1.

The cat is lying, gazing endlessly in wait for the arrival of Billy the Kid, so she may sit and stare upon that forbidden lake of her dreams. Poor thing, she is charming at this time of the night, during the day she is such a puss, but when the sun has fallen it’s a though she puts upon her dress waiting for the pumpkin to carry her away. I have tried to write but I simply cannot, though I feel within the churning, the stirring sensation of worlds and words; I can make sense of none of it, only the image I have of a woman named Belina with whom Barabbas would travel the world endlessly so that he may feel the warmth of her soft caress. Is it that I am indeed Mr. Barabbas Little? Surely I am not, but if you were Belina would you not, and with one swift glance, steal the breath of those whose eyes met with yours? I wonder, yet it is of that hour when wonder flourishes openly, kisses all that it touches, charms those who in the vigil of a summer night have waited eagerly for her arrival. And it is no small consequence that I have these fleeting thoughts, curled upon the divan, the pen, the paper, writing while my little green machine sleeps, for it is clear that the good thoughts I had this evening were meant for you.

 2.

As a sailor is to the sea-

She whose anger has never been enough to settle those who endlessly long to be held within her endless midnight arms.

But a thought…

Let us live upon the rooftops, with the chimneys we sill smoke stacks of burnt gold, that we may rise and greet the morning with she who gives life to all. And so begins the story of two who have loved, whose brothers were the clouds, whose sisters the stars.

3.

I used to dream of the days when at night I would write you and in the early morning sunlight that which I had finished was yours, left to be found as you awoke to approach the day. I am sorry I have not done more of that which I had so often thought of. I have pulled the wooden chair from outside because it feels correct for the moment, that, and I have tried, is one of the most difficult things out of all there is to put into words, simply, it feels right to sit upon that which matches my humble escritoire.

4.

Tonight I blow kisses to the stars, cold and sitting- insular clouds pass like cars and I wonder who else could be sitting, mystified at the subtle beauty the night has freely given us, cold, yes, but soon I have forgotten and the memory of you walking, approaching gracefully, and I see you in the distance, the hood of your red overcoat drawn and you are more beautiful than that which I have words for; your face finely chiseled beneath the shadow cast from the wheezing moon- it was raining, the moon coughing.  As of late have you said that it is beauty which moves, something beautiful rather than that which is modern? Until time takes me from you, always will that image rest within my heart… I am writing tonight! Yes my little lion, and you are sleeping; your dreams are that which in the morning paint vibrantly the wearisome thought of an old cynic such as I am, old and grey, a little more in the morning-

Parez-vous, dansez, reiz. Je ne pourrai jamais en-voyer l’Amour par la fentre.

5.

Strange running into you the way that I did; strange is all and everything! The blueprint of the cosmos freshly drawn each new morn before the valance of night is parted and the sun again lifts its golden eyelids. Alas! I am awake and you are once again within my reach. Makes you wonder, no? And still do I look to you and feel that which I have always felt; joy, wonder, that which has and still draws me towards you. Time has changed me, maybe you saw that, or maybe my incessant charm for once affected a rather positive outcome, but dear was I nervous before you had arrived the other day and thankfully it has passed. I have been carrying you around in my thoughts, anxious to see you again, and what that means I have not a clue, nor am I concerned, simply, I am happy, blessed by the warmth with which a woman can give to a man just with a smile.

6.

It is nighttime, I am writing…

-Her hair falls like water from a broken piano, as her mellifluous tresses blanket her raindrop shoulder, as milk in the morning, the sound of bowls, trees falling; I am drowning, dreaming.

-I wonder at the armpit, dishes, she says nothing and then interstice, silence lathered like a convalescents limb.

… I said to myself that our social existence, like our artists-

7.

I feel such as I am, my age… Leave everything echoes within as a flickering candle, my thoughts the wind. I see within you that which is good, within others, not so much. I reproach myself tonight for not being more selfless, more giving, for always could I be doing more. The three of you tonight standing formed quite a strange little menagerie, delicate, dainty- I am reminded of myself at 24, quite possibly it is why I feel as such… I love you in all the different forms with which you appear before me. Some days with such grace, some, of course without, yet it would be most unsettling if you were not to stumble from time to time, if I were not to notice a slight change in your womanly stride, regardless, I love the way that you walk. We are at moments are own individual galaxy, sustaining, floating, incalculable, and the distance between one another, at these very moments is unfathomable, just as the galaxy itself, twirling I imagine in a pirouette upon the littered cosmic floor, and then to bed, and then the song… would you like a cup of coffee? Weeks ago did I write this…

8.

