Outside, out there… out.

Fake it…

just fake it

and keep faking.

Every day becomes

a charade.

Let’s pretend that

we are normal.

Lets pretend that

we do the “typical ” things.

This has been

the last 47 years

of my time

in this social – system.

While the rest of humanity

gets to enjoy the basics

of their day

(as an expression

of their true person)

we must pretend to be normal.

We must pretend to react

to the

day-to-day events

as if they are somehow significant.

When we get home,

when we shut out

the rest of the world,

we take a deep breath,


and try to figure out

who we really are….

It is a level of exhaustion

most will never



Deep cuts

More on melancholy:

Listening to music,


that was seminal

in my twenties.

The words

echoed back through memory,

trying to reinforce

the mood of those times;

they failed.


and experience

have rendered me numb

to these prior aspects.

I’m not sure

that I can be reached,

not by music, anyway…


These albums I listened to

on loop

are all like old photos

of people I once knew:

I recall the moments,

But not why they mattered.

A one and a two-ah…

I know

that when I die

it will be in January

or February.

These two months,

these awkward hurdles

that start the year,

they vex me.

It’s not the weather

or the lighting…

November and December

do not treat me this way.

It must just be

that the start of the year

carries with it

so much apprehension

of what must come to be

and so much disappointment

over what has been.

In a way,

these two months

are like the scales of truth:

In their eight short weeks

I must weigh out

all of my failings.

I move to put

my thumb on the scale

only to have it

slapped back.

Revealed in frost

I’d let my mind wander

to the times that were

but I’d be afraid

of what’s in my mind.

I’d discover

all the flaws,

and the frauds,

that I have become

in the ruins

that I would find.

I’d rather wander

in the dark

always unaware,


in the naivete

of the here-and-now

(buried like some pained

expression pulled from my face).

Now every winter


like leaves left on the tree

stands out, in stark contrast,

like all the things

I promised I would be.

I’ll say it doesn’t matter,

that out on the horizon

is some solution,

but I know it’s not of my making

and that there’s simply

no truth in it.

Later, with winter settled-in,

and used to this malaise

I’ll cast my thoughts forward

once again

to the promise of Future Days.

I’ll let this placate me,

take me somewhere soft

and nice

and I’ll pretend I’ve set

a plan in place…

wouldn’t that be nice?

We rotten beggar-scribes

All these voices,

talking into emptiness.

And I

shouting with them,

adding my desperate plea

to the general cacophony.

I criticize

and minimize

their efforts,

but, really,

who am I,

(shouting to be heard

as well,)

to judge?

I pine for acknowledgment

every bit as much

as the most strident

of supplicant does.

It is a desperation

that reeks so strongly

that it escapes the digital void

that spawns it.

I reek of it


Sundays…… and so on

Some great songs

from 30 years ago

(thanks prime)

and my mind reels 

at the conversion

from youth

to ruin…


drama aside, 

it feels that sudden. 

Yesterday I popped

that singular cassette

into my dumpy car 

(a car more loved 

than any “far-better” car

I have owned since) 

and watched the world

reveal itself  to me

while inviting me

to the glories of a youth




my four-year-old seems intrigued

by the music

of yesterday. 


or older…

It sucks,

and the perspective gained

goes ignored. 


I really like the changing of the seasons.

I realize,


some people seem truly bothered 

by periods of excessive rain 

and grey. 

I am not amongst them. 

I find myself perplexed, 

maybe even a little bit surprised, 

to hear of people 

seeking warmer climes,

to avoid 

the mid-winter dulls. 

I welcome 

all that the seasons 


I know the sun will come;

I know the days will turn bright 

and warm. 

How much harm is it to wait? 

Without this cycle 

to keep us engaged 

what would our world be? 

Come on, rain, 

give me your worst. 

It is only the first week of March, 

and I am ready 

for the best winter has left. 

How else will I know, 

the joys of spring 

and summer?