Everyday on the train, in the mornings mostly, I write ...
without a pen or paper I sit here tonight
and my journal has no more paper.

I'll gaze out the winter's night softly bedded white
and wonder if I can place my fears aside
what can I do without my trusted friend.

The mornings are lightening, blue pink glow,
the moon tall and imperious her stately
back retreating leaves this room while dawn
peers around the new days soft curtains.

How we would love to be wrapped in
the sleepy blue salmon of a winter's morn.

We will trudge through the day
remembering the cozy, the mmmmmmmmhhuugugh
stretch, the first sip of the hot cup of tea
and shower spray steaming.

We will slip behind the world and walk
in half-light the living dead living in the
in between time, morning's twilight, half life
of time.  From the moment I leave the heat
of our shared covers to the instant I arrive
back in your arms I loose a little life even
the sun can't replace.

Seven days of falling
Monday is a Saturday schedule
a Holiday will suspend us there.
I still hear that 4:8 beat
chords progressing upward
and I'm still falling, falling,
          falling.

And now I'm rolling, gliding
Tuesday is moved off of center
a late start will keep us there.
There's no escaping the notes
the sound building louder
and I'm still falling, falling,
          falling.

<<Sometimes it doesn't need to make sense, does it?>>

A random juxtapose of words,
dispatches from the cube - ICE
coming up ICE, shoo - push out
overwrought and underdone the steam
rising from the morning septic leak
gives Buffalo rise to my clubbing memory.

The Sun still tinges the top
of the landfill creeping over mound.

The weight of shoes presses down
on me discussing carry weights,
clothing discounts.

Rail spurs still pass through parking
lots- a locomotive stole my spot - stay
between the lines.  Ten of, ten of
Winchester's steeple - white in the
soft morning light marks
me as I pass.  How sighs the coffee?

The dogs are walking,
the dogs are walking.

The evening commute
greetings are goodbyes.

We are all going
             home.

All that is left to do is to count
the stops;
    West Medford,
    Wedgemere,
    Winchester,
    Anderson,
    Willmington,
    North Billerica and Lowell.

The train pulls in to the station,
my car I'll remotely start,
out of the parking lot I'll start,
my way home I'll start,
but there are more stops;
    the card shop,
    the grocery store,
    the post office
and the last should
bring me to you.

But not tonight,
work has whisked
you away out of reach. 

Tonight I'll hug
my pillow the one
stop I can't make
is reaching for you.

A light snow, a soft blanket
Morning becloud my sights veil
damped sounds a quiet joy.

Yet the dogs chase their hidden scents,
noses plowing their fields,
my daydream warms,
my coffee cools a
smile escapes from my lids.

Your kitchen at dawn as seen from my train window
invites me in to turn up the lights and make a pot
I'll pour into a cup, wrap my hands around and
while it steams I'll read the paper by only
looking at the type until you come down the stairs. 
My seat locomotives on and steely I sit backwards
looking at where I've been.  Even
before I've had 
a chance to remark how nice your faux painting
is and see you wearing a smile, a blue bathrobe
and your fuzzy pink slippers I'm in the next kitchen
having passed through your back yard,
gliding over the pool around the Azalea.

What kind of circulatory system am I in?  Being,
composed of and containing one myself.  I can only
imagine the world - it's organisms, the Milky Way,
Orion Cloud and the uncountable stars in the universe
circulating life's cosmic blood, taking forever to reach the
heart of it.  And if I took a stethoscope to the
universe, warming it first between the Sun and the
heart of Jupiter, would I hear the thrum and bump
of all life or just the icy pull of your black hole
pulling me in by my ears?

Numerologists should play Sudoku;
they could then forever argu the meaning of the non-sequenced set of
one through nine in a 9x9 grid with 3x3 boxes inscribed within it.

When does your inner voice change? 

So called consciousness, that inner dialogue; when does it change to some other ideal?

The Spader voice; the droll self-righteous 'I AM better than you
because, after all, I AM right" and smarter and indignant, and God damn
it if he isn't!!!

When do we switch to that voice?

Never mind the disturbing notion that the internal dialogue held with
ourselves is Our self, our only clue we have an intelligence, a free
will.  And never mind Descartes who only wanted to know; How do we know if
we are or are not being deluded?  And what then if this delusional
repartee takes on a sit-com character's voice?  As I am doing now?

Get out of my head Spader!

Well at least it's not Elmer Fudd (you waskely weeders you)