Dormer

I’m going to paint that son of a bitch. I’m going to climb up there and paint it.   I’m not a young man any more, but I’m not old and I can’t get my motorcycle out of the garage because the scaffold is in the way and I won’t move the scaffold until I paint the dormer.   I’m going to paint that son of a bitch.   I’m going to climb up there and remember I climbed Whitney and Baden-Powell and Mount San Antonio.   I don’t need to pretend. I climbed them all.   I’m going to climb up there and I’m going to paint that son of a bitch.   I’m going to paint to make things better and brighter and secure against the sun and rain.   I’m going to climb up there and I’m going to do my job. Nobody has to pay me. […]

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Never

We are not dead until we are dying and even then, we are free to spit into the eye of fate or chance or luck. Whatever you wish to call it. Be you one more time. Heaven is up. Hell is down. One is a climb. One is a slide. Chose one. Either way, have fun. ƒ

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Blooms Before Frost

They come, inexorably, indomitably, indefatigably, as soldiers come before the guns to be wasted, mown down and come again until victory is won. Sentinels, they stand waiting the inevitable assault, beautifully disciplined to inevitable destruction, vivid now courageous, brave and true. Like me if I so dare. Like you. ƒ

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Nightmare

I didn’t dream of you last night. I woke up screaming, bathed in sweat, gasping for breath, shouting, No! No! No! I didn’t sleep again last night, afraid to close my eyes. I lay there staring into the dark, thinking of you. Thank God. ♥

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SP 4449

You want to see something? You want to hear something? You want to feel a thrill, a longing, a rhapsody of energy alive? Then do this: westbound thru Montana and behold the screaming soul of engineering coupled to the poetry of stamina and drive. Listen to the bell and stand aside. ƒ

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Great White

It’s coming. They tell you it’s coming. You know it’s coming. It will come. You don’t know when exactly. It doesn’t matter. When it comes you’ll know. That’s soon enough. Well prepared are you? Everything in place? Ready to face it when it comes? No need to worry. You’ll find out soon enough. See you out there. See you then. It’s coming. ƒ

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The Newday

I saw a Newday outside my window this very morning, striding up my street in plain sight, not so very plain. Brilliant in resplendent colors, glowing gold and burnished red, aflame with luster, sparkling with a panoply of stars retiring for the night, a Newday breathing fire ready for mortal combat against fear, fatigue or apathy. I saw a Newday coming down my street, meteoric in its swiftness. It will not stay. I must capture it, befriend it quickly, throw my reins over its massive head and leap into the saddle for the ride. What fun we’ll have, charging through the neighborhood and out into the world. I saw a Newday looking for companionship today, searching for a kindred. I volunteered. Up, up and away! ƒ

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The Blind Poet

All poets are blind or should be, blind to the world they see, yet given sight to see what is invisible.   All poets should stumble through other people’s lives, all the obstacles of a sighted world or what passes for sight.   All poets should write about what they cannot prove because no one else can see what they see and no one believes what they are told.   All poets should be blind to momentary monetary gain and accolade and just know what they know is real and what they are told is folly, because of course, no one else can see it.   All poets should be blind and take their stick and use it like a rapier in defense of dignity, honor, glory and truth and only tap the ground for emphasis, not helplessness.   All poets should be blind and cross the street to the […]

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Rachmaninoff

Do you remember? Sure you do. You remember the night, the weather, the stars. I remember everything. So do you. You remember the music, the masterpiece upon the air and my reply to your alluring look. You remember what you wanted. I do too. Yet what I did not know, what you knew and your hellish friend knew with you is what you would do to the love I composed out of innocence and devotion or try to do. You knew it must be sacrificed to gods I did not worship. I worshiped you. Poor me. Political you. Now I have the music. I play it for myself and those who care to listen, wondering how such strains of magic are woven from thin air. I do not tell I learned it from a spider who attempted murder accompanied by music in a silken lair. ♥

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Kindling

Long time now since my old friends and I got together. Axe in one hand, maul in the other, oak block on end, the thwack, clang and again, again until the wood gives up and lays open ready to light. As in life so in this. Strike and don’t miss. ♠

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