Saturday, March 23, 2019


I once had a fellow living across the street from me that was different. Living in the same house for 30 years in a transient (at best) neighborhood I have seen them come and go. Some very nice people and some moonhowlers.

This particular young man was exactly as described below. He was off, way off when he was moved in and abandoned. Not only was he a yeller at the moon and constantly in a state of war he had a love for machetes. There was a sick old birch tree in his front yard that he chopped at with his blade until enough of the rotted trunk was removed he could push it over. I remember the great howl as it toppled and his standing on it like he had just conquered a wild land.

One day they came for him, took him away, and when he returned he was gone. No more a descendant of the wildness.

That was ten years ago-- Most of them in transit around here never really stay long Enough to see their true evolution. I wish him well if he still lives.

It is, as is proper, that all of us are dressed in black,
light skin surrounded in pitch and ash.
Funeral views should be shown some respect
as we mourn mostly without the color of fear.
Though Mars was wearing a red tie warning us away.
The rest of us just wore blackto better blend in
with moon made shadows.

I don’t know why he left his house at 4 in the morning,
but leave he did and I standing in the shadow
don’t understand the ghosts of the night that haunt him.
Every night.
When inside he lets his presence be known through the brick walls.
When he leaves making certain the latch catches
his furious inability to communicateis locked. 
Sealed against sanity that may not enter

I don’t know which demon had him but the rest of us, 
night beings at home in madness and darkness,
watched as he yelled murder at me watching from shadow.
I listened quietly continuing our dance of daring the madness enter.
Yet staying silent as is respectful when one looks
on at whatever it is, what once was a man
now lying in tumult in a coffin not yet built.

Just another piece of snot flung from the finger of a family
that can no longer care ‘less they wind up poorer,
less rich in the daylight that colors the darkness where they live.
We here left behind are tinged with the hues of  black suit
and rants of death and the destruction about to happen.
I am pleased I chose the right clothes for the occasion
regardless of what the box being made is going to hold.

© M Durfee

6:15AM and he leaves his house again making sure the door is latched
the clouds have come and covered the viewers and mourners 
the conversation is no longer laced with murder and motherfucker
I know he sees me with eyes at last and he asks "what's up"
I take a long pull from my cigarette look to the cloud covered sky 
where the family flung us both away and answer "apparently just you and me."

Wednesday, March 6, 2019


Came across this while looking for edits to accomplish. This may or may not have made it to TWM in the past but if it did it was most certainly taken down in one of my ritual purges.


If I knew anything
about something
then maybe
I could
know everything
about anything.
But seeing as I know
more about nothing
than I do about anything, 
I will continue to sit here
knowing nothing
about everything
and that is
the only thing
needed in being.

This is bliss

© M Durfee

Monday, March 4, 2019


I have noticed a diminished capacity of sorts. My capacity to not look backwards at the--I dunno--the rough spots and hard memories has been eroded and I have spent months doing nothing. Not doing nothing in a sit frozen trying to stop time from moving back or fore; I ain't that good, but no writing, little thinking no curiosity over whether I have spent my time in the ways most beneficial.

I should have answered the queries that came but I simply had nothing to say. A thank you probably would have sufficed and I am sorry for not even that reply. But I am not dead yet, at least so I have convinced myself. So with the lack of interest in writing new work when I have a ton of shit, years worth, in need of editing I am presenting this old/new edit piece. I will hopefully find this a fulfilling endeavor worthy of my friends time.

I love you and Thank you.


In the camp where the unwanted children of God
live they stay in tents under the plastic sheets
sealed using that fix all—duct tape.
Keeping dry and eating food
they found,
bought with saved coins
or on occasion
took using the coupon of
a finger tip discount.

We, those of us
with a house and bank account
that daily is victimized
by bank rates
equal to financial rape
look at them
and see freaks and fools
with no sense of values
or ambition other than to get to the next place
where there is a bit of warmth,
human or fire made.
Either works equally well.

They look at us and see us as we are.
We are behemoth battle ships,
before we were born
we were out dated
our usefulness as cannon fodder
soon replaced
for a new world gone crazy
for remote control war.

Now we are coated in peeling paint
and rusting where the welds once held.
Tied side by side in graveyard ports
there is no more call to sail hard
except to war against another
that is forced to stay motionlessness
at our side because of the
moorings of rope
of family and possessions
and the hope of the possibility
for wealth we are unable to leave behind.

The unwanted children of God
I think
are those who do not refuse
to wear their feet out
looking for freedom
or ways to loose the mooring ropes.

Them who are
and wandering on back roads unpaved
towards a future they have not decided yet.

It is them,
them—who are the ones
God covets above all others
for they at least try to find that spirit in a leaf,
with companions free to come and go
on an open road, headed somewhere away.
Anywhere away from the foolish ideas
that once meant a kind of freedom and comforting:
but now are a torture to the bound.
and are nothing more than a reminding
of how we too were once called
the unwanted children of God.

© M Durfee

Tuesday, December 4, 2018


Still yet standing, waiting; here,
on the precipice of another dawning.
The rising awareness comes
covering over the past in
this present sense of place.

Being convinced of a cliff’s edge
is no proof of its strength or truth.
What times are these
when there is only the dust of demolition
escaping from the implosion of the present?

It is easy to be lost
when enveloped in the dark
unbreathable remnant of the past.
That explosion of the 1950’s birth canal
producing little more than a ravenous craving.

“It is good to die” I am told by them surviving the pressure wave;
“there is no more to add to the cloud of destruction loosed.
It will roll on long after you are gone”
Nothing known belongs to them aging into a future so bleak.
Their only need is for a past erased that they may go forward.

© M Durfee

Wednesday, October 24, 2018


You only believe
what you can see or taste,
touch or crush.
Living taught you that;
how to think everything
not under your feet is disposable.

Treading softly is a disability I am told;
a habit of them fallen from searching
for the power of position.
I am that;
departed from the race for great piles
of whatever them who thunder through life look for.

My strength to carry so much weight
wearied me, tripped me.
I am content in infirmity;
it has been good for my feet.

© M Durfee