Northward

Rings on the coffee table,

still lingering 

from your last crash - 

that moment you realized

you’ve lost it all. 

Burn marks on the couch,

from the bender 

you took 6 months back.

After she left,

took the car

and your heart.

Oh, your heart -

that’s been missing for some time now,

who are you trying to fool?

You drank that away,

remember?

Couldn’t handle feeling, 

anything, 

so you drank that all away.

Now nothingness remains.

Just stale regrets 

sitting on the edge of your lips,

too chapped

to speak a sound.

In the darkest of nights, 

you miss it - 

everything you pushed away.

But it’s been far too long now,.

So just hug that bottle, 

your only friend, 

take a sip 

and let it sit in. 

-LMA 

You’ll still be proud of me, 

right?

If I don’t wear the suits, 

or travel up buildings

that touch the tops of skies.

You’ll still be proud of me, 

right?

If I don’t have the big table 

with the big family, 

that hosts the flashy holidays.

You’ll still be proud of me, 

right?

If I don’t rock the cradle, 

or take on that ring

and all it’s lingering connotations.

You’ll still be proud of me, 

right?

If I don’t socialize

with the well-to-do

or the big earth shakers.

You’ll at least be happy for me, 

right?

When I choose the pen

over the stale cubicle

with a dead end sign.

You’ll at least be happy for me, 

right?

When I choose the pine groves

over the numbness

of a patch-worked suburbia.

You’ll at least be happy for me, 

right?

When I choose the brass,

over a world of things

plated in deceitful gold.

Please, Father - 

tell me you’ll still be proud, 

even if I don’t fulfill 

those dreams you painted.

Please, Father - 

tell me you’ll still be happy, 

when I choose a life

of a more natural flow.

After all, you taught me

to live - this kind of life.

You told me to live without limits.

You told me to be myself 

in a world that only knew

how to change people.

But even if you aren’t proud,

and even if you can’t be happy - 

please know, 

I did it all for you.

-LMA 

I need to get away from this feeling,

this overwhelming crisis of self -

stuck in between dreams, past and present

somewhere a few avenues beyond help.

The only thing I know for sure,

is that I have no fucking clue.

Everyone telling me what they think

though no one can tell me what to do.

I tried buying my way out of it,

selling my soul, time, and age-

giving up on finding myself

for a salary well above minimum wage.

Whether this is what I wanted,

or an act of necessity - I can’t really tell.

Wants and needs got blurred along the way,

I’ll find out when I reach hell.

I know they’ll call me crazy

when I pass up another opportunity –

that I don’t know what’s good when I have it.

But they don’t know what this will do to me.

For god’s sake, I need room to breathe

I’m only the younger end of twenty.

My path should be mapped by trial and error,

not by finding safety in money.

I fear that if I go through with it,

if I sign my name on the line,

everything I was supposed to be

will never get to be mine.

And though I have questioned God

I have never doubted his plans for me.

I’m not meant to live by the traditional -

with every scar I’ve earned that’s plain to see.

LMA

Just outside of Hartford –
off I-84, I stopped.
Some Jewish joint I presumed,
reasoning from the dishes of pickles
and chattery waitresses with frizzy dark up-do’s.

The counter – with table settings for ghosts –
lined the back wall, decked in reflective nickel.
I chose an end seat by the window.
In front of me I laid the paper,
exposing the half finished crossword
on the back of the Sunday Times –
last week’s edition.

3 across – bear market.
Pen down, and drop the creamer
into the black coffee served in a modest mug.
A few seats down,
patrons were discussing the tax bill;
bantering on about the “one-percent” – those bastards.
They had their facts wrong,
but I didn’t interrupt.

The waitress chimed in, coffee pot in hand.
A few words about her sick child, and lack of healthcare;
“Something is going around,” – but isn’t it always.
I’ll leave a couple extra dollars on the tip,
the only recognized compassion in this day and age.
She slides me a menu.

Two eggs, scrambled, rye toast.
I place my order, and notice the radio.
A familiar tune broke the static,
the same one I heard in Portland live.
A State Theaters show – I went with an old friend,
some underrated band, what else at 18.
Damn, I haven’t talked to him in a while.

The stools remind me of the diners in New York.
My dad and I had a favorite place, lower east side –
halfway between Empire State and the Rockefeller.
He’d get the corned beef, I’d get the deli salad.
We’d talk politics – who would the Republicans run in the fall;
more importantly, who they really should.
Toying around the scraps on our plate,
until he motioned for the check.

