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."


  1. I have never ending compassion for my homeless peeps, friend Mark, especially the mentally ill … I am hopelessly addicted to tobacco … and that keeps me humble says this Alberta cat and her cat Theo. Much love, cat.

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  2. Such madness in the city, kept away from most cityfolks. Hope he and likes of him, are well if they are still around. Appreciate the perspective of your city Mark.

  3. I sometimes think it's the city that makes us mad, I don't think humanity was ever meant to be living on top of one another and so very near to each other in such large groups called cities. The white noise alone would cause me to lose my sanity, I've become quite sound sensitive lately, actually feel it's energy on my skin, and certain sounds are no good. But I'm just chatting cause I have missed you. Oh. Google Wilderness South Africa, join me here some day, we can sit on the top of the mountain at midnight and listen to the silence.....

  4. ;)
    ello fr. da waxing

  5. I always find myself coming back to read your words, and finding some strange comfort in them.

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  7. June already … March was your last entry, friend Mark … How are you and where are you ? Love, cat.

  8. I live in an area with many transits, many crazy transits, who yell at those who aren't there and yell at my wife and me too.

  9. "when he returned he was gone."

    that just about explains what happened: ect? over medication? in some way I hope his soul rests easier these days.

    as for your poem, it's a beauty. xo

    mark, I have an editor and I've traveled far enough to offer a manuscript that so far nets good reviews. my fingers are crossed and my hope is high. thanks for your help back then.

    don't go leaving blogging, y'hear?

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  11. I hope you're still walking, Mark. :-)

  12. September. Damnit! … Where are you? … How are you, friend Mark? Say something! Love you, cat.

  13. The more often I read this, the more I love it.
    And the more I miss you being here again.


So Walking Man I was thinking...