The Long Years, Collected

The long years
only grow
Cold they grow,
Stone they grow

They become thick and

Encrusted with corpses
What should have been
And what will have

The long years are waiting
For all of you foolish enough
to believe in your ability
to create

The long years grow long
As they wait.


The long years
Only (grow,
Only ever longer.)
Never quick, enjoyable,
Never to inspire, expire,
tire or tread lightly.
Fighting with rightly or
wrongly-earned breath,
longly growing, stone-
softened, flowing,
immutable, waiting
wait waiting for you to
stop generating bodies of
work and bodies of
action and active passion
enacted on bodies
They wait
wait in the darkness,
heavy-hanging, filled with
negative life-force affirma-
heavy-hanging, hearing
negotiations and
pleas for, “just a little
more time, please.”

The long years are not
incoming, impeding, impending
stampeding or receding.

It’s you who are leaning
speeding careening towards
the gaping rotten mouth
of inactivity and non-
generation.  With every
word that you write and
every thought that you type
every line drawn the
long years wait.  And
there is no escape.

You get it?  You eat what
you create and every bite
that you make takes you
a day closer to the
long years of having been
somebody, of having
written something.
The long years.



A cold tea is easier to
Drink than
A hot fresh one,

But it’s worse.

So I drink hot tea and
.              Remember:

Cody was 28 when he died,
leaving behind a small wake,
a ripple, a powerful force.

Cody left, painless, quickly
And I don’t not cry any more.
I am sensitive to the world,
Easily hurt.
Easily faked.
Easily recovered.
Hardy present to be,
Presently unseen
Hiding in the bathroom
Trying not to cry
Because I miss him.

One becomes adept at
Stifling sobs and
crying quietly,
Patiently waiting to hate
Hate having to do this,
Loving that you can.

I have plenty
of dead friends,
almost all of whom
have the un-
common decen-
cy to remain dead.
But Cody would
(wouldn’t he just)
find a way to echo
for longer.


There are so many directions
to go!
The long years ahead
whichever you choose
And the bed
Full of fear and blankets
Creating artificial comfort
You are never safe
You are never safe
Hellishly never far
From safety
From safety
Never far (one misstep, really)
from obscurity.
The only mistake you
can make is to stop.
Create worth, value,
be present and keep the
long years,
strong and hollow,
keep the long
years at bay.


Stone-ground years
Dust the smell of grandfathers
and their clocks.

Each fractured knuckle
weather predicting,
clawed, slowly constricting,
smells like a wet stone
in a fresh desert
where only age and
rock trees forgive.
Each tendon under
sun-spotted and stretched
paper-thin skin which
slides has brushed tears
and hammered nails,
has crushed blows and
shaken with visceral
loss, has been held, taken
given, seen,
caused and received
all things.
Nails that have clawed lovers’
Sweaty backs on summer
afternoons which
never die, though
lovers always do

And shake the dust.
and feel the long
years creep.

This entry was published on December 30, 2012 at 19:55 and is filed under Poetry, The Long Years. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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