I closely preceded the dawn when I left that house to walk across this city to my own bed. Somewhere after crossing the tracks between silent box cars dressed in the reverberating hum of compressors, I was greeted by a lone crow. No one else to talk to, I said hello and carried on about my path. As I rounded from behind the quiet plaza to the main street, my new companion flew to a nearby tree.
‘You’re following me, aren’t you…’
‘Yeah.’ And so this went on until I was nearly home. I walked through the plaza, up West Street, sauntered across a uniquely sleeping Main Street, and began my ascent up Woodstock Avenue, discussing everything which had been on my mind with my momentary companion along the way. The crow’s response was always the same, but I enjoyed its company nonetheless. We greeted the dawn as I approached my home, then parted ways. I rested well.
I move amidst patches of rust and fire, blood and ire, inclement desire. The autumn is the explosion of life, the last great breath of the year, the climax before the descent. The final seeds cast, fruit drops to earth, cloth to bedside floor. In brilliance and passion, the world around me seduces my senses with its magnificence and I relent. I give, forfeit resistance, and drown in its splendor.
Last night I dreamt of the first snow. It was early morning and I had just emerged from sleep. I descended to the first floor of my apartment and was overcome by the dim, pale, blue light. Outside was like a blizzard, though it was only putting down a heavy dusting. But in the early morning light filtered through the snowfall, I was completely taken by the beauty. I made my coffee and opened my curtains. The blizzard cleared and the brilliant winter sun shone immutably, spilling perfect light into my living room from a paragon sky. I stepped out my back door and smelled the fresh winter air. I felt the snow beneath my toes. I woke up.
Crime As Forgiven By a smoke filled bedroom somewhere in the night half drunk Against the will of the pending morning looming over Me just a handful of years ago in a confused time with no direction the future hidden just past the smoke and scent of stale beer beneath an aimless longing. The potency of it is not lost with time.
Ever the moth, I am drawn to the flame.
Fluttering about notions
Never quite landing
Until that brilliant moment
When my wings are burned off
And I plummet to my death.
On my way down
through the dark
I think to myself,
"The light was worth the burn."
A sepian moon rises just over the blackened ridgeline… As the sounds of a gothic romance flutter through my ears and a chilled night air fills my lungs, I am reminded of what we felt like many years ago. With all things, time makes history a prisoner never to be released, but I can still feel the echoes in my heart. You, a blood soaked measuring stick, are revered in places none may tread.
Another old piece, as it was written. This is titled Quickening and is companion to Awakening.
Another old piece, as it was written. This is titled Awakening and is companion to Quickening.
With frost hanging in the air and inclement winter weather moving into the valley, I post yet another old piece, mildly revised and cleaned up, for the reading pleasure of any who will it. This is titled Of Frost And Ardor and sums a feeling still relevant in this period.
Transformation is a piece I wrote in the winter of 2008/2009 on the cusp of a major change in my life, both one of an outside cause and one very intense, internal shift. It was originally ordered as three pieces each consisting of six cantos, or verses, but I have rearranged it to be one piece of eighteen cantos.