At the End of February

At the end of February.
Have been blaming February
for all ills, and there have been many.
But the front is so many languages.
So many faces that make the call,
things being something other than
what was intended or wanted.
Those floating faces moving up
through the water thick as syrup
each with mouths forming derision,
and why not? If there is a constant,
it is that I am in a land
where I have the ability to absorb
the limitations of others, not
as an affront, but as the way it is.
The way that is is now. How things are.
There are the actual people I live with.
There are the people who I have
lived with that now live somewhere else.
There is the work that I do.
There is the band that I play with.
There is the condition of the environment
in its season.
Can't do much about the latter.
But there are things that swim
around in my head about the rest.
Things that control or influence me
in sometimes not so direct ways.
Do I write so much anymore?
Though I used to make it
something of a practice and have
a body of work that languishes
in invisible drawers, there is
the pervasive feeling of all of it
meaning less and less to me
as time moves in its inextricable line.
Music has that feeling of all of it as well.
The stomach, the heart.
The feeling of certain sounds
that thrill me and charge me
with the possible, that when acted on,
lead to the hanging up,
like an old phone with the static air left.
Possible without exception,
yet other than what was intended.
If I knew there was a way
that was better than this one,
would I do it? Would I move
in ways that I have never moved in before?
A sort of snow falls.
A sort of feeling holds within me.
More ideas fall. I sit
here in my finger weaving stillness
with not knowing.
Usual wanting to stop.
Usual feeling of decay.
Usual feeling of empty sort of loneliness.