile, bold
And authentic
Once more released
The best of me.

Hours, minutes
Seconds we spoke…
Of which I am
Unsure, but I
Surely jabbered
On – remorseful
Desperately in
Search of pardon.
No – punishment
Wanting only
Your rejoinder
Uninfluenced.

You, who had said
Little during
My rambling,
Reached out a hand
And gently stroked
My face, drawing
Me closer and
Cradling me.
You spoke of pain
And destruction…
Your heart and mine –
Casualties
Of our love.
You sang of joy
Awakening
In our sweet dance
Recalling nights
I’ve never lost.
Speaking until
The sunlight took
Hold of the sky.
Unfolding hearts
And revealing
Our souls in
Absolute and
Unquestioned faith.

As I, immersed
Again in love,
Approached your lips
With mine, you sighed.
And asked if I
Recalled the vow
I made that one
October night.
I reaffirmed

“I will take this
world with my verse
and present it
to you, my love.”

You smiled, that
Life defining
Smile, and stepped
Back leisurely
Into the haze
Of morningtide.
your voice, like fog,
clung to my flesh

“Then awaken
and fulfill your
promise, my love.”

R.W.A.G.I.N.S.L.A.N.W.

Greetings, readers. It has been a while since I've posted, aye? I'd love to say I'm been neck deep in some sort of progressive movement, personal or otherwise, but I've pretty much been a lazy sunzabich. Drinking my liver to ruin, for the most part. All of today's piece were born of alcohol, except for My Lily which was a bit of a challenge proposed by a couple of friends of mine.
Backstory: I had this old poem named My Lily which a friend of mine was talking about. Newer friend, named Lily, wanted to hear it (for the sake of her name). I couldn't remember the bloody thing, so she challenged me to create another. It's a five minute monster, but I kinda fancy it. So yeah man... don't challenge the River Man. He bites!
Going to another writing group meeting tonight. Probably going to read one of these... everything else is still in the process of being written. Mind you, these aren't done. These are roughs... eventually (probably not really) I'll get back and clean up the loose threads. Enjoy.

Twenty-One

How many times must I
spread my mind across
a page before I find
what hides beneath
what lurks within
these ragged lines
in search of soul.

What is a soul
        to a scientist
        to a poet
        to our godless kind
and how many lives must
I live to find it?
How many have I lived already?
Shed all I've been
in blind obedience to
what I am to be...
(only to become myself)

Spent so many mornings
   like this
bathed in the twilight,
thoughts drowned out by
the passing train cars
before I can spill them
from my pen tip.
What has been lost?
Something great,
I fear,
lost on the wings of angels
trapped in my cigarette smoke.

I scribble still
in search of whatever is
caught between this love
of light and dark
in search of a soul.
A plan, an answer
a blueprint to this device.
In search of a number
as well, perhaps...

How many times must I
spread my mind across
a page before I find it.

Mrs. Hatiko's Escape

The sky was baby blue
when she left
6:30
early Sunday morning.

In truth she had been
gone for days...
weeks..
months even.
She finally had to follow
her heart.

She left him breakfast
on the kitchen table
turned on the coffee maker
laid out the days newspaper.
She considered leaving a note
detailing the reasons for
her departure but she
hoped he would have known.
Wished he would understand.

Instead she left a single
purple post-it
'I'm Sorry'
written in her finest cursive and
stuck it to the night table beside
His sleeping form.
She fought the nagging tears beside
his sleeping form.
whispered softly I love You beside
his sleeping form.

The sky was baby blue
when she got in the cab
6:35
Early Sunday morning.