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

Monday, July 9, 2018


Hello. I know I haven't been around much and have been lurking on the blogs without saying anything. Words fail me at times, thoughts go by without completion. *shrug*

Below is my WIP list, snippets of thought that, though random, make a certain sense a continuity in the process. I am tired of reading through it so I give it to you in its raw, unedited form.



While all look upward with hope of spiritual rejuvenation
What the fuck are we missing while the Great White attacks a seal,
brushes its teeth with blubbering entrails in the combers.
I think the breeze is a Godsend, not the first finger of another hurricane.


We don’t want you, we despise you for doing work not a one of us will do, we hate that you link our food and table. Filthy dirt floor dwellers have no place among us ‘cept in a jail or desert dry of water. We enjoy the sweeping you up along with the rest of the crap we throw away.


“You’re a man of the fifties” I was told when I was in my 30’s. I assume I wasn’t being called a renaissance man. Now past my 50’s and well beyond the fifties all I know is I had lived more life than most and in retirement I simply don’t give a fuck for the things behind. Although peyote, I do miss mescaline. Not that mind numbing LSD laboratory bullshit of waving walls and perturbed thoughts made famous by the sixties freaks—they were fucked up morons playing at peace and love. Future bankers, lawyers, accountants, bottom feeders supporting the advertising on TV not quite ready for their true destiny of population enslavement.


Leave us be” their actions said to me.
“Fuck ‘em” has e’er been my personal philosophy.
Walking past the traps of family is easy.
I care more that this rhyme is overly ugly.


If scars are the reminder of pain then I must have been hurt a hell of a lot. I can’t see most of my scars though. I can’t twist myself around like I once could, nor do I want to. It’s pretty pointless to see both the dark side of the moon and the heart, you know they are there without looking. Pain can be relieved but scars never go away each is a memory that no matter how much time has passed is ever carried into the present. Scars are void of feeling, the nerves ‘neath them have been severed so many times they transmit little to the brain ‘cept memory of how they came to be.


I see the other senior citizens at the casino hoping for that big score. I see them sitting doing nothing accepting that today just wasn’t their day. Maybe sad or wondering how much more they can afford to entertain themselves; after all no one truly likes to be around old people except other old people. Mixed among them are a small contingent of very early morning homeless who are willing to part with a couple of bucks to be able to move around the two or three floors and sit for a while a free cup of coffee or pop—as long as the machine has credit on it they are customers too. We all are customers for some enterprise that willingly takes the most for the least return. I understand that philosophy; can’t say I care for it much but then there are so many avenues for the money to flow upwards that if it isn’t rolling wheels in a machine of chance then it’s bank fees for saving, or taxes for breathing, or “just business.” Not just as in fair but just as in the way it is supposed to be. Seeing sad wrinkled faces attached to aged bodies or “bums” not hiding their daytime cardboard signs very well, waiting for their uniformed escort when that last penny is spent, sitting among the smiling happy people still rolling those wheels and thinking “baby this next one is it.,” ain’t just anything or fair.


Staring death in the face is not looking at the remains gently placed in a box. It is not contemplating mortality or striving against enemies. Staring death in the face is when a living soul finally knows there is one fate for all humans. Death is not contestable, arguable, only a step all will take.


Living life in increments; going from touchstone moment to touchstone moment. We reflect on the where, what’s, who’s, how’s of our personal high light reel. Bringing the best and worst forward to the day we see.


Warrior kings stripping everything that fails before them. Stretch the kingdom; aye, power that be the thing! Die the good death spoken to the fighters; the king will not touch the war. Majesty be anointed to lead, from behind. Glory to the king.


400 got together. They formed a tribe, a clan, took the same name. As time passed 100 decided they should spell the name different. Nothing else would change. As time and inflection passed the 390 decided the 100 were too different. That decision was the beginning of war; men rarely are able to accept different.


Pac Man covered the sky, eating everything. Stars, moon, earth orbiting objects.

Comics joke to distract
while death industries merge together
by straight men with soiled pasts. 


Tinkerers attempt fixing us
fixes are fragile when first born.


it does not tick
it does not tock
it does not slow
it does not stop.


It rolls on past the crossing of past and present. That singular note blowing out through its horn leading away down the tracks to next. The sound fades for them crossing and moving but never for them stuck in place.


Sixteen men in Panama hats packing heat dancing Samba down stripper streets; five with knives, five with guns, six need no demand in hand because they look so damn dapper. Killer looks can slay any dance partner as those hips sway away on rubble roads. Every day is festivales with sugar cane coconut rum and passion for the chance to forget and dance.

Twenty seven back alley bully boys never chance the dance, afraid they may have to sweat  Seven devise dirty deeds, fifteen peasants preen  in a group scene, five sit at the top ‘cause they’re so damn mean. Killers think themselves immune from the music they play, but to the beat they sway. Cocaine carnival in blood soaked alleys where boys bleed forget the dance.


It is hurricane season again.
Typhoon destruction
heated up over waters too warm.
I have yet to meet the man
able to beat back the winds.
Not the winds of weather
nor the winds of change.
I love the oceans
but never built a house close to them.
Rising tides make for the destruction
of all that once was temporarily safe.
Men are built that way.
Women too.
No one fears the calm sunny day,
few think about destruction
when it can be avoided.
It is hurricane season again
and waters heated beyond warm
are building a line of storms.


© M Durfee

Monday, May 28, 2018

I remember the dead not food or roller coasters.


We tended to remember
because we have headstones,
too many to be counted.

Some remember the unfound
yet lying in unmarked graves.

We think of their death
as the pinnacle of life,
of service to the nation.

We rarely count the spouses never married,
the children never born,
the parents given a golden star to display.

 It is mostly the young we send off, their first taste of life
found in both battle and the boredom between the fights.

Most in war did not die for ideals or principles
far above their meager pay grade; not for emblems,
pins, or reward but for the one fighting next to them.

No soldier ever hoped for a grave stone, no sailor a watery grave,
though if they were given such remember them for the sacrifice made.

Today I will not receive any medals for my cooking skills,
my county fair pin knocking knack , ability to dunk a clown
my waving a flag used as advertising most days of the year.

War was a ghastly costly effort of blood spilled in mud or frozen ground,
now I wonder do we count it a win as we see industrial profits roll in?

© M Durfee

photo is Pearl harbor military cemetery US gov. stock