Monthly Archives: November 2015

a walk in the years

2015

on cool air, pumpkins are hauled from the fields
stalks, dried and withered, rustle in the breeze
yellow spreads through the treetops of the tallest oaks
i build an evening fire when wind-chill becomes a factor
under crisp skies, pink rivulets stretch from the sunset

since adulthood, i know what happens next
the familiar routine becomes a psychological battle
the rush of familiar faces say hello but refuse to delve deeper
possibly, there are dangerous ideas hiding behind countenance
i smell chlorine seeping from under the correctional center door

once throwing a football in dead leaves, a childhood flashes by
reality is an old man, memories draining—unable to stem the flow
wishing i had written down observations of an earlier time

creating pictures is something i should have done a long time ago
training the eye/hand with a yearning to print pictures in black ink
and a want to render body parts coming out of objects

the ocean temperature steadily drops and the beaches are abandon
stuck in time for two million years, the sturgeon is found dead
it’s spiny body, washed-up on dawn’s gray shore
extending further than my prehistoric grasp
the walk has taken me outside the minutia of the day
in puzzled fascination—to the realization of a grand picture

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what are we?

Chesapeake, VA 11/24/15

dried leaves blown to recollection
the bent corners
crumpled pictures
drama of crows
dog eared distant relatives
photographs of light, of other days
gray shadows
particles of dust
what went behind countenance
a single cricket in the house
chirping
before time’s burden—crush
stealing your body
hiding your child
the bite
icy blade of winter’s storm
tempered by reason
huddled around the hearth
contentment
warm children
faces bathed in orange glow
wait for the moon
bare branches grow heavy beneath wet snow
quiet light
reflect the story we tell ourselves
the story we die believing
a breath

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pen on scrap paper

Chesapeake, VA 10/13/15

on a bright fall morning
in the parking lot at work
i sit in my car

interesting ideas emanate from the radio

over the weeks
with a gel pen (pilot g-2, 05) i jot down notes
onto the back
of a used post-it note—a scrap of paper
coffee stained and tattered
folded into quarters
the backside sticky edge, holding it together
(collecting dirt particles)

i unfold it; unstick it
in-order to add
to my previous writings on the back

on the front
is a preprinted, nag-note template
filled in

to read:

to celeste from mom
call about portrait retake
remember and thank-you boxes checked

on the back i have written:

a ghost
boy
s. african

conformity
contagion
breathing
in sync

great robot tutor in
the sky selling snake
oil
cannot read
body language

psychology of
school shooters


the notes are for later; to think about
since my mind
is preoccupied at the moment
preoccupied
with fixing my broken blogs
hacked
to now receive porn site solicitations
through a compromised, comments filter
; a pandemonium of zeros and ones

i have much work to do
but it will have to wait
until work is over

for now—i search my car
for a new scrap of paper

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