I had several people direct message me about yesterday’s post, saying (a) it was late; and (b) that I’m wrong in asserting that there is no secret to eternal youth, because there is. After reading and considering all of their carefully reasoned arguments, I can only respond with

… sorry it was late.

---

in dreams the roads are longer 
and night and day are one 
we rustle then like leaves across 
some distant overrun 

where sound turns into silence 
and silence into haze 
in dreams the roads seem endless 
just like these 

latter days

---

I love sleeping, but I’m not that fond of dreaming. Dreams are unreliable friends; they bring up subjects we’d rather they didn’t, stay too long, and come back at the worst possible times.

Sleep is like getting a massage; dreams are like someone operating a jackhammer just outside your door.

---

come ride the hillside of barely knowing, 
come slide along on the nescience; 
all is so free where the winds are blowing 
random accessible ignorance. 

come see vapors that turn to shadows 
that we can claim to mean "it's our turn" -- 
come ride the hillside of barely knowing, 
where we can find, but can never 

learn

---

One of the best things about writing poetry is that it doesn’t really have to make sense, at least not in the same way sentences are supposed to. Last time I checked, emotions don’t really make any sense, either; ideally, poetry conveys those nonsensical (or irrational) emotions. It can, of course, do a million other things; and people will have their preferences as to what they like in poetry.

Sometimes, it helps to read online prose discourse as though it were poetry. When you stop trying to make sense of the welter of human emotions, it can make life a lot easier.

And then one can produce their own posts on time. So sorry about yesterday.