Thursday, January 23, 2014

“She had a weakness for writers…and I was never that good to words anyway…”

http://youtu.be/_r4Ymyeuw_E

Welcome my love to another spin.  This Universe, I, WE, need another one, one another.  We keep it all spinning, fix and repair rusty and antiquated machinations when all hope seems lost.  We trudge through deep snow and springs mud, and thick summers foreign fields.  It is what we do.  It ain’t easy. But Gosh Darn it, it is what we do.

I have kept, tried to keep, this cold inside me, keep you from the terror of the fridged  evil wind that rolls in off the sound out back that freezes pipes and stalls our truck and holds her in place when she just wants to run, warm up and go…run…to a place where scared little old men boys with great heavy minds and broken hands can sit and rest under blankets of orange and yellow and umber leaves, and not fear the wind, but just listen to its song through the branches strong, that sway and groan, and sometimes ache, but never topple.

We cannot be blown over.

We bend.
We creak.
We groan.
                
And open arms to the shit heavy wind, the maelstrom, that beats us again,
And again
And again,

And we lean in.

What else can we do?

Why?

I know why and so do you,
But we will never speak of it.
What a great gift.

It’s cold here in our lighthouse tonight.
A cold that is not fair or understandable,
But a cold that is ours to hold and embrace, and make our own.

It’s so stoopid fucking cold.
And just when you think it might get better,
The wind rises up, changes direction,
And tears in from the south,
And makes the cold even colder.

The even ender edge of the world.

Our even ender edge of the world.

And that is just nicey nice. 

It is fifty-eight degrees in our lighthouse
And the heat is going full blast.
But it does not
 seem to make a difference anyway.
The ice has taken over our cove, our little bay.

It is cold here without you.

But the idea of you keeps me warm.

As I am writing this,
I keep getting up and checking on the venison stew,
That slowly cooks and simmers in our silly little kitchen.
The heat from the stove keeps the alcove warm.
If you open the window just enough,
you can hear the ice crackle on the black water
as it fights to form out back
between the struggle of the tide and wind.

And as I stand and stir the game,
The wind out back howls,
And screams,
And beats against our windows and door.

It seems to want in.
But what the fuck here inside is so much better,
That it wants to beat down our walls,
blow through and in,
and sit upon our sofa and make itself at home?
                     
Let’s ask the wind and cold to leave us alone for a while.

We don’t need the wind and cold
and the Universe,
to tell us it is time to snuggle up,
Curl together,
Embrace.
We don’t need the wind and cold
and the Universe,
to nudge us together.

Please,

Let’s ask the wind and cold,
and the Universe,
to leave us alone for a while.









Friday, December 27, 2013


Mines dug with boots.

Oh fuck,
Oh Lordy fuck.
Murdoc is running,
And stumbling,
And running,
And stumbling,
And running,
And stumbling,

A-and….running.

A-and…stumbling.

Purrfect.

Dirty hands,
Lifting heavy,
simple motors,
the day after Christmas.

Dirty, heavy hands,
Lifting simple motors,
And shoving them into the back of the truck,
And bringing them home.

Wrestling these engines,
Bringing them home.

Broken things,
Bouncing about in the six foot bed,
Down the tree sheltered road into Lodge Forest.

To the even ender edge of this world.

So he drives them home,
Past Bauers farm,
Past Folkes farm,
Past Todds farm.

And the deer,
Which are not here,
Walk quietly out of the fog
And stand and wait to wonder
What lies on the other side of the road?

“There are no deer in the Fort.”

And he sits in his truck
And waits,
Patiently,
As they cross the lonely dark road,
Making their way home?
What drives them?

It is simple.

And it is the same thing that drives Murdoc home,
Out, onto 
and in the black water,
That must be home.

Gorgeous creatures,
With purpose,

Let them amble about,
And stamp
In the glow,
In the blinding glow
Of heavy headlights and terrible cold air.

Purrfect,

Walk away,
Run away,
Run,
walk,
Into the dark and tangled brush,
The place where light
Is split,
Refracted,
And where what ever this is,
Is warm,
Purrfect,
And home.

Run,
Walk,
Stumble,
Stamp away,
Bury broken boots,

Stand straight and feel the power…

Within.

This is your world...
will you live it?

Murdoc can only imagine.


Sunday, December 15, 2013


Blah, Fucking Cold.

So we write again about home.

Home.

Home.

He sits down to write, but has to rise and make sure that the pipes in the kitchen haven’t froze, locked up, hardened with the cold that has taken over his cruel side of this world, his island, his lighthouse.

And he places worn, beaten boots next to the door.

Cold and cruel chases him always. 

He opens the cold water valve.  Lets it run.  All is well.

The coast is clear.

Cold.
Clear.
Bitter.
True.

