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
