nothing concluded 141

going back six years

trying to reinvent

the voice

but struggling

with sound

it makes

having not been

heard by many

close to this voice

need to clear the throat

having lost the voice

somewhere

along the way

back then I had

confidence

people who read

my thought daily

surprising me

with comments

on context

nothing concluded

far from a revelation

quite inspired

along the way

losing the voice

probably only

thrown together

then but now

lost and

nothing concluded...

it's always time

it’s always hardest

trying to begin a new thought

knowing it’s there

waiting to be expressed

as unaltered as possible

it’s always unpredictable

wait, that means a contradiction

it’s always time

to smoke out a thought or two

hardest to put down

quite habit forming

good thing it grows on trees

too bad I am not a farmer

it always makes more sense

if you are sitting hear(here)

with me as I experience the night

folded into a tiny triangle

and flicked across the room

always hardest when

it slides under the door out of view

as if the claws could compete with

the wooden door

more sirens to here(hear)

sitting smoking out more thought…

sounds the silent night makes

sirens cut through the silence

of every night never fails

thunder thump of a car stereo

jumbo jets overhead

and the commuter rail arrives downtown

all at the same time

stand still sitting out

here on the porch

in the broken chair

like puff the magic dragon

like eye puff to make the day drag on

and on top of that the dogs set each other off

one will start and around the neighborhood

the howling starts the slightest

silent disturbance sets it all off

for hours inspiration his only reason for being

the one hears all the sounds the silent night makes

into thoughts and words and maybe no one

is impressed with his pass-the-time invention

sitting on the porch eye hear his every thought

stand still and drop to the page

even the scratching of the pen contributes
to the silence disruption

in the city that does not sleep…

hits him hard

it hits him hard at times

reality and what this life

is supposed to mean

only what we make it mean

I am sure of it

it hits him hard

as he watches the dog rest

without a care in the world

worries he will never be

an idol in America

hasn’t moved much in thirty years

what will he make it mean

it hits him hard at times

like a sand bag from above

hope it misses everyone else

many purposes together

how is it we fit

like to talk of peace

in terms of dollars

I want to work at a bookstore

and read everything written

it hits him hard

hardly at all

he mostly has to crumble

the entire thing

in six days

six nights

and tonight the sky is clear

the moon is full and rising

across the street

over the roof in treetops

two weeks until mountains will

hide the rising moon

the only mountain around here

is the one of buried trash

I see it on the ride back home…

this pen this mind this heart

you could say eye

have become discouraged

at long last had enough

have to move into change

find where eye fit

struggling to wonder

why this mind works

the way it does

not make sense

to pay the bills got to work

and the government

is a millionaire’s club

how fitting

you could say eye

am discouraged

if you even felt it necessary

to restate the obvious

battle in this mind

won’t shut down at night

it spins on overdrive

all around town

to find a quiet spot

back at home on the back porch

until midnight maybe later

catching up on night time

rest missed with thought in hand

in mind in pen and ink

all over hands reaching

into pockets not their own

you could say eye

have discouraged this self

happiness carved

into flesh left arm

turn back ten years and write

it all over again

beginning from the end

where eye left off the edge

of this page turns to reveal more

and there will be no end eye

cannot begin from

a non-existent point given

to those who need to catch up

slow down thoughts too fast

rain hard will flood the gutters

and overflow like this pen

this mind this heart…

when I ask

when I asked him

why he watched the sport

he explained it was all about

grown men making left hand turns

he could use a good turn to the left

he’s always been on the right

and it is a relief to see

someone from the right

at least a little bit mystified by

the left turns…

when someone asked

they said New Brunswick

in a tent and my question

then becomes

does that make me Canadian

when I asked for advise

it’s because I want and need

guidance of some kind

and everyone says

I shouldn’t quit the job

where else am I going

to get these benefits

so tired of being a hard

working fool that

doesn’t follow rules

that don’t make sense…

the dissection

the dissection of the mind

caught in fits of near madness

crossed with absolute silence

so much work to be done

there is a hole in the backyard already

for all his bad habits four quarters

not even an actual bill

all that’s left of his mind

the setting sun helping him fight

the temptation to waste more time

and money when it’s all smoke and mirrors

no book has had this many pages

and taken this long to fill

so impermanent he desires to bury

this with all the bad habits in the backyard

this dissection will be the final verse

in this black leather song book of thought

