the ice crunches between my teeth
i smile
move my glass

sideways
and ask for more

same color
golden brown hue

take it
leave it
which ever

exhale smoke
simple cigarette
borrowed

as i gave mine up
long ago now
but miss them just the same

the smell
the taste

and they go so well with the writer
the written
the verse

thoughtful
yet poignant
and always ending
too soon

even when i’m searching
for another light
another drink

and another sentence
to finish whatever it is

i’m still trying to say.

there is a picture of us
on my desk
at the farm

fall
pumpkins
donuts
cider

you are almost two
you look serious
i look happy
tired

content

but the colors are perfect
as the leaves change
and i have my arms wrapped around you

fortunate to know
that you
are my son

and i
am your father.

i strike back
at the words
at this life
at loosing it

at taking up more time

at the keyboard
at the artist table

with friends
family
the forgotten
and the reclaimed

i strike back
because i still can

still have a voice
still have time
still have something left to give

before everything is taken from me
and the only thing left

is the idea
is the heart
is the head

is the memory

of me
you
and what we’ve become

only books
only stories
only this
that was

that could have been
as all else fails
gets pushed aside

and rests easy on the notion
that nothing is formidable

not exchange rates
not currency
not love in the afterglow

of nuclear proliferation’s
failed nightmares
that turn into daydreams

cold beer left in the afternoon sun

or heartache at the tender age of twelve
or the explanation that everyone recieves
when nothing else is expectable

it’s not you
it’s me

it’s not us
it’s them

it’s not where we are
but who we are

as i choke down past memories

to solutions
to problems
to ideas

that never meet in the middle
only push out on all sides

and take on more water
more flood damage
more living in places

no one should ever go

and yet this is where i am
current location
blues low land

no insurance provided
no litigation
no collateral damage
no movement under the color of night

just sadness
just loss

and the understanding
that everything is eventual
everything is
as it was

even in the eye of the storm
even when things are calm
and the only thought process that comes to the surface

that re-imagines itself

is the failure of rebirth
or the knowledge that there is nothing worth loosing
that could ever put a price

on love
on love’s memory
or the exceptable rhetoric

that makes haste

out of our lives
out of our dignity
out of our time

until all that’s left

are crosses
loneliness
and the perpetual silence
that echoes blame
down a dark hallway

under shadow’s weight
and loss’s bleeding heart.

today i bought a bread scraper
and a bottle of whiskey

the two sit next to each other
exchanging glances
on my cutting board

as i drink my whiskey slow
and think about new bread
new techniques
new ideas

in an old house

where love blossoms
family grows
and things
don’t seem as impossible

as they once did.

i make bread now

there is something so angelic
so perfect about making bread

the craft
the care
the response

to waiting
to sitting
to listening

to yeast
to rise
to movement

of simple things

flour
water
salt

but they are essential
a backbone
a flavor enhancer

a shape
a body

and yet it changes
it mixes
it moves
and makes everything

come together
in ways i would of never thought of

the elegance of perfection
infused with time
energy
and the subtle understanding

of what love means

as dough rises
performs
and reconstructs

under new meaning
and new subtitles.

it doesn’t matter
it just doesn’t

i started writing when i was fourteen
and i’ll keep writing
till i shuffle off this immortal coil

i will always come back to my words
to my understanding of what means the most

to love
to soul
to the brevity of speech

and i don’t care if it’s one line at a time
or a bucket full of water
that pours from my mouth

giving way
to adjectives
adverbs
and the occasional

prepositional phrase

only visible
only viewable
through life
through living

and the insatiable
unattainable assets
of knowledge

that comes from my heart
from my head

like the slow burn
of summertime ash
or a cold rain in the fall

that leaves nothing behind

except memories of forever
that are forgotten

in an instant.

tonight
i undid all my stiches
all my lies

stripped my life of friends
family
killers
and the killed

tonight i picked at scabs
old wounds
and pain

pain on all levels

and there are no substitutions
for being alone
for being open
and looking straight into the abyss

without hesitation
or the wings
to fly to safety.

nothing else matters by metallica

so much of what i do everyday is for other people
other thoughts
other ideas

and i give
i give till it hurts
till it’s over
till it’s wiped out

but tonight
is just too much
and i am alone

and nothing ever changes that feeling

of giving
and giving
and eventually being so tapped out

that nothing
really matters
not even

your own words.

in the kitchen
moving around
you are energy

unleashed
unbridled
and perfect

you open the cupboards
stacking pots
pans

laying them out
moving them around

i watch in amazement
as there seems to be order
in amongst the chaos

oh to be young
to be perfect
to be squishable
huggable
adorable

as i envy
every moment you have
and continually take in
my time
well spent

with you.

at night when it’s quiet
i sit at the kitchen table
with my glass of whiskey

thinking about so many things

failure
love
it’s resolve

life
changes
everything

and the later it gets
the more i fall down
become sad

and try desperately
to forget
everything i know

and the floor is cold
and the windows don’t hold heat
and the days collect

pile up
make waste
of so many memories

but this is darkness
this is late night rambling

reaching
stretching
finding life

underneath layers
and layers

of sadness
regret
and minimal currency

without coin
cash
or dollar amount

this is night time
when it’s quiet
and i sit
at the kitchen table

drinking my whiskey.