Snow Falls

Snow falls
And the children run to meet you
Where the street bends,
The hill binds,
And the houses shovel their drives.

Maybe in a year or two
I'll know better than now what to do.

The beat still goes on
And the mail still finds the box.
The cat still curiously sways
And the foxhole still holds the fox.

Up until now I have looked at my life whole
Finding myself in an awkward anticipation
As to what I should or should not be doing
In my actions and destinations;
However I have come to know this road
So paved in struggle and strife and now
I see that it is only a simple question
Of whether or not I choose to face my own life.

Snow falls,
The winter chills,
It locks me in my own mind.
It binds, it breaks,
It blows with the wind
That blows us through our time.
In the winter months we are stuck in doors
To reflect ourselves all the more.
As the snow keeps falling
The future is calling
And the wind moves me more and more,
And more and more.

Some Photographs

Photographs...

Are Good Times....

Unfortunately I haven't had time to take pictures in a long time.

It's Just Me Again, Tellin' Myself Away.

I turn that glow down in the back of the room,
For effect;
Maybe just to reflect on some stuff, you know.

Do you feel that cold night air creepin' through
The tall buildings,
The river banks,
The alleyways and high up windows?
That wind is a lonely wind,
Like us all,
A little bit.
Take a lover, why don't you.
It's winter now, and anyway there ain't much else to do...
I wish I could take a lover;
I just spend my nights in taps and raps
Against the surface of this here old desk,
Thinking of needing for wanting's releasing of me.
I shut out the lights but they come back on,
This time inside me.
They don't let me get a wink, these days.
Most men feel guilty as they age.
Guilty for the things they did,
They do,
They never did
And wanted to.
Stuck in bed and sick with sorrow,
Seeing the sparrows fly tomorrow,
Feeling jealous, trapped,
Just tapping, just rapping on the table again,
Or the starving dreams inside my head,
Inside our heads is the saddest thing
In this big bright world.
One day we're all gonna fly away like sparrows;
Shed that ground and shake that sorrow.
Until then, Miles Davis, help me out;
Give me a reason to go and walk outside
And watch the cars go by without feeling empty.

The Mother of Invention

In the midst of my contemplations,
Musing here in front of the screen,
Hazelnut-flavored pipe tobacco calls out to me
And shouts, "Give us a try! Give us a try!"

"But why?" I softly say,
Leaning forward to reply.
"It is your duty, we're cheering you on,"
They say to me, so I decide to abide.

In the midst of my pipe smoking pleasure,
Musing there on the porch outside,
The shining moon smiles down upon my face
And says to me, "from my light there is nowhere to hide."

"You may be on to something, clever moon,"
I say back as the tides churn elsewhere
From his great gravitational swoon
That climbs through the gaseous earth's atmosphere.

Just then I awoke, my forehead stuck
To the little black keyboard keys.
Just my luck to be falling asleep
At the mercy of The Mother's means;

Oftener than not I stare too long
At the soft, white, glowing screen.
Next time around it's caffeine for prevention
From the slack and slumber
Towards The Mother Of Invention.

While You Were Sleeping

Do you want to know what my very favorite sound is? It's the sound of a good, worn in coffee maker as it starts out in the morning while outside it's still dark and only a faint bit of light lets through the otherwise black horizon.

I love that sound.

Today I awoke as usual, around 6:20am, refreshed and rested from decent sleep for once in my life, got some granola and juice, took the vitamin, threw on the clothes, and headed for work. When I got there, I saw one of my co-workers pulling in. "Ah, shit. I forgot didn't I?" I say to him, as he laughs and says, "I thought you wanted to sleep in?" I switched with him. I forgot that I wasn't supposed to come in until 10am. Son. Of. A. Bitch. Because now that I think about it, sleeping in would have been real nice. A little more dreaming. A little more time between the covers, soft and full of a warmth that seems to come only from a whole night's worth of drapery over warm bodies. So I returned home, where I am now, listening to the coffee brew and soft music slowly wake me up while I decide what it is I should be doing with my newfound free morning this Monday.

