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.


1991 marked

Twenty-five years
of talking to the void…
shouting in an empty room.
Blank sheets of paper,
or these newer mediums,
have been my only audience.
as you well know,
has changed somewhat
in the last few years….
But I am still
fairly isolated
and whispering my missives
to whomever may hear
and that,
of course,
is all I ever wanted
even if it fails
to satisfy.

Tidal zone

There is nothing more beautiful
or honest
to the writer
or the reader
than the naked truth.
When both know it,
both experience it,
it makes the moment
more powerful
and real.
It can mark periods in life,
it pins them down,
so that
when you stumble upon them
(in song,
in journals,
In musings)
you recognize the brutal truth
as beautiful.
And yet…
for both the writer,
and reader,
acknowledging it,
in the moment of creation,
is almost impossible.
We are forced to wait,
’till long after
the benefit of such knowledge
has passed;
when only useless hindsight remains. We live life,
like shore-birds,
running towards the truth
when it recedes,
to peck at its leavings,
and running away
when it encroaches,
never wetting our feet.
Instead we eek out a meager living
in the tidal-zone
the reality of what we truly feel
and our willingness
to confront it.