and things that clutter his mind

delusional and struggling and most likely

refueling off the anger it creates

and despair he fends off like a soldier

captured learns to accept and expect

death so far passed fear

dissected with these thoughts

and he presses on his eyes

until all the right colors appear

again as if they never left

cluttering this mind like hair

growing inward prescribed pills

so he isn’t sad how sad is that

it’s come to this

out of so much potential they said

too bad he couldn’t have poked his head

through into the light of a more positive day

the dissection of this mind might get messy

and might expose ideas once thoughts obsolete

might split the mind into four call the quarters

and bury them in the sand let the ocean take

it all away to reveal the truth lies deep beneath

the dissection of this mind

this heart implodes while riding an emotional

roller coaster he spoke of twelve years ago

sidewalk sitting stirring a thought on the street

with chalk outlining the section of the mind

dying below all the smoke clouding up

what is already imperfect

the dissection might take hundreds of volumes

if he’s got enough time

and stays out of trouble long enough

the dissection continues on an empty stomach

growling calling for food by name

and he answers but it might be too late

too old too bad and he begins to draw

the blade in a straight line

down a certain train of thought continuing

the dissection uncovers thought buried

two years ago in a book he forgot he had

searching through his past he has got to find

his future clear the cloudiness he has created

wasting nothing but money which 

is the root of all that is evil

all his sadness stuck here in thoughts

of diminishing funds

and strength to carry on as always

not so tall but he could take a punch

or two from a fairly large man if he had to

washing his own clothes on his own time

best friend’s no show sealed his day of solitude

at his desk at last full of thought

and there is no one around

just his luck maybe he will take his shoes off

for the next portion of the dissection

of this mind he is peering out the window

no neighbors to be seen

just him and some thought

some April afternoon

and suddenly the hunger came back again

who could’ve known he still would be here

as darkness and clouds roll over a sun filled day

dissecting the mind splitting it into pieces

he needs to deal with separately

at first if necessary never getting to see sunrise

unless he is working what a pity

even though it still looks pretty

tired no matter what the day brings

him plenty of thought

to get by on plenty of extra

if you don’t mind dissecting the mind

if you have the time

to spare or remotely care

to take a look to the interior

thought warrior with the ceiling

pressing hard from above

he draws a map as he dissects

what is left to write

phone call to break up the monotony

of this day ending in darkness

and he stays up just to see who might call

if anyone at all

the dissecting mind disperses and ends up

appearing in the strangest places

forget what you have been told

where are all the pictures he spoke so highly

in high places giving respect to the most high

absolutely no idea how but he knows

now is the time for the biggest change of his life

the dissection of the mind is terrible

it will give him the blues even if

he is standing knee deep in green

and what does he mean

maybe dissection is merely a reader screen

who will get through and who will stop

short of finishing the thought or book

someone will look and see him stronger

than ever others will see him struggle

like never before to bury the bastards

deep in two holes way out back

in the yard he buys a piece once a month

until he owns it all and he still feels

he inherited some sort of fortune even though

he can’t find the hidden treasure

anywhere he looks buried deep in the debris

the thoughts he thought he forgot

not disregarded just left to be until

this dissection complete

for the night possibly longer…

demolish linear thought

lately he’s been

antsy and unsettled

in his work related life

unhappy possibly

a more appropriate word

the monotony of everyday

coupled with tragedy overseas

so many soldiers dead

he sits silent

and realizes that most of these

casualties in battle

are with persons younger

than he is

he knows he is lucky in so many ways

but being unsettled is a common battle

many might have to undertake

as they take over and

demolish outright

linear thought… 

nothing concluded 140

back in the basement

it's cold again

the heat kicks on

before I can finish

writing the words

too fast thinking

on the fly on the wall

and he is that fly

where he sits

trying not to get hit

what it might mean

or doesn't

which side is more right

absolutely

out of his mind

by now no one

can see through

the cloud he has created

destroying beautiful buds

burning lungs

dangerous smoky

toxins inhaled

willingly allowing the mind

a destructive release of sorts

some kind of contradiction

wonder winds clear the room

and the mind etch-a-sketch

shaken gray blank page style

ramble on and on

torn between

these thoughts pounding

and sleep calling

sleep wins

when eyes close

one with a twitch that won't quit

what it might mean

or doesn't

which side is more right

absolutely

nothing concluded...

