Midnight Sitka

Again the truth of the jungle emerges; breath visible in the cold sundog of my aging.

Even a warm trip to the kitchen does not save me.

The light of the opening door blooms into the darkness my secrets hold.

I remember the first phlemic cough booming through the Midas treasure of my solitary room; which is silence.

The silence of snow undisturbed save a track of wolves to the side.

The frantic search begins anew; drawers slide wood on wood as failing eyes search for any shine

--A badge to compliment how far the journey, what I have become, who I am.

A medal perhaps proclaiming valor for wounds taken;

Some dusty trophy for the tears soaked into me from the ones who called for comfort long ago.

There is a path padded down the dust deviled hallway.

Another week the phone has hung mute in the noose of its' unplugged chord;

Unable to proclaim: no one has called.

Neglected now for years, my last guitar complains at my passing - - breaking strings in the cold - - accusing frigidity

It sits orphaned in the shadow of my clothes hanger easel, given away a year ago; as yet unclaimed.

There was nothing else to give.

There is no gold here. No letters of recommendation.

Only words stacked through journals and hard drives that will never be read.

Songs lingering to be passed on; tiny frameworks of resurrection dreaming now of a willing breath.

Second hand clothes bear witness to a mad allegiance to the tragic artist.

Forced forward beyond reason; chasing a self just out of reach, behind doors never breached.

This sunset seen is not of my painterly hand; - - So meek these muffled prayers for the moon.

Shaking heads award what I demand; a fate wasted loser shunned to their world.

A two painted medicine shirt covers my bathroom mirror; Life side out:

Without my face I am myself; not the old one you see fleeing through the store with my broken leg stick.

- -Recently startled by the shoulder touch of a yet compassionate physician

I cannot recall the last time I felt human flesh upon me.

In their eyes my course is set; Starlight far and away suggests a compass run steady into fog

Not knowing this oceans end as flat or round;

The glory of our ships so soon forgotten in the hungry horizon.

These words then remain/

Prisoner to a funeral cleanup, where the resigned and dutiful pack my work into closeted boxes.

Sweated hours of words filling every blank become lost in the next gracious move.

Such is the pull of unknown words.

This midnight strikes a line never so close.