about Fred

So I am back to blogging in poetry which is a good indication that I may be a little pissed off. Naturally I don’t want to come out and say “Hey… Pissed Off over here” because what happens is the good intentions and advice… stuff like “coming to terms with it” and that sort of thing… what the hell does that even mean? My emotions are not up for negotiations… this is not a contract with terms conditions and clauses… hey… why don’t you come to terms with that…

Like all good adventures in poetry there is a melancholic wave rubbing up against the beaches of sunshine and happiness… a sort of lapping of lackluster bland banality slowly erasing the passage across the sands… those footprints that let you know which side you arrived from… where the car is parked for the grand get-a-way… be it in the nice sleek shiny sports car or the rusted out beater…

It is the winter time… sanity demands that you know those sorts of things… what season it is… the name of the day… today is Fred… but best to call it Monday in public… when you get on close first name basis with a day the jealousy of others will result in a bad experience… say Mister Monday and they will punish you… but it is winter… the cold probing season of soul searching amid the ruins of the last summer… the fallen branches of recklessness… the worm out tired grasses that have been rolled over one too many times… and the fallen petals of exotic roses… all buried under the snow waiting to be slowly thawed out and revealed, then washed away in the tears of the rain… that is the truth of it…

You can look out your window and see nothing at all but the snow… or you can see that beneath the snow lies a mystery… the beach is still there… I just have not been there for a while… the only question is where do the washed away footprints go? We can ask Fred, but Fred will never answer direct questions.