sixes and eights.

guys,
i didn't mention it yesterday,
as the passage of time and the presence of prescience
presents  a prosaic problem when cultivating bright spots,
fresh starts, and favorable fortunes;
but, just because you don't say something,
that doesn't make it not a thing.
yesterday wasn't just a rabbity roundabout of spirit and memory.
nope.
it also marked SIX years,
of adversarial anniversaryhmes and anniversareasons,
wherein the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress
has been occupied by the furious and ferocious forces of worthy warrior poetry.
yep.
already.
neighbors,
that's six long years of continuous habitation by me,
with intermittent and occasional spatial and temporal relationships
with those i call my own, in this place i've made my home
in this woodsly goodsly mountain vale where i can't say i'm welcome,
or that they're welcome, for that matter, for all the words i've wasted
on unhearing ears that don't listen,
and uncaring faces that don't care...
-not you guys, clearly,
because reading is, by it's own infinite nature, participatory-
the thing of it is-
whether or not i belong here in the broader sense of place and time-
i truly DO belong in this house,
and home is absolutely where the house is.
what?
why?
because hearts don't pay mortgages, kids,
that's real.
so,
here is where it's at, and what it is,
that's an expert edifice i dwell and dwell and dwell in,
and the grounds i prowl diurnally,
as well as the halls and corridors that shelter me and all my stuff from the elements.
six years, in a row, and it feels like yesterday that i was sleeping on the floor
because i didn't even own a bed yet.....
damn,
now every room is full of artifacts and objects;
plants are coiled around the columns and corners of every window;
and there's three lawnmowers in the garage.
what the F* transpired in the past 2192 days to lead up to that??
now i'm listening to half a person by the smiths,
because that's the soundtrack to a six year mission of misguided missives
and missile command standoffs with the secret universal plans that blueprint
what's up and what's next.
ha.
.
"in the days when you were hopelessly poor, i just liked you more"
.
ugh.
when that's the sentiment that settles on the sediment of a dried-up summer,
and it seems like the less you had, the more other folks wanted to be around you?
those are the sorts of hard styles that create hard beds,
and when you're working all the days, and all the times,
with all the effort channeled towards creating a pillowtop memory foam life,
and you're still sleeping on a roughcut slab of stone?
well,
where you lay your head seems more like a mausoleum than a museum of memory...
...and that's not cool, now is it?
awwwwwwwwwww.
it's tough and getting tougher to work and work and work
just to maintain the magic spell that summons up the drive to stay driven
and not drown in the dribbling drivel of a debt you can't collect.
whoa.
see what i mean?
that's not the outlook of cultivated coincidences and good lucky connectivity.
however,
it's a true story, and those are what i tell.
*
six years here,
and nothing is the same,
and everything is the same.
it's all really happening,
and it certainly doesn't seem like it will stop anytime soon;
never quiet, never soft.....