I am sorry if as of late that man I sometimes think myself to be has been but asleep- In his absence there arrives a foolish little boy who knows of love only as a bemusing, fragrant, subtle draft from which when he rises to follow he finds that he is lost amidst the shimmering, glittering, modern world. If only our doubt was but a cloud of smoke and with a breath I could blow it out the window, singing ‘Lets us be the forks which feed one another, turned over, savored by tongue!’ And the man dispels the boy who becomes a man who is always chasing the shadows of his youth. Life is funny, like the expression upon her face tonight, upon entering, the wheels set into incessant motion, plans wheeling along, for the night which had not yet begun. Silly that one- at 24 I was pulling down stars and bathing in the showering golden flakes of their bursting hearts, asking, asking everyone, “But have you seen my watch?” And once found, one wishes that forever had it been lost.

I love you, I am, your big white buffalo.

9.

Sleep is sleeping somewhere and I have looked but cannot find her, wondering if you have taken her and the moon and the stars and the heat from this little room.

For it is cold and then the vent blowing kisses, I simply cannot catch, so I’ll pull at my hair and wait for the shower to whisper in the distance of the warmth which it has to offer.

And all the pearls and puddles and the midst which the walls are unable to swallow, rather, I open the door to avoid that of a room swollen, to prefer for the moment which  I was trying to avoid.

Funny how fickle we are in regards to all things matutinal, yet always unknowingly know the end ending, always the same…

10.

I phoned this morning to be relieved of my duties, to spend the day playing house; to make that which was yours, ours.  The rest we can do together, breaking only to make love in the bedroom. It was quite a now and then, father groaning about the stairs, parking, another flight and, ‘yes father I am sorry I will worry about the rest.’ Little fat man folds his arms and grunts or shakes his head; his hands in the air like semaphores to the good lord, that whoever was responsible for the stairs, for children, for children who live in buildings afforded only with a staircase. Silly man I know he loves but only through his frustration does he- love is love is love is a fat man sweating up a flight of steps, each step muttering.  Goodnight father and please find out about mother, please and don’t forget. I often wonder if I saw the world as he does, to take stock in something, believe what I was saying, to see meaning, purpose, where I do not. I scratch my head. But is there time enough in this life or the next, to understand the goings on of human thought, or my mother, an enigma to those which she bore and to father, who had never imagined life, inflorescent, vibrant with possibility, often from that which was once thought to be impossible, ah life and Europe, circa 1950 says the wall…

11.

Two kids pass on the right and as I slowly drive by he reaches over and grabs her, laughs, she laughs, and in the passing headlights their smiles flicker. I smile. We, all of us, are cowards before a smile. To think of all the days behind you on your stairs, sliding my hand between your thighs, upon my face a smile.

Strindberg- ‘I love you as the sun loves the dew, to drink it.’

Never have I been so taken by a woman; your beauty is beyond me, beyond what I have words for. Even your skin bemuses me. I become lost within your skin…..

Cat sits and she stares and I am jealous of----

I wonder sometimes if they all have written you love letters.

12.

I am gazing, smiling at the picture you have given me which as you know sits atop my desk which as of late has been quite forgotten, but tonight, as in your picture, like you, it is glowing as I write for you alone, waiting for dawn to lift her heavy lids. I have not, as you so often asked, finished Moby Dick; tonight I swam upon the glittering shores of master Frances’ graceful prose which like a smoke ring lingers, yet as it dissipates something invisible to the eye remains within my heart of hearts. It pains me to leave you, always; if I must I would rather always return to something which we may call our own.

13.

December seems ages away and maybe we should think about August, September, however I want what you want, always-all ways! - The humor in that which during the day is dry and boring, to finish that which you have begun – I admire you but I am still a boy sometimes; that which takes you from me is that which for the moment robs me of all reason- still am I a child and because of this I am sorry, only did I want to spend time with you during the hours which normally separate us. When I look at you I see the girl in this picture and the boy in me wants to chase you and spit in your ear and pinch your bottom. Your smile is reminiscent of youth. Of your youth. It is the source from which much of your beauty stems and with one single gesture you take for the moment that which endlessly I worry over- I am calmed, happy, in love, love, love…

14.

The night pales like a sad pup as the apparition of your all encompassing smile glitters in the absence of a pocked moon- the shades are drawn; the lights bring to life that which for many others at this moment is lifeless, sleeping- but I am too awake and too bright eyed to enjoy a pillow without the gently crashing waves crashing atop my neck and cheek; your ocean like hair without sand; a beach endless and all the joy, the joy of joy is joy! Only have we seen a snippet of the better days which lie ahead. Days will always be better if you want them to be, the day is yours is more than just a day and the choir teacher I had as a boy would smoke chalk, see, I am smoking, not chalk but who is to say that when we run out of tobacco leaves we might find chalk dust more interesting, a brand called ‘clouds’-cigarettes of the gods- and goddamned white children for everyone. Making love this morning I felt like candles melting.

I am kissing you like ships sinking….

15.