And he runs the water in the kitchen sink.  It is cheap stainless steel.  And he knows that it will stain if the right chemicals, the wrong things touch its surface, his surface.  

He dips his head into the cold steel sink of the tiny kitchen and runs the water, the cold water, through his hands and over his head.  Cold is heat, and he bathes in the bitter embrace. Cold.  Bitter cold.  And he shivers and howls.  Cold.

“Hear me, I am.”

And he whips his head,
Punches walls, cabinets,
And rails.
And just keeps pushing his head under,
Into the cold,
Basking in the white heat.

Iced up on the outside, but inside, all is well.
Cold water runs strong,
Deep thru wide veins,
Exposed and left open to discover,
Dissect.

Do you test the hidden things inside your walls that you take for granted?

Do you?
Will you?

He does.  He must.

Cold.

It is always cold here out on the island at this time of year.

What did you expect?

And he shoves his head under, into the cold, the ice, again,
And again,
And again,
And again,
And again, and again…

Until he is numb,

Or just numb enough so he can sleep.

Cold is heat.

And he radiates,
Burns,
Churns,
Fires slow, strong engines, and he waits.

“Hear me, I am.”

He dips his head into the cold water just once more.
He lets it flow and drag over and through him.
The cold is again heat;
When understood and allowed.
And carbon and fine steel washes away.
Black, heavy metals, leave him,
light and heavy,
never clean,
but close.

And he just is…

Cold.

Wet from the top down.

Shivering.

But the pipes aren’t frozen,
And this is a good thing.

And he shakes his cold wet head.
Like a good dog,
Outside the door.

And cleans up the mess inside.

When allowed back in.

Good boy.

Sit.

Stay.

Purrfect.

Saturday, December 14, 2013


Merry Fucking Christmas.

What is the breaking point…
 of a good man?

We have been here before.

This is something that has been plaguing Murdoc for quite some time.

He is now especially troubled by this concept.  Worried.  Fretful.  Sleepless.

It might be the time of the year that lowers this weight upon him?

He has withdrawn.
Remote.
Untrusting.
When he returns home to his lighthouse, he removes his heavy boots and pushes them tight against the front door.  If they move without him, it is a signal to rise from his place and prepare.  He is restless, the unhappy dog that skulks, paces, cannot just be, give in to…anything.

He double checks the locks on his back door, windows.  He is concerned by venues of ingress and egress.  He needs to know he is in control of these flood valves in, and escape valves out. 

He is tension, tightly wound wire, brittle and taught. 
He is the fallen angel,
sitting in his father’s antique, uncomfortable, but glorious chair.

He is shopping at the Food Lion (roar!) and it takes a bit before he settles down and can focus on the task at hand, buying groceries.  His panic and shake and tunnel vision take time to melt away.  The first two isles are always a blur and he uses his coffee, in the third aisle, to bring him back to focus, and get him back to the shopping.

Today he is definitely out of sorts.  His balance is off.  He knows this going in, but he needs supplies, at least coffee and heavy cream anyway.

And after stressing and ambling just enough,
When his focus finally returns,
He hears the Christmas music.

And it is Glorious.
And it is Hell.
And his vision goes tunnel and blurry and he starts to hyperventilate right there in front of the Tastycake end of aisle, where all the pies are on sale, including holiday flavors, which are gloriously 5 for five dollars.

And Murdoc muscles up and holds back the tears.
It takes every ounce of him
to keep from bursting into a sad rendition of a cheap lawn sprinkler,
that leaks when connected,
never reaches as far as it should across the lawn,
and rusts and clogs when left alone during winter.

The song that plays above him is Herb Alpert, “The Bell That Couldn’t Jingle.”


Murdoc gets thru.
Gets out.
Gets home.
And sits in his truck,
And sees where he is,
And he weeps.

And then he sobs.
Almost uncontrollably.
It is the heavy, deep, lamentation and howl
of a good soul wondering and loving.
He weeps for anger, joy, and understanding.
And then the first song that set him off sends him to this…


This was the song (classical version) that would make his father cry at midnight mass when he used to go and used to care.

And here is Murdoc.
Again missing his favorite time of the year.
Again patiently waiting in the cold and dark.
Believing, knowing,
That better days await.

So Murdoc listens to this,
Another song learned from his father,
And listens, to everything…


He is under the Great Oak out back, listening to the black water freeze and crackle upon a tide that is governed by the moon and has no forgiveness.  It is beautiful. 

And for a second, it all goes quiet…still…and he can hear her.  No words, just a simple inhale and hum, life going in, and then exhale softly, life going on.  Purrfect.
This is love.  And it lifts you up and gets you thru, when it is just and right. 

Murdoc is sobbing as he writes this.  He aches.  But he loves, and is loved; and that makes all those silly tears count for something. 


There is no breaking point for a good man.

    Volim te.