Posts filed under ‘Apologia (a bad pun)’



having woken from some dream
of holding you, still
tasting your mouth’s imprint, clasp
recorded by warmed skin’s cooling, i
sit and shiver, waiting for dawn.


Yes, actually, that’s real.  Some partings are occasioned by necessity, and any bitterness (apart from deities and the like) directed not at self, not at her–not at life–no, the bitterness was the experience itself.  “No blame.”

January 1, 2019 at 2:03 pm Leave a comment



Your desk is scattered with fragments
of half-finished poems and ‘novels-in-progress,’
the burnt-out
butts of smoky days, you cough
almost constantly it seems

you have half-a-hundred letters
to a former lover you haven’t seen
in a year or two (you don’t quite remember, honestly,
how long

it’s been: once you could count
the days): scattered books
clutter your soul, your rooms:
but, though you’re occasionally

tempted to self-pity: still
loneliness is far more bearable
than having to bear
company (or so you tell yourself).

Still: at times, in ways,
it would be nice: to tie some knots, finish a poem or
novel or two:
to clear this endless clutter.


I wonder why I titled the folder for this (computer folder, inside a folder [etc.] used for organizational purposes)…self-betrayal.

October 23, 2017 at 2:58 pm Leave a comment

sudden wisdom

sudden wisdom

having thought, far too often
to love or know or understand
to name, to limit

confronted by the thought
of you, i’ve no response.


Very, very occasionally I think I approach what I mean.  But then that may well be sheer self-illusionment.


October 18, 2017 at 6:14 pm Leave a comment

Let the Buyer Beware

Let the Buyer Beware

Let the buyer beware.
It was in winter
that he met you, and
shyly touched you:
frost-whitened trees, and grass,
he gave you a stone,
a small flawed agate.
(“I look for them on the beach,”
he said.  “It gives me
something to do.”)
It was in spring, perhaps,
that he loved you, though
he never claimed it.
You took him
or he took you…
the definition troubled you,
at times.

It was in sered summer
that he left, still
saying nothing of love.
Weeds in the socks,
in the hose…and if
you could (somehow)
clean the heart, too?
Let the buyer beware.


To some extent ‘he’ is a portrait of me at a certain age; the selfishness portrayed is the vision lent by hindsight, whether wise or no.  Note that who the buyer might have been and what might have been bought are markedly absent.

October 31, 2016 at 1:31 am Leave a comment


on a rather sick day.  Internal bleeding can be felt in the latter stages.  I’ll be going to see a neurologist soon; he may decide to change my medications.  According to my last neurologist my next seizure will be it.  I died a few times in that hospital and I was being kept ‘alive’ for quite a while.


I shouldn’t have had a fit of anger and burst out at my father’s descendants because I didn’t understand what was going on.  There is also a growing sense of little time left.  I have a nearly finished hypothesis regarding language (as distinct from a representative system), society and social adaptation.  I left the establishment there because there was an ongoing attempt to put the vein of thought into preexistent theories, and because of the very nature of it.  I’m not going into what comprised years of thought nor even claim it was worthwhile except possibly to me.  I destroyed my notes, most of my poetry and most of my fictional work, in an ongoing fashion.


Sorry and I will be able to write more and more cheerfully later, some other day, whatever.  Right now I cannot.

August 1, 2016 at 5:16 pm Leave a comment