A Fond, Old, Faraway Room

January 8, 2018




“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

Fleetingly. So Pretend-Completely.

And after each chapter,

Which does us delirious,

It can be  meant as some payment,

It can serve to defray  cost

It can’t save us, when in a night and a day,

without fail, We will derail.

Alone, All memories lost
















“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”






(from a hundred years back)



December 29, 2017


I’m all for the metaphors that can pinpoint elusive love

I’ve a butterfly that lights right upon you like

A wild bird will dance onto a tame wire.

Randomish and skittish,

O lovely luck of above.

Odd that the hat on a scarecrow

Has enough shine to ensure a lure enough

to bug and bird alike,

To draw, and not repel them,

Their wings aim down to light.


“She’s gone, he’s gone too, and in the darkness; heaven and earth hold hands, the hands that loosened for a moment.”

from “The Piano Teacher’, Elfriede Jelinek


August 18, 2017




It might have been one long neon light

In the laundromat that set her off

When it flickered & popped

At us/ All of us up late

Our eyes were hypnotized some

All bets were off

On what might happen

She was the first to go

To distract us from our books & hand-machines,

Pull us from our puzzles, also  our magazines

Her  saying all that nonsense  fouled by fire

Interrupted  that late night scene

Her  calling  names  out

All intense,  Her pleas

We stared some  & stuck out that someone’d stop her

Her call to fallen reveries

Her  own  effin reveries





OK  I hate that “soulmate” is a fowl cultural cliche’

But it likely could be lifeblood, & have a saving Grace,

But  a  burndon

when things go wrong

And one  one can barely live with

A burndon  one can hardly lay with,

Stay with   when things go wrong

When a soulmate might come  to separate some

Then a burndon  might act up some

might oh might

Just combust some




June 8, 2017

Some beers and some whiskeys for chores, and morning correspondence.

Soon, off for driver’s licence and all the taxes they’ve attached to it.

I want my immigrant outfittings,

Rosewater holds my hair.

Legal photos are important these days.

Though no great grandchild will glimpse at me and try to recall all

I’ve maybe wondered.



May 23, 2017


Still nights I will not change I will cringe

I’m tightly bound to make  my inner fringe

Break down  in private next door rooms

They’ll up & drop tears  from my say  they assume

I’ve meant no harm  though my charm

Might be misplaced /  an anvil fills my frail arms






“The Artist’s Dream” by Emil Holarek

Emil Holarek


May 1, 2017







There ought better be a beacon
on a pacific coast cliff could be
where hope’s light works with sea horn
where a night light works without warning
It forces & forges  the blackest  fog & forests
There can be a candle
in a window with enough heat
to fire the hearth
to light one lone solitary stone room
(from 2010)
.”Writing is nothing more than a guided dream” -Jorge Luis Borges



April 12, 2017



Blackened breezes rustle

Sacred/ olive trees, skies muscled thick.

I took a sight that set me more lost

More sour than seasick.

I see him, knees bloodied,

Face drawn/ down

to earth.

I was being/ once/

Just a man also.

I spied/ by my back down

To my murk/

I cried/ by my own shadow,

But did not cry out,

To interrupt  all that   too intimate.


When I was a young/ more willful man,

I fasted/ from dawn friday

Until the last of easter/ Today

I’m past that/ I take  the families

To the best italian place,

For sacrificial lamb & blood red wine

& all before that, maybe grace.

Still  and  night  wind/

And still standing in/ Deep in the shadow end/

Waiting in the wading pool To see my moon bounce to me some/


Wait!  At the airport bar the atmosphere swooned bountiful/

Maybe sating   metaphoring mating whoring fourth down plays/

Bountifully Enhanced  Last Chancing that face it,  basicly it’s too late not to dare/

Back here I’m not so rough, I swoon my own way, I tarry, and my moon’s enough

Jared French, Clinton, by PaJaMa

(photo credit/Jared French/ Clinton)


.mangata: reflection of the moon on the sea at night (Swedish)




January 13, 2017


teachers to small children

the world over

pastors to parish

they all will tell the pretty truth

(aside the pretty lies, “pretty lies”)

that crystalline snowflakes

are unique. unique.

and maybe later in both

secular schoolrooms

and sunday school classes

(and in all their varieties the world over)

small children might make snowflakes for themselves

they’ll fold lacy paper exactly in half

with a good crease

and taking their round-ended scissors

they’ll cut their very own unique cuts

so that when everyone unfolds their lacy paper

and lifts it above their heads

everyone can laugh at their uniquenesses


but one thing that ministers & mentors

rabbis & nuns will fail to add

is that those one-of-a-kind snowflakes

are all


in their descent

on icy black currents

all their night fall



It’s the coldest morning this year

And the Farmer’s Almanac says this year

There’s gonna be a winter of ’em

Me, I won’t mind

I like how loud the still is


forty years ago a brother from Chicago

called the cold wind

“the hawk”

I wonder if it’s still true

I wonder if “that muthafuckin Hawk”

is still cursed & bundled against

in the only city cited for its big blow.



When island settings lose their place

in imaginings,

When our mornings sun  there

warms our skin, bare,

There’s these shade floral sanctuaries,

And, I’m betting,  perfect for setting your eyes on…

God’s perfect line,  one horizon.

When all  won’t free you,

Won’t call you from all this freezing

Point of view,

This illusionary season,

What ttthen?





(from a decade ago)