“Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who’s in love gets sad when they think of their lovers. It’s like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of. One you haven’t seen in a long time…”
“.. A fond, old, faraway room?”
-from “Kafka On The Shore”, Hanuki Murakami
We mind that there mustn’t be dust
On those closed blinds.
Behind those blinds,
We find us.
We find ourselves salving
Our sore selves,
Saving us so
And after each chapter,
Which did us delirious,
It can be meant as some payment,
It can serve to defray..
It can’t save us, when in a night and a day,
without fail, We derail.
“I choose the rooms that I live in with care,
the windows are small and the walls almost bare,
there’s only one bed and there’s only one prayer;
I listen all night for your step on the stair”
Leonard Cohen,RIP, from “Tonight Will be Fine”
encased in impasse
I couldn’t even eye the passengers
just past my papers.
I wouldn’t watch what
my window offered:
small towns, and their lights,
or when slow-mo reflections night riders
riding inside also swept by.
continual inspections of my work,
a spread display on a tray freed before me,
confirmed my stall is a lock still.
Y’see, yesterday’s night
I ran nine yellow lights,
& when my dreams weren’t just right…
I must decide to just ride.
(from 5 or 6 yrs back)
Some seem to see the floor of the sea
as a sketchy, yet effective sanctuary.
They’re thinking, I think, that it’s tucked away
good. & Could be quite quiet.
Sure would be you’d dream good there.
Sure, it goes that you must breathe much slower.
Sure, bluegreen cracks for surface lightening.
But, You’ll see that jeweled fishes,
Stilled with witness,
Flee at the softest flourish.
And bets are..sandbeds are busy with movement.
How can my dreams take when I’m floating awake?
“Where will I be When I go back home?
Who will I see When I’m all alone?
And What’ll I do?”
–David Crosby, from “Where Will I be?”
The main I’ve heard
Is that people want a partner
“So I don’t die alone”
umm, I Embrace, Tho’ waste, my own time.
At the end of all my nights
I might had been clean & clever enough
For her to had laughed, and had left
Her hand on my thigh
As I wait down the night sky
Toughening up for day.
It’s more than coincidence how
That “pillow” rhymes/w “shadow”.
If I had to,
& the sense to know,
I’d set dark dreams aside.
If I lied some, & thought things
All tied up,
I’d fake it some, I’d hope
For a wide enough break,
& loose rope,
& in this broken cup
I hold my spirits up.
.Heraclitus: “ the essence of things has the habit to hide”
“Very little grows on jagged rock/Be grounded/Be crumbled/
So wildflowers will come up” -Rumi