Attention.

"Yes," I say, rising. "But whose attention was I trying to catch?"
"Oh," I replied.  A knowing look: "You know, strangers."
"Why?"
"Because you're always one of the crowd. We all want our turn on stage."
That, or sex, or a million other things, I figure quietly. But I won't disagree aloud.
I'd just shout me down anyway: I can hear myself going on:
"We say, 'love me!' and then, immediately, 'now someone else love me!'"
"Again, I agree. But why?"
Quietly, a dark pause in a midnight hallway later:
"Maybe because we're incomplete in this indoor internet age."
--Where everyone is part of the crowd, and no-one gets a turn on stage.




May '14

sometimes

i.

life is a string
slipping through our hands.
i pull it close, sometimes:
examine each fiber with
dizzying microscopy;
squeeze my eyelids &
melt the scene
over my mind--
when movement burns my hand,
i release it to its slipping path.

ii.

i ponder death, sometimes
to anticipate grief.
so in darker times,
when precious souls depart
for better shores, or worse,
i'll have a friend i know.
"sweet grief," i'll say,
"how good of you to stay."




april 30, 2014

You___

yeah. well
i'm not that guy
(except i am,
and several more)
anyway.
so it's not as though i care;



january 2014

solitude

automonologue delivered

on a dark stage

three hundred empty stadium seats:

a simple, bitter peace

expected disappointment

this is a blind business, here:

a posthumous profession

yet i return

a customer of former thoughts:

scrawling quick impressions
on the future's peeling wall

january 2014

a spell

after flurries of commotion,

silence falls, like 

sudden summer rain from open skies;

long peace, an oil color streak,

descends upon a dusk-dimmed valley.

in these calm times, the dark is filled

with quiet beauty,

content & still.

january 2014