Old Flames Never Pay Because We Never Write The Check

This one goes out to all the would-be's,
Hopefuls, longed and lost.
I could have had you, you know,
But I let it go.
One word,
One series of perfect prose
Is how it goes,
And we both know it shouldn't be so.
You need to be needed,
You want to be wanted.
But I let you down easy,
So much so
That you did not know.
One series of prose
To cut through the cold steel walls
Of your twisted, harsh hearts
Would be just enough;
Still if its not real
I'd rather fold than bluff.
I don't gamble with strangers
And you should know better,
But alas it had ended
And the air is now deader
Since I have been gone.
Infact you did know better;
You knew me all along,
And my same old song
That just spins and repeats
While I want what is wrong.
But beauty never strays,
It sticks and tricks, and man it stays,
And to this day I look upon you,
To wonder why I drifted away.
But then I know,
Oh how I know,
And it is so
Just like the snow.
Falling down,
Catching up to us in strides.
For those longed and lost
A half-hearted love that never dies,
Stuck in my mouth
While the truth's in my eyes.

From Summertime Of Someone Fine and Fair

somethings for someone

Dark is the path,
But I see the lights
In the whites of your eyes.
Our steps echo into
The misshaped tangles
Of the nighttime.
The cool summer air,
Lightly touches my fingers,
Or was it your hand I felt?
Winding round the bend
I see nothing save patches
Of moonlight and fireflies
They slip and dive
And disappear before my eyes
But we press on through the darkness.
We came upon a few strange clearings,
Then I saw the child in you
Run away into them, disappearing
I looked up once you leapt,
And found a star peering through to me
Then I looked down and you were there
Beside me walking patiently.
We talked of many things,
And many things are worth the talk
Still I remain upon this walk
And recollect your casual ways
As if with you the tree softly sways
And not the other way around.

I,

Think I,

Think you,

Should jump...


Maybe its

Not right right now,

Maybe you

Are scared and sad,

Maybe I

Am full of shit;

Optimism

Is the thing

The thing so good

When mixed with love

Or some good stuff

That tastes so good,

Like that.

Hey,

I don't know if

I am ready,

But I like the jump,

I need the jump,

I crave it like a craze

I just can't shake sometimes.

I'm going to dry you off,

Set the car for cruise control

And beam us straight into the sun;

Where we'll be happy

Away from everything,

And everyone.

Take a good look...

Go ahead and try me.

Letter To A Friend

The Daily Routine:
I wake up sore,(like in a 1950's movie, referring to being angry) and saturated with new and different levels of exhaustion due to the fact that I can never go to sleep at the proper hour, because I'm usually doing something mediocre with someone mediocre, sitting around talking about how everything is seemingly mediocre in this mediocre town. I know, I know, doesn't that all sound so cynical? Well, it's just about the only way I get to telling a story. Anyways, after the wake-up routine I get to my mediocre job and resume my quiet life of desperation. The day drags on for eight hours, containing nothing spectacular, just a few cigarettes here or there, some carts of course, moving out, then in, then out, casual glances to and from attractive women, but it's obvious enough in their eyes when they look back; "he's cute, but he pushes carts, that's too bad." It's like a slap in the face; maybe one of them will wake me up from my silly existence in this corporate copulation of low prices and bulk buying. At any rate, the day finally ends, I go home, and drink a pot of coffee while listening to Sly and the Family Stone, half-wishing I had a joint or something to kill the day properly. That's the daily routine, to sum it up.

And Then Some...
You know what I really want? I want, when I die, to be given a book. Not just any book, mind you; a giant book containing every thought I ever thought, every word I ever uttered, alone or with others, every facial expression, fuck-up, embarassment, and so forth. I just want to re-read my life and figure some things out. That would be, as they say, "a trip." Nevertheless, it is January 17th of 2007 and I am exactly where I am: 22 and still perplexed, restless, helpless, pissed, determined, angry, longing, ready, and a little hopeful, with just a smudge of wisdom through the little bit of past experience underneath my belt. I keep telling myself, "hey, you're young, you've got virtually no attachments, why don't you just do what you want?" And I will... eventually. It's that whole taking a chance bit, I guess. Now that I've tried it once it seems silly to do again when I know if it fails I will be set back a year or two more than I already am. Feeling how I do personally, that little year or two in my life is something I would rather not lose, even if it was a great time. Of course, when you dare to live there are no right or wrongs obvious enough to see, only the comet-tail of a chance to catch something that catches your eye in the passing.