nothing concluded 139

what it might mean

or doesn't

which side is more right

absolutely temperature

drops ten degrees

in one hour

where does the night go

as time slips into dark

eight passed the same hour

waiting for sister

nothing concluded

might even be late

from time to time

coming from Brazil

the heat blows from beneath...

nothing concluded 138

whatever it might mean

or doesn't

cold returns

a couple days of snow

nothing concluded

and nothing is the same

closed down the spot

ten years back

sit for hours

philosophizing

remembering a night in April

a foot or more

snow car stuck

had to walk home

and whatever

it might have meant

or not

nothing concluded

felt like something then

five lines down

and over

write to the left

as usual

and the bag is empty

again

backwards

spoken slow

everyone will understand

nothing concluded

like the end of a book

just beginning

to see the depth

from this spot

high above

thoughts so deep

most want to walk away

or ignore

nothing concluded

left hand twistin

right hand is the write hand...

that's all

the spring is trying

so very hard

to push its face through the clouds

still forty something on the porch

out here despite the slight chill

up the back occasionally

as he moves from left to right

across the page

as if someone has to catch the thoughts

and he happens to be the closest

to the window at the moment

neighborhood becomes the spot

designated for the migration

of all the kids cooped up all winter…

go to bed

go to bed each night

and dreaming of that day

some of this gets seen

go to bed thinking

it could be the night

when someone

on the other side

of the world stumbles upon

these thoughts and find

something worth reading

a chance if nothing else

to be read and it might be silent

but not afraid of what others

might think or say

guess I don’t care anymore

pressure and I may crack

the picture frame is crooked

hanging on the wall

and it’s the river in autumn

no idea which river

or where it might be headed

or coming from now on

he too will be silent

in his pursuit of—

what were the goals told to be attainable?

just getting to work on time

is sometimes a struggle

tried to tell him not to get stuck here

in this wage slavery system

nearly everyone stuck the same

struggling to get by

no idea who painted the idea

can’t read the signature

maybe it’s all a big fake…

hours pass

hours pass and believing

in the self becomes

job one

nothing should matter more

so much does

he probably hasn’t eaten

in hours pass and he becomes

something the self can’t stand

alone on his own

without support he might fall over

hard to the ground

or below and who might tell

him he is facing in the wrong direction

essentially walking backwards

there is no longer a goal to be attained

at a height unimaginable to most

he sits cross legged how can

he make any decisions in this state

of confusion even chaos would be

welcomed change and how many more

years of war can we endure before

the republic is taken back by the people…

better than defeating the self

such a large stack of thought

all my own some would say

self-absorbed but trying to

encourage the self

and isn’t that far better

than defeating the self

realizing the power of the self

lies within us all

to reach unlimited heights

such a large stack of thought

no one even believes

it is worth the time or energy spent

better off doing something else

instead of running pens dry

and arm sore from too much self

absorbed thought

such a large stack of thought

to burden all these pages

the scent of herb in the air

silence swirls like the smoke

forces an eye squint a bit

but everything is crystal clear

the path is laid out in front

but the transportation mode

still remains the question

such a large amount of thought

for such an average size guy

smaller than the size of the room

where he will continue to pile

these thoughts…

back to the days of automatic

back to the days of automatic writing
whatever is popping into the head
smoke fills the kitchen
it's still winter and he can't open the door
sixty-four ounces of coffee
cannot be a healthy diet
good thing he isn't running for office
too many nervous habits
and sometimes leaves his
sweatshirt on he is always
got a lid covering what some might
dread black book and a smoky kitchen
producing pages of free thought
nothing is free they will say
it's a leap year and what do they all know anyway time for change
not a pocket full of coin
the kind that can take time to occur
not the type spent in second
that broke not that kind of change
back to the days but they're tearing down
the spot making room for something new
change is hard for many to attain
yet so easy to find as he walks
around remembering all the spot
she forgot the late night snow walk
downtown everyone is looking
then he rolls up escorted by two men
change for those behind
and words are only thoughts expressed
back to the days pep talk to push
himself into the corner
thoughts automatic like his foot falling asleep if he crosses
his legs automatic like a red light
at every corner when he is in the car
and has to pee...