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

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.