I know nothing but the quiet
In the night
Having gone to the unit
Where a woman lives.
Outside a man was smoking a cigarette.
When I called after having texted,
Someone hung up and turned off the lights.
I heard the dog’s chain,
Then I drove away.

When I awoke
The sun was shining
And a message was sent.
She had “miscalled” me and then went to sleep.
But it wasn’t her argument that persuaded me.
It was the fact that when I picked up the phone
She was talking to a woman
Reading my message and getting angry that I assumed
The man was her’s,
When all she did was go to bed early.

Still, the drama in all of this
Is what makes it so tedious.
I am not in love,
Or if I should be
I don’t feel it.

But, who am I after all these years?
I am not in the running for what I want.
I am an old man living the flirtations of the past.

When I wake up tomorrow
I will be too old to consider dating as an option.
We laugh about the old having such ambitions.
There comes a time when two people
No longer look credible holding each other.

I know nothing…


  1. The silly thing is, and here I go, don’t mind me–merely a voice:
    it speaks and it says this, and being able to say, and here it comes:
    there seems to be, and don’t mind me, a voice inside this head
    that says to you, or rather looks at you–and from far away it comes–
    many years it has traveled forward to meet you in your car as you
    drive away–

    and it says that you are outdated, that passions of youth are for the youth
    and that living, in itself, in it’s being, in it’s essence–and here I go, please,
    don’t mind me–is youthful. And so the man chooses to die thinking that
    he is no longer alive, that he is no longer entitled to that feeling that
    overwhelms the body and the mind and the only thing that will let it
    escape before that man explodes is a jump, a laugh, maybe–
    maybe he’ll drive a little bit longer and listen to music and wonder happily
    about the night.

  2. Lovely, insightful, delightful rendering pure the facts of the gaseous blather, but it is also the stagnation of not loving, wanting to back away, wanting to wait, where opportunity is like cheating on what might come. I am alone because relationships become opportunities to study, but also distractions from studying and carrying out, where they take so much time and attention. As you get older, you have less tolerance for what seems a deal breaker(s), so you end up turning a blind eye and the other person becomes resentful. It is easier to sit and stare. You delight in the good times of relationships that were really not that good because in the end, there was always this uncertainty, uncertainty in knowing what you wanted to do. That permeates the ability to love. It draws a black curtain over the stage. What am I going to say? What am I going to sing? What pictures? What music? What am I supposed to be doing? Death is a curling of the leaves. The moisture leaves. The leaf falls. It becomes as light as air and takes flight. Yes, I must get into a car and drive, find music and wonder happily about the night, which is always so fearful to him.

    • No, apparently the piece that begins: “I went to a party last night and the literary value of the personages was like fine linen paper in a box of stationary and a very expensive fountain pen” is the first one. But, thank you for reminding me of the beginning. I have noticed that we don’t necessarily get better with age only better by working harder.

      • Oh ya I saw that. Thank you for guiding me to the first post. The beginning of a journey is always a wonderful place to know someone and I felt I needed to know you from the beginning as you came with a heavy recommendation from Marta….
        Hope you enjoyed seeing back to the beginning too. How do you feel looking back after 6 long years of your Blogging life and experience.

      • It’s only a pinch of memory. As I said, I have learned that in doing my craft, it only matters in how much attention I pay and how much work I engage. My IQ pretty much remains the same. I have looked back to things I did long ago (when I was 22 or something), at another party, I shared a book I had compiled with a Chinese female attorney, who I had a crush on. She was so much smarter than I was. She made money, had a fancy car. I shared my early poems with her and tried to justify them. She loved Neruda. I tried to say that my work was like his, but it wasn’t. I have to say that many of those poems were immature, hence, a contradiction to what I said about working hard, but there were a few, like a poem about a metaphor of peanut shells and the bodies of Holocaust victims. There was a nonchalance with the shells, how people keep going, enjoy light fare, throw these things around, but there are times in our history, when we do such horrible things. The horrifying artifice of the military-industrial complex. Blood-for-oil, envy, greed. I don’t think I see myself. I see the work, like you do, regretting that I did not work on it longer, expand it. I remember an ex-girlfriend, who had an English class. In that class, her professor told her that all she needed was a good sentence from which to grow her story. Expand the subject, expand the action, going in directions past and future, expanding the present. Every moment is an opportunity to describe and expand. In one second is the world. Heidegger said that everything is the same. There is no time. I can tell you what’s in front of me and you can relate to being there, how you would feel, and what you might think. This is the key or writing. If we get the details, we can transpose ourselves into place and time.

        I am sitting in a cafe on a wooden table with a metal base. It is about four feet wide and two feet deep. It fronts a wall painted taupe. It is just below a window that is framed in wood, a dark stain, four inches in from the window, which is glass and looking out onto a pathway between the cafe and the restaurant across from it. There is a patio with tables and then white framed windows of the restaurant across from me. There is a potted small olive tree in front of the pillar holding up the roof under which I am sitting in the cafe, and across from it, is a plant on a wooden trellis. It is green with red-orange and yellow tubes or flowers in two groups of about 25 flowers. The trellis is attached to a post that holds the patio canvas roof. And to the right is another plant in a barrel pot. It is spare with leaves and dotted with small red flowers. I know the horticulturist who tends to these plants. They are always in perfect health and complicated. It is a special place because of her. There are dentists’ offices and psychologists in the offices above the restaurant and cafe. These are two-story buildings. The sun is out. The sky is blue. I work soon. I watched a Spanish film last night on Netflix. It was called What Would You Take With You to a Deserted Island? It still holds its hands over me. There was a woman in the film, who haunts me. She simply innocently loves, but is caught up in a love triangle that speaks to a different truth. Doesn’t everything elude to expansion?

      • Oh my….it sure does elude to expansion. I am thrilled that I met you. What a vision you gave me …. sitting here I could see everything what you picturesquely described through your words. I am amazed at the ease with which you weave the words into magic…Now I simply must read the Pickle and Tarts as Marta suggested, I already know I am going to enjoy this pickled tarts to bits.
        Honoured to have met you Mario…

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