Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days


  • weather it is

    Time-treasured romanticism 
    of a soft summer rain; 
    stories told 
    again and again. 
    Gentle pitter-patter 
    against window glass
    like a teenaged lover. An invitation 
    to step outside
    when no one knows
    where will we go.
    Through the city, we walk on water
    across the cement. Mind the puddles.
    Soaked to the skin, 
    our spirits not dampened.
    Rain breaks the heat and
    maybe even the humidity.
    Whether it has,
    weather it is,
    for a time we forget where we are.
    We remember
    decades later.
    On a night like this
    with a rain like that.

  • who else will weep

    The angel at the table glares back across the clutter. Dirty dishes, 
    candy bar wrappers and tuna tins. Self-rolled cigarette smolders 
    on a side plate, the ashes of those before spilling over. Ignored.
    Kitchen bulb, harsh and bare, casts bearded shadows across 
    the squalor. Joni Mitchell crackles from the speakers — a record 
    once played for a daughter — offering only the slightest comfort 
    needed on a day like today. A day where she 
    could use a friend as much as a fix. Depression familiar 
    to women who’ve lost a child, a fortune fit for no one. 
    A decade has passed, but not the pain. 
    The philandering husband who chose to grieve in other ways, 
    salt in a wound that never heals. 
    Self-medicating. 
    First doctor prescribed, then vintage imbibed. Now whatever 
    is there, whatever it takes, whatever she can find. She can 
    ill afford to be picky. The dollar-store diet, fortified by 
    middle-of-the-night gas station cravings, her pallid skin and 
    coarse complexion more becoming of an anorexic, 
    or crack whore. 
    Years of low-wages, welfare, and tricks turned in-between. 
    Home is now a third-floor walk-up furnished with a bed, table,
    two chairs, a suitcase, and an old stereo. Nothing much. 
    Not even a photograph. 
    Inconsequential items pawned off, lost, or left behind. 
    Addictions, afflictions, and poverty can prune away all that 
    does not matter, and all that does not belong. Stagnant air 
    seasoned by sour milk and cigarettes, and bed sheets soiled 
    by the sweat of men who visit. It should never have been. 
    The angel has watched it all unfold. 
    Of course she cries, but only to herself. 
    Who else will weep?
    A random ambulance screams into the night, flashing lights 
    animate the roomful of nothing. Street-level shouts from 
    a crowd of drunks, the white noise of her dark days. Searching 
    for a vein between the scabs and bruises, lesions that mark 
    a dead-end journey, finding space at the elbow’s crease 
    next to the ripening furuncle. She ties off and with hinky hand 
    stabs the needle into a tiny patch of waiting flesh. 
    A fervent rush consumes her entire being. Staring back at 
    the angel’s emerald eyes, her vision goes from transparent 
    to translucent, and then, not at all. 
    The angel wistfully watches, 
    a scene played out countless times before, shakes her head, 
    rises to her feet and shuts the battered door.

  • unspoken

    after all has been said
    there remains far more to know

    space
    filled with
    merely breath

    a void

    vacancy requires attention

    it can hurt
    it can heal

    there is nothing more to say

    silence
    is a battle

    it can become comfort

    a path forward
    will move in either direction

    what guides you
    what haunts you
    shimmering light or silken shadows

    do you hear the unspoken

    forgiveness

    do you care to know details
    after all has been said

  • does it matter

    Does it feel this way for everyone?
    This darkness, this temptation, to look away, 
    to step away, from a silent fire.
    I have been burned.
    I am vulnerable.
    I am afraid of speaking out.
    I hold these heavy thoughts back from others (don’t they have their own concerns).
    What do I keep away from myself?
    Does it matter?
    Couldn’t I simply amuse myself
    with lighter thoughts, or gentle distractions – wouldn’t golf become
    a more useful game – where the object, intent, and goal is so simple?
    Who am I to think my purpose or intention is more important, or
    I am simply missing the point?
    I am hurting.
    Am I ignoring the hurt?
    My eyelids are heavy;
    is it from seeing too much, or is it from trying
    to keep them shut?

  • the difference

    Midnight arrives. No moon, new moon, clouds buffer the sky, 
    shifting moods, stars align. Where did the day go? Time stands still
    without the presence of people, and a sense of substance.

    Questions now. We carry into consciousness a dog-eared confusion 
    never hoped for. The longer it goes, the less you know. You want
    little more to ignore the impendent humidity of a Van Gogh night.

    Young hearts will find a way
    old souls still remain, 
    but where would you go 
    if you knew the difference?

    Deep breath. Full stop, amidst the barren dreams, night tremors, and 
    flashbacks casting dispersions on emotions and moments of repose. 
    Unsteadied in the innocence, unmoved by a prophecy unknown.

    Reach out. All, which you see, cannot always be felt. Confronted by 
    constraints of an ever-changing sky, a complete spectrum of wonder.
    All told, there are less reasons to know than less reasons to be.

    Young heart will find its way
    old soul knows the pain,
    now would you go there 
    if you knew the difference?