And now, I do the same.

Just like that – fleeting moments
that carry so many notions,
brought up in milliseconds;
amongst the unexpected stops
on once familiar interstates
that now only serve as thru-ways,
to our destination – unknown.

- LMA

We converge in the chapped trees,

with mist crystallizing from our mouths.

Fires raging on in the dark abyss,

let us reminisce the warm welcome of home.

This was our life,

for a good portion of our lives;

now only to be remembered in weekends,

dotted and dashed among our bleakness.

I’ll pull out the weathered flannel,

I have it buried back in my closet;

hidden behind the reality of today -

the neat shoes, and the prim coats.

I’m not who I was then,

and neither are any of you.

But let’s pretend we are;

let’s sit under these northern stars, and stop time.

Waiting and wishing and walking on

to the brink of our existence;

we wade in these moments

that carry us back, to ourselves.

 -LMA

Another desperate four a.m.

up before the crow.

Who am I kidding, I never slept,

but no one has to know.

Under the sheet of morning

falls another sleepless slumber.

I used to have a count somewhere,

though, I fear too high the number.

Gripping to the pillow,

there are no tears in sight-

it’s a different kind of madness

when you don’t observe the night.

Nocturnal in the sense

that it’s not so ‘hip’ to be,

the ominous chains of insomnia

have seemed to one up me.

It has me walking around a stallion

with the spirit of a lamb.

It has me running though the streets

without the strength to stand.

Maybe soon I’ll collapse

and allowed to sleep forever

so I can stop opening the window

hoping for foul weather

Yet every looming morning

comes with the sun shining bright;

I suppose I’ll stay exhausted

until I am invited back by the night.

-LMA

Good ole’ Jim, Jack, and that Captain Morgan,

the deceivingly truest of the true.

The only friends you’ve ever had

to ease you through the black and blue.

They burn like hell but fill the voids,

the places that love couldn’t find.

To heal those cracks – the ones self inflicted,

in a more seemingly convenient time.

These glass bottles sit like war medals,

proof of a life lived on the road.

With your crazy eyes and a heart on fire

you’ve lived the Kerouac-American mold.

Sustained on cigarette burns and coffee stains

and the laughter of beautiful women,

a medley of motel rooms, western skies,

with bondsmen to keep you free and livin’.

You flew and you fell and you stumbled

until you found the bottom of that bottle,

dawn creeps in through the worn curtains

illuminating a road dog that’s lost his throttle.

Your friends – those vices – they stole you from yourself,

you gave them control for just too long.

You let it get hazy and before you knew it

some thing else was singing your patron song.

The only comfort you’ve ever known

was to take back up with the drink;

keep up smoky barroom appearances

and hide more bottles under the sink.

You’ll keep on going like you’re living

but you’re off to nowhere fast.

So sit down on your home – that barstool,

and pour another lonesome glass.

-LMA

It’s coming again,

the depression.

Six months like clock work.

The last low Virginia Woolf showed up

placed some rocks in my pocket

and pushed my over the edge.

It was madness,

this is madness.

Does this mean I’m mad?

Maybe I should have sunk a little lower,

scraped the bottom with my feet.

Why couldn’t I have had 

the courage to just let go.

But, no, I lost my spine,

and took a gasp for air.

Such a damn fool,

to choose to partake in this madness,

when I had found a way out. 

-LMA

I grew up an orphan,

with parents all too loving.

Always seemed there,

always seemed coveting.

But I was the baby in the basket,

delivered by a stork,

with a wounded wing.

He winced and waivered,

but still, I survived.

I grew up in the shadows;

where tumbler glasses fell

and the bartender made drinks,

just a little too well.

Trapped in between the cracks

of a respectable life.

Just shy of uptown.

Leaving rings on the coffee table,

but nothing left for me.

I grew up in the land of whiskey rivers.

Waters warm and inviting,

sips tasted strong

but the effect enticing.

Luring me in with their aroma;

carrying hope on the current,

then tossing me to shore.

Stranded, with the beat ups

and e-street bums.

I grew up a sinner,

surrounded by a world of saints.

I knew what I wanted,

the problem, was the wait.

So I went a little crazy

trying to achieve the impossible,

pulling the black market tricks.

I’ve got the same dreams as you,

But my path to them, is your nightmare.

Today, my friend, I grew up.

I woke up smiling,

looked towards the moon,

and started crying.

I don’t know why I did,

but I think it means,

I’m growing up.

