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?”

“Exactly.”

-from “Kafka On The Shore”, Hanuki Murakami

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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”

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(from a hundred years back)

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S A D D I S H

August 8, 2016

 

“It’s a desperately vexatious thing, that after all one’s reflections and quiet determinations, we should be ruled by moods that one can’t calculate on beforehand.” ―

                                                           George Eliot, Adam Bede  

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She’s  pulling  up  stakes.

For fulfilling dreams wait for her there.

Somewhere else.  Somewhere farther

From this dry dream here.

I love her so I can let it go.

From two hundred to twelve hundred

Miles to walk, away.

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1

It  stands  to  reason  that

I understand  It’s a good plan  to move,

It gets me in the throat.

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2

I  could  call  it  logical.

get it./ We’ve yet to use unwise  love.

“I’ve got a good hooded coat.”

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3

I  guess  it  makes  some  sense.

It gets me to make  no move.

It got me in my throat.

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It’s all  a saddish  & maddening wishing well.

I’m still a man

Who can sit so still

 

 

 

My Melancholy Vampire

June 2, 2010

Don’t forget, friend,

You’re  so  dour

You don’t even laugh at yr own jokes,

Or don’t you get them?

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When you nightly set out

Under a mighty moon

To brighten and heat

Yr best features,

Yr long face goes  on & on

Though the shadows are gone

And it’s distant stare

Doesn’t stop at dead stars

But goes to their backrow bleachers.

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He’s aroused as the voices

In trees, on the breezes

Distract him post haste w/ poetries,

Extracting his true face, those  ghosts in a wind.

Mostly,  They’ll lift him,

But their leverage runs thin.