...Lovin' Me Some Grumpy Cat!

...All that Remains

Sept 13, 1957

Four plastic wheels

a metronome for things to come

casters echoing on stained grouted tile.

Out on the terrace

children’s rainbow clothed clown

balloons whipping, tokes Marlboro Lights.

I’m struck with thought

last time I saw you forty years ago

and now lazy cancer loiters within me;

my atonement for leaving our home.

( Jason 3/15/2013)

...Trinkets in the Laundry

I found this old poem from years back, and I feel that it explains a lot of things I was unable to correctly express to the person it focuses on. And now, looking back on it, I've come to realize that how we perceive the past is completely biased by how we thought of our own actions during the events that shaped it... and that just may be the key point to grow upon and, in turn, welcome happiness.

Absolution

I fully know this’ll be entirely uninvited,

feeling already the rolled eyes

and avoidance at the re-hashed

mention of something

you want no recollection of;

a relationship that was fleetingly

brief and realistically

fruitless...

except for a burden of guilt I still carry.

But like excavating a hazardous area without proper care,

I’m remorseful that when the balloon popped,

a melodramatic spotlight shone on

what should’ve simply been a

broken heart;

but instead,

illuminated my incoherence

and the forever regretful reaction…

of not just dealing with it.

You see, for me,

I’m still hopelessly compelled because

the romance and friendship really didn’t end,

if it even had to,

the way I needed it to;

without pointless poems or letters or phone calls,

my accoutrements for trying to find closure,

but instead cordially and truthfully…

face-to-face.

And now I’m left each relapsing day wanting to speak with you,

a final petition for absolution, because

my heart meant what it felt

but still I failed it

carelessly,

and honestly,

I just haven’t learned how

to forgive myself for doing that…

yet.

-Jason-

(April 18th)

...The Walking Dead

bombshelter

we huddle

against the chipped white
painted brick wall

of this basement;

my screaming infant daughter

and her sobbing erratic father.

warheads whizzing by us,

my flailing head, these

failing feet

coping with the Blitzkrieg.

when the doctor staggers

across this crowded waiting room

uttering the words,

“I’m sorry, but…”

And I know then

that you’re already gone.

Jason

2/27/2013

...Snowy commute makes the mind wander

At a Small Stone’s throw

it’s funny

the pebbles we find when we dig;

               as I uncover poetic verbiage

               that speaks with surprising familiarity,

               yet are not my words, nor are

words about me.

just makes me think
how snowy midwest boulevards once influenced my

            vocabulary for so many elastic moments,

            now with an exhaustive sigh of the way things really are;
old friends sadly far removed.

living day-to-day
with foreboding hindsight,
            I toss this small stone

            back to the gravel it came from,
longing still for fertile soil.

 -Jason-

1-31-2013