Remember


remember that one time? how long ago was it? probably too long ago to be vivid anymore. that’s how it goes. that’s how it went. maybe. memory is speculative at best. the past is always so long ago even if it was only recently past. and the vivid leaves as soon as the experience does.

so it’s a vague life living on a collection of incorrect coincidences being most inopportune at the time when time was without time for further consultation.

but something else is coming up anyway and who knows if it’ll be a major life event or if it’ll kill you but watch out for the updates. watch and try to make it vivid. add color where the future is bi-chromatic if able to be seen at all.
*
and when there was a loss for words what was really gone?

one time there was a chance to say something about that one time but the time has passed. the moment is dead, gone, buried in memories.

and when there was hell to pay, about how much did that cost? what currency was exchanged? what was the charge for? will the debt be carried over into the afterlife?
*
yesterday it was easy to assume the routine would be the same and it is so there’s that.

for better or worse is no better nor any worse than same old same old and the yeah yeah responses to be returned without so much as a concerned look attached to a face fast set to depart.
*
but then again there was that one time, you remember, that one time when it was within reach. when what was had wasn’t good enough and there wasn’t a reason to settle for less than what might be. you remember? it’s memorable even if it was only that one time.
*
took out a loan for another time. calculated and counted on hope but you wouldn’t cosign. maybe it was for the best. could be for the worst. who knows? what’s there to compare it to? what’s a comparison worth anyway?
*
who’s been more often read than whoever wrote home sweet home in latch-hook? and when there’s no place like home what does that mean for the rest of the world? oh, and to retreat a bit, the author of ‘welcome’ must have trillions of views by now standing on the stoop with salt on boots eager for a drink and some goddamn sympathy for once.

hell, life isn’t easy. take it from somebody who’s been out there and in here actually living almost every day for decades. living and remembering. remembering and trying to find something to focus on but always coming away from feeling sorry. feeling and then being. just once, can somebody else be sorry for a second? it’s been a series of apologies for longer than should be remembered but they always add form to the vagaries of yesterday. whenever that yesterday was without a shape to fill space but gaseous enough to make do. to make us feel full. to make us be full enough for the moment.
*
whatever words were said it’s up for debate now. watershed moments are lighthouses to avoid in the dark when those waves of other days come back. when a respite is not all it needs to be.
it’s what it was then it’ll be what it will be. what it’ll never be is what it is. to be current is to be a conversation. something a word might change.

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Strong in Memory


Ending does not find roots in soils of fear

 

Though leaves force winds

to guide

to such fields

 

Unrecovering from hail of seasons strong in memory.

How Long


How Long

How long does a memory last?

Not in terms of years moving toward Alzheimer’s

But the duration.

It’s shorter than experience

itself, right?

A second, minute, hour,

how quick

through the mind

does it travel,

grow from seed

to fallen petals?

Is there a start

at all?

Do the triggers

shoot straight to the middle?

To the in the midst of?

And are endings failed

before coda,

conclusion,

possibly climax too?

What if “there is no final victory nor total defeat?”                                                           (Adonis – Grave For NY)

Silence Remembers


Memory has touch
with hands hardened from sleep
feet blistered from dreams
tongues of stone behind welded lips
while cheeks give away
what is hidden within
and sit as rocky shores
for wrecks to wash up
onto
so in sharing each other’s feel
another experience
is collected
to press into sailors
who would reach
willingly for jagged cliffs.

There are chronicles compiled to dance with
whomever should come calling

there is an embrace dying
to hold
another’s volumes
a thousand songs or more to play
which will no longer hurt toes
as being stepped on is welcome again and again
a million notes or so
for fingers opening, wrapping,
and enclosing
new soft flesh
wanting an adventure
to think back to
when night is over
and walk home
begins
no conversation to come to
no talk then either
Silence remembers
and shares its struggles well.