It is Friday and you are working. Cat asks, ‘why is she working?’ Why are you working? I tell her it is your love for the finer things in this world which impel you to do such, she asks, ‘such as?’ And I grin like the horizon and chase her into the next room. This weather is something else, no? To wit, darling, sweet as apples, like a woman it is rather fickle, what with all the back and forth, whereas last night, sweat beads like water atop a glass beneath the sun, makes it impossible to enjoy a good nights rest, yet as of now, it is cold and the trees bend as I look out of my window at the big big world, the wind sweeping in and out of the house like fabric on little old highland avenue. The coffee pot hisses, the sibilant water flowing to warm the stomach, the other, my humble little abode, the city of books! As master France so says, ‘with the air of a man who understands the humor, more often than not, of ones own station in this life, and is able, whole heartedly to laugh of his own account.’ I am wondering if tonight I will be able to pinch your soft hips and smile, warmly as clouds of your laughter fill the room..

I hear the sound of birds chirping and it’s the sound of an old church bell ringing. I yawn. And again as a boy walking with my mother into church as we used to do on so many Sundays, the ennui; literally she had to drag me like a resilient pup into church

16.

I have been reading Moby D. and the window is open, cigarette- poor Cat loves to have the window lifted, sits in wonder at the sounds of the world creeping in. I say, ‘Cat, really, you are missing nothing!’ And if I myself am mistaken, and if to miss something…sorry and I feel rather pensive this evening and what woman, sensible as she may be, would so desire to have such a pensive man; I cannot escape that which I am subject to, feelings like tethers, the sun and work awaits as always there is work to be done.

Spanish music plays and what are words, lips- I have a tongue but like most things, the two which are seemingly useless without one another are also useless together.

Still I understand the sadness of harmony.

17.

There are nights my little lion when the day pales in insignificance, crumbles, and I am free to create, alone, worlds which will never see the morning sun. My imagination, my heart glowing, and for once I fell free. It is that, and only that, which is truly my own. We have nights, oh so many nights! Days, morning which are waiting for us with eggs, bacon- I smile at the thought, imagine how you curl your toes beneath me; you have that which I dream of. Time is the most delicate of all that is alive.

The snow falls lazily, glows; the buildings become a mere backdrop, softened, disappear amidst the white sky falling.

Yesterday morning it was the thought of the smile formed upon your face upon finding the note which I had set out.

As the night dons it’s hat and the sun lifts its sleepy head, I am yours again, over and over and then coffee and a kiss and a door quietly closes…

18.

I have taken quite a liking to the emerald green divan; I lie upon her immemorial folds some mornings tending to that which weighs upon me, this and many other things, to shift, fold, expand-

To make manageable that which we are powerless beneath the weight of.

I am beset by indifference- why brood over such a brooding land.

19.

It is maddening… tonight, out of silence, I seek to find my voice, to say what I had kept beneath my tongue, to speak of the ghosts which I am sure are now sleeping, to imagine to have said! Yet if only for myself! What insanity, or if, even to draw some conclusion, to better understand that which but hours prior swelled within, I scribble and mutter saying alas! And my eyelids fold over. I say, but just one more, and my arms are lazy, limp, my legs cold, buried beneath a somber blanket, my toes finding company in one another…

20.

Always is it from a place of love that I write you- some mornings you are insufferable, as am I; a knot in your beautiful head of hair- always am I trying to have the patience which sometime escapes me, to change that which inside of me at moments I have no control over, habit mainly, and that which as a child I knew growing, always reminding myself to never becomes that which my mother and father-

Their love for us children unparallel, their love for each other distant, moments-

I remember seeing a glint within their eyes of that initial spark; their love for one another, silent, without the words I fear to fully express the way they felt; only silence and then it is over. And I am growing all the while reminding, living within a perpetual conversation within, telling myself, asking, and so many nevers.

I feel I have not entirely failed that boy I once was, that to some extant I have fulfilled those wishes, but the mornings we spend distant in a row, remind me of all the mutterings and uttering’s I made while I listened to father and mother as the sun was coming up.

I too dreaded the waking hour.

Our lives spent endlessly in our heads, telling, asserting, convinced, and then becoming the opposite- I never want to live in silence.

21.

It is never the case that I want to leave you alone while you sleep. There are moments when my thoughts afford me no rest and upon seeing you, snug within dream, I often sometimes forget to disturb you. Such is the effect you have upon me when through the curtain the moon subtly laid upon you the soft glow of its nighttime charm…

22.

So much to say before the suns comes up…

Walking to the station around the corner, dear it is late, and I remember when you and I had done the same at the start. Your beauty bemused me; for the very first time I saw you beautiful, or what I had imagined beauty to be, and there you are, standing, then walking in the cold. Still everyday day do I look upon u and see that which I long to share with the world…

23.

For the longest time I swore off the making of acquaintances; the talking, the strangers-

‘I have no need for that, I have no need at all’

But I doubt myself sometimes and as much as I think that it is you and I and drown the world while we stand outside of it; I cannot- I feel human when I talk-

History as the unfinished painting with which the artist chooses to set aside-he waits. The moment when he may return to something which had already been started.

Or despite the effort, the time and all the paint, that which was life for but a moment is destroyed.