The worst of us were the best of us.

Lost Poem from 2007

Going through the archives I found this draft of a poem to someone. It's funny how time changes the words into something else, the meaning into things we couldn't possibly see in the future. How funny it is the things we write, the things we feel and their relation to the present. Thus...a poem lost is found and what was once true is true again...

Waiting around.
Eyes closed,
just waiting
for some sound,
church bells
or cicadas
or the hiss you make
while smoking a cigarette;

I lost the poem I wrote for you.

We always lose the things
we love.

Random Poem for May

The future is unfolding before my eyes
while pages of the past dance
on the wind through alleyways:
so much flotsam.

Books made out of electrons spiral away
into the starry dynamo of night while
I toil with Gutenberg carving words out of dead trees
and the blood of dragons.

What is the future?
The future is bright and shining.
It gives off it's own light.

It is not a question of the past, or the future.
It is a question of whether it shall be the past,
or what has not yet been written.

"By any means necessary" becomes
the modus operandi by which we strive
and thrive and ultimately what we make of our lives.

Remember the words of the preacher in Ecclesiastes:
There is nothing new under the sun.

These Things We Call Names...

Whether the bullet's path or the arrow's arc...

Or why we have so many silent moments
between conversations: you give an inch and I drink a fifth.

Another insult makes the whole thing make sense
for just a moment and then we forget the things
we always wanted to say about nothing.

You can have all your wars if I can win just this one battle;
I suppose it says more about me than you.