Stacked up
in old cases
are micro cassettes,
fragments
of conversations
made with coffee,
beer, and cigarettes.
spun together by the
wheels of travel,
and the comings and goings
of creation.

These
are the fingerprints
and logbooks
of times gone uncatalogued,
but recorded.

Laced among these
etchings of memory is the
antique smell of old wishes,
Fingerprints of old selves’ images
cobwebbed around
corners, breaking the rhythm patterned
slats of black and white into some
gossamer diagonals.

Even the cobwebs have shadows!

What were once
only some dog-eared remnants are now
the blackened, forgotten
bones of unchew-ed material,
rendered unidentifiable by time
and the consequences
of improper scrapbooking.

Time has lost its identity
and persons no longer care
about the era of happenings.

Edges fade in the total room
of all things attic-bound.
Behind the curtains of civilization
how the peopling of these
selves somehow happened
in conjunction with planetary
transits and their unmistakeable North Nodes
plastered to fate of the Earth, Moon, and Sun.

The bittersweet musk of unrequited love
descends like light rain
while the sound of a passionate banjo
breaks the air
and movement steps
to kick up some dust in order
to go forward.

Dust, falling like un-trained rain,
just scatters…

What’s left are the new
finger prints of recent visits
and the markings
of an explorer who has
left the continent of
the outside world
to traverse again the terrain
of his unkept inner chambers.

A rich collection
of untouched photographs
and other stains of memories
Layers of interpretation gone
missing. The witnesses
dissolved into their own stories.

Now with the lantern beside her,

The Lady of Shalott who is only
“Half-Sick of Shadows” returns
For she knows
there’s more area under the dark of the sun
than in all the light in the universe of awareness.

And holy ghosts visit
among the dead as much as the living
Marking each traveler as
a historical vagrant, an elusive shutterfly

One who becomes the reluctant
commentary of classical books
Lives on the island of the misfits

Here’s where all the fires are still
lit, and the inhabitants are most
unapologetic for their long dark shadowy arts.

Welcome back to the tower my dear!
May it enchant you with all the surprises and
remembrances of its forgotten inhabitants.