The change I miss is not entirely real
A perception imprinted on a mercurial mind
Seasons of a life
Shades of youth I left behind
Back and forth and back again
Some future self I hope to find
The love I’ve searched for
In truth, I search for
In books
In letters
In movies
In endless poems and prose
In other people’s lives
Interpretations of life I missed
Skin I’ve touched, lips I’ve kissed
Still, longing for one of those
magic movie moments
you know the kind…
A chance meeting, instant attraction
Exchanging numbers
A first date…
Another first date, and so on.

I have a proclivity for collecting things
Hoarding flaws, misery, hurt
Clothes, shoes, photos, people
I’ve given away two collections of records
One of them was personal, the songs I loved
Albums that meant something
Those artists who opened the eyes of my mind
Stirring my heart, soul, and imagination
The other one was my DJ collection
Songs for other people
Songs to make people dance
Background music so they could have fun
Get drunk, get high, get laid
Find their own magic moments
Thirty-two years I DJ’d…1979 too 2012
Working in night clubs with two hundred
to five thousand people 3 to 6 nights a week
Hundreds of weddings, parties, raves
Perpetual fly on the wall I was
But I digress…What does this have to
do with seasons?

Likewise, I’ve burned
several hundred notebooks
filled with personal ramblings and writings
Lost musings. Lost poetry. Lost loves
At the time, it felt incredibly liberating
but in retrospect, not so much.
Maybe I could have gotten
A few more books out of those writings…
Who knows?
Ultimately, everything I’ve collected
is like filling a hole of my own creation
A form of worship, spilling precious time
at the altar of my ego sacrificing
other people’s time in the process.
Were those words actually important?
Was my music important?
Reflecting back, the DJ thing
was more out of necessity…
Using music as a tool
of a trade you happened to love
But still, I think about thirty-two years
and nothing to show for it but stories
No retirement fund. No gold watch or pen…
Go figure.
I’ll delve into that life in the future
That (season) of my life
Waste upon waste of years.
But then again, maybe not…
I’m torn.

I remember burning my notebooks
Giving the away didn’t make sense
not even to my daughter.
All those musings, for the most part,
were out of context.
But there I was burning words
Crumpled ages like Autumn leaves
Only dark…as if long since dead
Colorless collections of feelings
Teenage angst and anger
Lyrics for a rock band in my mind
Collections of moments
Collections of seasons
I miss the seasons
Especially New England
It’s not the same in Florida
The seasons blur together
Much the same as memories
Burning in soft degrees,
Smoke rising to false expectations
My wife at the time pokes her head
out the back door…
“What are you burning, sweetie?” she shouts.
“Oh, just some junk…nothing important.”
Nothing important
Nothing important
How easily we deceive ourselves
create stories to justify our actions
whether they be
good or bad.

Yet, the scent is unmistakable
Leaves of copper indifferences
Gold and blood orange insignificance
Purple undertones and brilliant deceptions
Blacks and blues. Scars. Abuse
Green eyes and auburn hair
Love letters from a sad affair
What she said. What I said.
Misty seasons of regret
Summer madness we forget
My wife knew all along
Wives usually do.
She told me so after the divorce
How time burns with a vengeance
I miss September’s early morning chill
A stark reminder that winter’s on the way
The warmth disappears
Now I have a new collection of notebooks
In pixeled archives
Locked in an Instagram mausoleum
They will never really be gone once I hit delete
Not as satisfying an experience
as words on paper
Burning in the yard
I watched as long as I could
But the sky was mocking me
Like these invisible seasons
Convincing me that the smoke
from my words
was actually
clouds.

TM DiSarro

©2024 TM DiSarro / MindScapes Publishing

Art: Alex Stoddard