Blame it on the Weather
Today hot overcast grey humid grey day tinting colours, moist thick heat blanketing all movements. The only hope, that these grey tints might congeal forming deep clouds of rain. Rain is the only hope today. There is nothing to say. Wasting time typing so as to say "I'm not really wasting time, I'm typing.” I can type about the quiet, the napping mother and child. I could write about sweating and hoping for a major thunder storm or how yesterday 90 degrees bright sunshine I caught a drink of pure crystally cold water bubbling straight up out of the ground between two boulders - sitting beside it for many hours loosing myself in the splash of clear talking water. I could write about the boy who every day after school at 4pm comes by the river here trying to teach his stupid black curly mutt dog to chase after sticks rocks anything anyone throws into the river including my fishing line. There are a million things that just happened yesterday or today countless things that happened between nine o'clock this morning and four o'clock this afternoon that I could write about. Perhaps I'm just lazy, blame it on the weather or something but I'm just not latching on to anything right now. Occupying myself with only a finger exercise, an action to accompany day dreams. I am not really here now, I am not typing now, only my mindless fingers move. I am far away on some dream in some place where clean crisp snow trying to keep warm as there are miles to go before I sleep miles to go before I'm warm and my numb fingers crack as I wave them to and 'fro stimulating circulation and cold snow crisp sometimes knee deep ice crusted a supreme effort is moving through sparse lifeless landscapes across open ground, wind savage razors my face. Trying to think warm, trying to not be there, my stiffened body trying to think warm and sweating, in a stuffy room waiting for it to rain because rain is our only hope today.
The New Landlords Are Impossible
Time is coming closer to when we have to move away from here. The new landlords are impossible. More and more I feel anxiety over having to leave the river, our river, river of painting poetry dreams warrior trout, leaving the first home I have ever known. All winter I dreamed about the coming summer when I could take my son and play with him in the river, when I could introduce them to each other - the river and my son. Now summer has finally come bringing with it the fact that we will have to move. Doesn't every artist have their river? Me I'll be leaving mine this month.
I am smoking a butt from the ashtray, the last bit of tobacco in the house and I can’t' hitch hike out to buy a pack because I'm baby sitting. The last smoke-able butt while I try to decide what I would like to draw on the last sheet of drawing paper, interrupted by the burning filter of an old cigarette. Fuck Suli.
I am someone always seeing, constant observer noting all details minutely completely, the watcher of my life unfurling mystery each day I am memory I am still being with my first lover still caressing ceaselessly tasting the summer heat remembering how only once I thought of something else during my first time making love. Juice dripping down her thighs as we stood dressing she told me of her nick name J.C. how it stood for juicy cunt ( me too innocent then to even wonder what that implied ) , the single room bed, yellow tile kitchen, windows draped in honey, having breakfast first, walk by the lake to the middle of the pine woods where we lay a spot of grass by hockey pond - those two things moving on the fallen tree really were turtles, one gossamer wing bug landing in her so fine long sweet hair, the first time cupping her breasts as she slipped off her bathing suit. We came to the reservoir to swim and we never did neither did we make love there in the woods several younger boys on bicycles riding up the trail scaring me into my jeans without putting on my underwear first. Two years after that and maybe another year before seeing her again once even living together for a while but I never met her again, I never really ever met that woman who was my first lover ever again, I know now I never shall, she was never the same person after that . But I still find in me a certain rush, a certain anxiety at the mention of her name at the thought of what we were, the speculation as to what she is doing now. Sometimes when I'm really high or I find myself believing in miracles I somehow see it as possible that we should meet again, taking that joyous walk of strangers meeting again for the first time the way we once did so long ago and of course as you would guess I can remember everything but cannot quite picture her face.
I am seeing the river flow from a cavern of black green trees stuffing thin white water lines through outcropping grey stone. I am alone today my wife and her girlfriend have taken the baby to the sea shore so for me it's afternoon breakfast coffee stereo as loud as it should be for Dylan right now right now right this very minute typing listening to Dylan thinking about the ninety degree and how to describe it thinking about Mary, Suli, Seani, Vicki, feeling stoned just from waking up from this open window, this cup of coffee yet I just can't cut it loose that something I need to write; all tangled up in flesh and blood tripping in the muck of the future and the past . What I want to say is now, what I want to write is here, what I'm going to do is...
What I'm going to do is take this cup of coffee out into the sun, then fish for the warrior trout or maybe dream away the day. Either way out among the treasures of the day maybe return able to write about lovers, children, wife, exposing myself a perversion of confessions smearing the pages stained by my passion, reveal naked masterbational expose of a man. Not simply selfish pleasure but revealing the mirror every person in this human race is, each facet of our existence a mirror to another. Razoring my own wrists the world feels sensation.
8 in the morning
Its eight o’clock in the morning just gave the baby his bottle. We are alone my wife out for breakfast with her friends and then has an appointment in town maybe coming home by noon but its eight o'clock coffee brewing a cool shadow full bloom summer morning glad my son woke me up to share it. I am intensely starving yet all I wait for is coffee before attempting to decide a breakfast. Still feeling dazed, this is the first time I’ve been up earlier than noon for a while now. The new landlord's son was here yesterday complete with a half a dozen task force local loony bin cleaning up around the house and grounds. Really weird vibes watching them do whatever they wanted to the yard.
But any way right now something very sweet just happened an old speckled black bird just landed on the window ledge right in front of my work table at first I though he was going to try and go right through the window visions of manglement death and destruction, but he knew what he was doing - just standing there cocked head peering at me before tap tap tap on the glass he was gone, standing up to catch a glimpse of him as he flew off I watch a brown copper criss cross snake draped along the white bone submerged branches just beside the bridge pylon give a slight turn ease into the current and mid way shoot off like a six foot charge of electricity sparkling down the river out of sight.
This morning cool tingly sitting here being hungry while my son sleeping jazz radio on lazy horn piano summer jazz the in season fruit the basic building block of a breakfast the summer maybe New York, Chicago, New Orleans, anywhere, summer flavoured jazzzz and I'm starving and I know the minuet I get up the baby will wake with his own list of demands and it's beautiful and somehow perfect that he should and it's the earliest summer morning I have had and it's so right that my son woke me up to it, so right this gift of summer from my son.
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