Dedicated to R

it came to this

cold poem

enormous door

an unprepared entrance

but that’s more toward the ending

 

story within a story

over the years

he acknowledges the crash

living amongst

the fatal debris of it

every day

year upon year

ever thinking fondly of her

holding her in remembrance

one hand to the ink

the other to his smashed heart

he wasn’t there when it happened

 

his survival

long story

from tall glass

tipped carefully into short coffee mugs

offered in short pieces

to friends who care

 

custom-designed nursery rhyme

cow jumps

to the top of the moon

sews it up

with darning needle

while little dog works feverishly

with crowbar

(his alter ego, perhaps)

trying to be helpful

trying to release the novel

within its orange glow

to no avail

you must try again

you must try harder

says the little dog

 

he’d already written it, you see

a novel in some level of completion

two known copies of it

one sent to a friend

who died last year

the disc

unable to be recovered

the other

never to be found

may have been lost

in the

burglary of his house

a few summers back

 

his life, cycling without a bike

depression

loss

mania

rapid cycling

no money

natural remedies

hours pass, our chatting continues

i was raped of all that I had

or thought that I had

he says

from a very young age

i somehow knew

I was destined

to be a wanderer

 

hours pass by

 

I met a woman in the nineties

a very curious meeting

something about her

seemed familiar

something about you

seems familiar

 

hours pass

 

sorry

i fell out for a few hours this morning

it was so necessary

and a very good thing

i’ve decided to recall the novel

post it in parts

piece by piece on a blog

as I was saying

wait, hold on

someone’s in the house

some dumb ass is

trying to jimmy the door

i hate this neighborhood

just a minute

 

hours pass

days pass

 

sorry for my absence

i have to go away for a while

shouldn’t be long

thirty days, maybe

read dharma bums by jack kerouac

 

i never knew him for long, but still i think of him

lock-up, probation, fog, standing at the precipice…

cold blanket

cold dreams

cold cigarettes

cold reality

you thought it would be 30 days

it’s been 3 ½ years

you’ve abandoned blogs and no new online entries

wherever you are

remember the gentle

zephyrs of spring

you’re a fine writer

jack kerouac pales in your performance

don’t give up hope

by mary ann blinkhorn

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