Slow moving...
Caught unawares by the sudden chill
of November...

~born too late

No buzzing around, no chatter
flitting from place to place...

The glorious sunshine of a late
summer evening: August or even September
that Byzantine month when
the Roman Empire of another year

hasn't fallen.

The barbarians disguised as seasons:
late October's subtle slip of the tongue,
November's garish assault on the senses...

The quiet, deathly pallor of December
masquerading as our hopes and fears.

A solitary fly born too late,
forgotten in the rush towards
Fall and Winter,
Caesar's warning,

the spam filter.

Here we are: small spectators
in the fleeting cycles of Time;
slow motion tragedies,
subtle movements of History.

...

Staring at the wall,
wondering what happened
to Emily Dickinson and that fly
in November.

A new word...

I will make a new word. It will happen in the future (as opposed to those things that happen after we have noticed them). It will be a verb, capable of geranding, fine as the fettle and useless as the white sheets on a honky at a KKK rally. The name of my new word shall be "future".

I shall future that away. I've futured that; don't worry.

What does it mean? In the future I will tell you.

A manifesto for personal sanity

There is no easy out. There is not a magic bullet. The span of time it takes to realize what you already know is infinite depending on how much time you spend trying not to understand what you all ready know.

These few truths will allow you to understand yourself and no one else. Life is short. Enjoy the ride.

Drunken Poetry