promises made

bits of paper found

when preparing to thin the herd

promises made to her

& her

of fidelity

undying love


oodles of moon in June

romantic guff

thrown there on the line

from the low depths of self pity

anguish of being thrown over

& now?

I have no idea

of where she is

or her

no trace of the love

I put down

no irony there

in the phrases of eternal care

not a quitter

she was a great girl

kept me satisfied nights warm & rested

days sliding by sitting in her kitchen

talking of the world tides habits rides

& then

chopping logs for the winter stove

twisted my back couldn’t lift a roll

staggered back inside

she applied ointments potions unguents salves

laid me flat on the floor massaged my spine

left me needing so much more

& then

I slept fitfully until morning came

made it to the crapper

praying for rain holding on to anything

escape the pain

came the time for paper needing be done

& I couldn’t twist reach area one

& for a minute I wondered pondered on

could I ask? would she?

I made it to do what I had to do

flushed walked unsteady out of there

laughing some

you ok? what’s the matter? she asked

all concerned & I said back soft

just be very grateful

I am not a quitter hon’

not in peace

I sat down

where the great man wrote

to take a look

read from his book

& heard what he heard

saw what he saw

& I understood the words

had already fallen

for the idea

some time ago

felt the sense of place

exit from cities

foul humanity

dirt squalor disgrace

but I was not the only pilgrim

others had been before

& no doubt more

will come

like those who leave their litter

bottles cans paper plastic

homage corrupts if the wanderer

comes for bragging rights

not in peace

any ember would do

the years

sat in chairs

on walls

flat out on the ground

clogging up corners

scrawling on paper

filling up cheap notebooks

staring into space

working out the line

losing jewels gems

scattered in dead spaces

sent to people

surrounded by reams of words

who were always

past caring on paid time

sending them back

more often not

while I waited for the fire to catch

any ember

would do


cigarette smoke

curling in the air

blue against grey

white walls

she wanted to draw me

as I sat thinking

tho’ I was wondering

how any of this

just might work out

until she threw the pencil

pad paper down


fuck it I’m done

take me for a drink


it would be a year

before the sketch came back

it was me

but not a me

I wanted to see

cold aloof alone

but by then

she too

had moved on


the energy


walking the pavements

falling in love

with every pretty girl I’d see

admiring their reflections

& I’d do the rejection work

all for free

this one looks contented


& that one couldn’t possibly

to then go where I called home

sitting there with paper

staring down at the line

not understanding

if I needed therapy

I’d already done the work

walking those streets

no message

days I didn’t feel a thing

checking my pulse against the ticking clock

had I died in the night

forgotten to breathe

sitting there or lying there

no difference between moments

as the sun scaled the walls

not thinking of anything

no over thoughts to drive the day

under ideas bringing up the rear

only moments passing clouds in a grey sky

nobody came to check up on me

I had no one I wanted go visit

as the days passed turned to weeks

I set the typer up on a counter

found old paper & sat

waited waited

to bring no message to you

she got me

she got me she said

understood my wandering soul

or was it affections

gave plenty of pens

good solid paper

left me to draw my own


& I wanted her there

beside me as my friend

though she wanted more

that bit she didn’t get

though she said she understood

how hard it was to get out of bed

only to do more of the same

each & every day

nobody there

to provide solace in my evenings

she was prepared to do that

if I was interested in offering the other

& how to create a desire

where none exists?

& worse sustain that over time

of course she hates me now

says all I did was take take take

in the name of artistic freedom

you write how often?

sometimes the words come easy

some take years

& others like all good urges

need release

finding paper any paper

crayon pencil paint on a wall

to get the word down right

the other times spent sitting

staring out the window

watching the cats

beautiful white paper

parker ink pen uncapped

& nothing

you write how often?

she asks

listening for words of discipline

mind focused just right

magic time of day

genius restless night

& to hear the muse don’t come easy

makes the poets sound special

so she writes that down tight

maybe to put on her wall

what I can’t quite express

sometimes the words flow out

already formed

not in my head

ready for the pen

& all I have to do is find the place

to put paper to pen