All the same, it's mostly just winter. Winter makes everything louder inside. The snow deadens the echoes and muffles the backround so you mostly just hear your own thoughts bouncing off the walls around you. Then there are the holidays, of course. Only for children are they truly enjoyed and simplified; I come to dread them these days. You forget about the passing year until it passes and then you see how you passed with it by thinking of the last time you noticed these things and then you wonder why you feel a failure. I could say I've failed many a thing in my life but the truth is that is almost just what I enjoy the most about it. You can't fail if you don't try, and I've tried enough things to feel the real pangs of failure, which consequently diminish with every new encounter.

B--- say's I'm very hot/cold. This is one of the few things she and I agree on. The rest of the time we argue about religious theorums and philosophical questions regarding the existence of God. Then there is the usual bickering about nothings that only seem to occur between a boy and a girl. Then I wonder if I really screwed up alot of things with the few good women in my life, and also what will happen with the next one, and why there hasn't been one in a very long time. I generally believe its me. Instead of killing my relationships, I kill the chance. I don't much doubt this conclusion, only I often wonder why it is so. I expect that somewhere in me something is saying how I am too reckless and unstable to bother about a lady and I need not waste someone's time anyhow. The thing about life is that it is nothing like the movies. I know that that doesn't really sound like something a rational person would come to conclusively but as for me I used to think and hope it was- at least a little bit. But there never is that part where you meet the girl under perfect terms, or you go on that wild adventure where nothing leaves you scarred and it all ends up ok. And the work of living is sometimes awfully tiresome, lonely, and seemingly pointless.

I guess I'm just writing to share with you the general things on my mind and how it is for me these days. The fact that we're not around each other anymore leaves me to wonder how a fellow writer is doing. All things are made clear in the end but the end never gets here, and that is supposed to be the good part about life. It is, I think, but never quite understood in the direct sense of perspective. The best thing we can do is make a plan and stick to it, come hell or high water. Well, the motherfucking water is frozen on the streets tonight and I keep moving but I'm slipping enough so that I feel as if going further is going in vain.

Do tell me how things are for you since last we spoke. Tell me what you're writing, whats been going on locally, aspirations, disciplines, confusions, directions, happiness and sadness. Anything at all, from one dear friend to another. It is in the earliest morning hours when we lift our heads, expecting to see a vision of clarity, however only finding the faint glow of the lights from outside the window, and the birth of a new day full of the same old offerings.

PS
Disregard the overall depressive tone of which this is written; I am not truly depressed, only that is how I write. I know you probably know this but all the same I'm not about to jump off the bridge; merely throw a few rocks in my frustration.

-Charlie

Bedtime Stories: A Brief Introduction

*Tiny living soldiers stand guard every single night when the lamp goes out and the wishy-washy moonbeam glides through the window pane. Mother and father and baby abed, to rest their heads and wait for dreams to smother, as the bother of busy banter collides in quiet canter around the toilet’s edge. Deep in the heart of the green shag carpet our heroes huddle ‘round the bubble-gum puddle and strategize the plight for the night. Snipers in the air vents, seals in the drain. Repellers on the windowsill and spotters on the clothing hill.

“Double time boys!,”

The sergent informs as the swarms of green soldiers make way to their posts.



Tonight we’ve a special subject to invite you to reflect,

SO PLEASE COME ALONG AND FOLLOW

AS WE'RE CAREFUL TO SELECT:

A HOMEBORN HERO

From the cupboard where the rest of the brave are gathered

And introduce for you a night in the life of the little soldier’s strife.

OUR SCENE IS SET IN THE BATHROOM'S BOWELS,
In the heart of night at a very late hour,