I’m not sane and I’m not sure,

But I finally grew up.

-L. Abbate

I miss home;

and by home,

I mean you.

And by you,

I mean your eyes.

And by your eyes,

I mean your soul.

And by your soul,

I mean your honesty,

I mean your warmth,

I mean your everything.

But most of all,

I mean me.

-L. Abbate

Converging in the chapped trees,

mist crystallized from our mouths.

Fires raging on in the dark abyss,

reminisced the warm welcome of home.

This was our life

for a good portion of our lives;

now only to be remembered in weekends,

dotted and dashed among our bleakness.

Waiting, and wishing. and walking on

to the brink of our existence;

we wade in these moments

that carry us back, to ourselves.

 -L. Abbate

Truth is,

I have no fucking idea

what I’m doing.

I’m sitting here

writing poems

that no one will ever see.

Selling t-shirts by day,

and scooping ice cream by night.

Somewhere in the night’ s night

I’m supposed to be living.

Not the real kind, though.

The money is nice,

but the purpose is missing.

And goddamn

do I miss the purpose.

I’m telling myself

that one day soon,

I’ll stop this menial nonsense

and search for the purpose again;

put away the bank bag

that’s weighing me down,

and live without limits.

But I don’t think I can.

The person I used to be

got lost along the lines.

She got too wrapped up

in someone else’s game.

And oh my

            did she lose.

Now on a shaky foundation,

mason jars

of tips and whiskey,

I’ve got to rebuild.

I’ve got to find

that whole hearted purpose.

Because this isn’t living,

this is slaving.

And I’ll be damned

if I waste my life

confusing the two.

-LMA

I need to forget about you,

to dispose you from my mind.

I fear I’ve spent too much on you

of my precious sands of time.

You lit up my world,

like the sun does the Earth;

but I’m starting to really see

what this love is worth.

If I depart from you

and choose to run away;

and in this small town

your crooked smile will stay,

I think I’ll find it easier

to get on with my heart.

I know this won’t be easy,

since you’ve held it form the start.

Everyday brought a new gift

in the form of your vagabond spirit;

a fire ignited inside me

just by simply being near it.

You gave me the courage to love again,

and for this I must thank you.

Yet regardless of the cost,

this change is far overdue.

Being someone’s right hand

is fine for a little while,

though after some time

you cant make out your own smile.

Becoming too interwoven

until I couldn’t see the line,

between what is you

and what used to be mine.

So I need to cut the ties

that are keeping you with me.

After all you were the one

who encourage me to be free.

You praised my jagged edges

and my ever reckless ways.

You pointed out my strengths,

on my weakest of days.

You talked me up to be

something so much bigger than myself;

so I guess you must agree,

you did this to yourself.

You freed the grounded bird,

locked helpless in her cage.

You gave her your guitar,

and put her on the stage.

You said the color of freedom

always looked good upon my face.

Now I can’t see staying here,

leaving that beauty to waste.

So I must ask of you,

that when I fly away,

“My what beautiful wings,”

is all you call out to say.

LMA

Me leaving,

should scare the shit out of you.

And by the way you never say good bye,

I know it does.

You’ll paint your words differently;

it’s “See you later”,

instead of good bye.

It’s “I’ll be seeing you”,

instead of good bye.

Everything under the sun,

except good bye.

But just maybe,

that’s what we need;

a closing statement,

a good bye.

I need a definite

because I’ve got to get going.

Just like the birds

in this great northern sky,

I’m not mean to stay.

Though I promise,

I will be back.

I will be seeing you later,

but for now,

it has to be good bye.

LMA 

My big golden moon,

would you lead me home?

I’m tired and I’m broken,

desperately scared of being alone.

I live just down river,

not too far from the spring.

A few leagues beneath

the sparrow’s tipped wing.

Back in my stand of pines

is where I long to be,

not in this concrete jungle

where I’ve learned nothing is really free.

My eyes were deceived

by it’s many shimmering lights;

but now I’ve gone blind,

it all got too bright.

Now yours is the only light

I will devotedly follow,

the only glimpse I have

of making it to tomorrow.

I have no future here,

I can’t make out any faces.

I’ve become quite the stranger

in the scariest of places.

But big golden moon,

I’ve seen you before;

you’re the same everywhere

even from my front door.

I am your loyal follower

on this star crossed eve.

Could you help a wanderer

find her path in the weeds?

Guide her back north

along the river’s way,

and make sure in your sight

she always will stay.

- L. Abbate