Shadows in the house of lights



can be seen if you believe they are there. It’s the long traveled deep wheeled road that got me here.  Near darkness followed like a spell, and the outlined view was found                      the old house with yellow lit windows,flickering from inside. In town it’s told a Civil

War General lived here.          But never



came back. A reclusive daughter lived within for years then disappeared as

if she never really existed. The mother died suddenly decades ago. Only her name remains in the county clerk’s ledger of deaths.            Family cemetery lay a short walk behind the house as if a

breeze away.        I knocked on the door.



Climbed through a window.  Found my way to the cellar of connected rooms, connected doors. And then, a narrow tunnel of red brick,clay walls and downward  steps in the direction of

the cemetery.        I recoiled from the

unknown that laced a fear, some                            •.

how foreseen, hidden inside like a



force of personal history         like a self destructive sensation.                         I drove back to town.  Told what happened. They asked,  “did I see shadows without their bodies moving about?”  I replied, “only my own.”  They all answered with

a voice like a distant echo, “return to the house. You do not belong here. Hurry.”



I remembered  the house garden pond. Now dried, leaving gold bones of fishes. Leaving everything in a haze.
A Lost Man of Days and Weather



While walking home,        this man’s hat was blown off in dense wind. When he got home,                                    there it was, waiting for him on the front porch

in sure direction like a hole-in-one.



Inside, the wife said, “thinking always about history, some day you shall fall into it   like a kind of time-warped tunnel,               no return.”   He has supper, reviews the indigenous newspaper



as if written       like letters from Plato, watches old Western episodes on TV, drinks a highball with two cherries reminding him of         sunrise-sunset, goes to bed and dreams only in black



and white like starring in a silent era movie. Next morning he leaves for work.  But the hat again has vanished

on his way. The one with a flaming

flamingo feather looking like it once                        ..



belonged to Robin Hood.         From the office window, near dusk, he looks out and can hear a legion of Roman soldiers marching,    wishing to be with them. Then with a great passion           he asked



out loud, “why wasn’t I born in another century?”  His stream-of-consciousness is seen with           these types of series like reading chapters      in a long fictional novel.


The dead made you forget myself




that is, the person I never was, even so                  presently-

Not to be known, to be recalled. My value from point to point uttered  voices dying in spaces

of wind storms, sandy they travel,




in slight stillness still visible, greater.



We are layers, you and I like a passing generation,        now       then–

Keepers you kept the moving so alive. Above, below,                             the same geography is of stone, bronze, paper, plastic and

icon like steel,       soft as white linen.



Then you settled matters quicky by

exclusion, oblivion and dreary as if

the world be it       strange. I am                             ..

unfamiliarly-blue  among others like a stark sky, flat unto itself and the grave,

deepen weekly.



Turquoise, the necklace taken from your bedroom  follows

like every romantic dream. Dreaming

yourself that is thin, beside the window view, you standing there,                       I shall actually                   touch such thoughts.

32″d and Pearl Avenue



The city is on fire again tonight.  By way of neons, shops, outdoor  cafes, colorful collisions                 and conversations between young adults. Blazing their diligent ideas and diversity. They have blueberry

muffins, red wine, coffee, Mexican



foods that melt heavenly while their fixed cerebraIs twist about. To an older generation this display is redundant.  You never see them here in twilight  hours. But among

the landscapes of voices and visions

the fair and fresh        search


for ageless answers        to endless                        •.

questions like so mal’)y cups of poured hot tea. Then a somebody one morning at the office asked, “have you heard yet?                                 The Flat Earth Society lost another member

last night.”


Time line of a paradoxical life



The Titanic goes down.

The Carpathia  rescues survivors.




The Carpathia goes down.

57 survivors, one is Frank Buckles.




Buckles became a Japanese POW, civilian internee.




Frank Buckles meets President

George W. Bush.                                                    •.




Frank Buckles dies as last American

WW1veteran, age, 110.

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