And our brave little lad is feeling sad…

Sgt. McNarles, first name Charles, stands guard at the medicine cabinet and things are getting desperate. "It's just the right night for a midnight fight over pharmaceutical delights," he spouts as the soldiers shout out the roll call in the mess hall behind the bathroom stall. Tiny soldiers, all conformed to the everydays and nights of the big, savvy people and their enormous fight against nose hair and gingivitis, make of themselves simple, sorted systems of symbiotic strife. The cat is fond of them; they lose a lad nearly every month, but the cat is glad, with a belly full of miniaturized green beret. So the motto goes, "wherever there's a soldier, the cat knows, so be on your toes." Charles McNarles, guardian of endless bottles of cure-all concoctions, is found remiss and a little on edge tonight. "I've got to get going, I've got to stay ready," he repeats to himself, over and over so steady, as the sink water drips and the shower curtain wades through the undertow of the air ventillation coming from below. A creep in the hall with a creak in the step of an animal small, but free and unkempt, and McNarles is distraught as he calls from his post for a spotter’s repose. “All’s clear to the right!” Geffer shouts from the couch, “Left looks ok to me,” Harper shouts from the bonzai tree, and so Charles shakes the quakes of his fear. “If I could only disappear…” he says, rubbing his chin while he sits back on top of the acetaminophin. The nights are long here on cabinet hill, and the bathroom air makes for an eerie chill, so the boys keep warm with the drip of the faucet and the tick of the clock gets awfully quixotic. Many nights as these pass with hardly a scare, but times will and do come when pet dander’s in the air and the men lie alert as the cat comes alert and they ride on the looseness of doom, claw or broom. McNarles stands guard, he is one of the few and proud, breathing quietly, but shouting loud inside for liberation’s glorious stride. Yes, tonight was all clear, the cat away to the vet, but we’ll not forget about the other creatures stirring for the features of the household’s inner workings, where they’re stirring, dancing upon death’s display. Still, this was long, and long ago. The soldiers life is another story for another time.

"What the hell am I talking about?" -The Author, "Brilliantly written; it is warm and inviting like grandmother's cookies." -The New York Post, "This is one of the greatest tales of the year.”-The Times, "A masterpiece among masterpieces." -Chicago Sun Times, "Who ate the last piece of chicken?" -Roger Ebert, "No, you idiot! You weren't suppose to write that down!" -Roger Ebert, "Oh fuck this shit, you're all nuts." -Roger Ebert, "I think it's nice. Go and get me a Sunday paper now."-Mom.

Hello To No One

No one comes here anymore. I am again alone in the confines of my stately role as a singular creature. I am often sad, but who is not? I am often bewildered by the days about me, but each one of us has known that fate time and again. To be myself completely is a hard-earned accomplishment bereft of ease understanding. I am here amidst my familiar surroundings but my mind and my heart are elsewhere always, never leaving notice of their departure, and never bringing comfort upon their return. All this, and now and then a little gray skies and shivers, and you find me simply being as I am.

I don't want another winter ever. I want the sunshine forever on my shoulders and the warm air filling my lungs full and fuller still with confidence in the day and night. And the night, to be out of doors among the stars bright above, that is what I long for. Then again, in the coldest of cold when the atmosphere is incredibly thin there is no better way to stare at the stars, but in that cold my eyes give way and tear up and weaken beneath such heavenly lights and I am forced to blink and lose the perpetual bliss of a long gaze above. I don't want to blink anymore. Who would? When life is so fleeting and we are so busy all the time, who would want to miss a single moment in the time given? A man's full life is merely a yawn from the mouth of the cosmos.

And then maybe I am sad simply because it is winter and no amount of good friends, drink, warmth, or love could cure this ailment. Only at night is there some small comforts, simply because social events are prompted easily while we all sit around a table with warm coffee and cigarettes and talk of each others' miseries. You think after twenty-two years I'd get used to the spin, but I guess not. Now I'm stealing others' words so I must depart. Adieu.

A Room With A View

I send out the S.O.S. tonight,
To find the loved ones gone away.
In doing so
I find a little room inside my chest;
Its been black and cold for a very long time.
When I turn the light on
I find the switch still works,
And I see that it permeates
With concern and distress.
As I look about
I see photographs of others
And realize I forgot a few things.

There's a room inside my chest
That is lighting up tonight
For all those I've sacrificed
To push my self ahead.

Now I don't know what to do
When the spin feels like something
I just can't keep up with anymore.
Shall I shut this light off
And walk away again,
Or is there still some meaning
Left that I can explore?

I'm Only Dreaming...

Facing myself melting away amid these four walls...
It's a mere quiet understanding of the way
A man would be who put the whole world
In a lockbox and left it idling.
Dreams are fantastic,
But bitter all the same.
I could dream for days unending but
It would stop,
It always must;
And then you're left at the corner,
Wet and alone.

So I take to this quiet prison called writing;
Boucing off the walls the hints or thoughts or dreams,
But never quite making clear what I feel and know.
So I'll end this on a philosophical note:
That which we possess inside is easier felt
Than expressed with pen, hands, or throat.