[…the space between infinities…]

the masters of the universe
the mistresses of pain
the fortunes of the other folks
their houses down the lane

a passion for veracity
a cavalcade of fun
a phone call in the dead of night
to be the only one

an afternoon of pleasure spent
an instant on the way
an overarching sadness that
engulfs the everyday

a word or two that hides its face
the comfort we don't give
the space between infinities
where we choose not-to-live

the music of the hidden heart
that keeps in how it feels
the whitewash on the sepulcher
the tomb of our ideals

the aftershock the ambulance
the cold and bloody dawn
the moment after of all of it
the tv goes
back on

… rain and strange

The day.

The day was full of rain and strange
Whereby the streets lay soaked and mad;
I paced about with winnowing mind as
That which ( I ) no longer had

Came sinking without concepts through
Which one could find a word to say;
The world was tired, so was ( I ) –
And full of rain and strange, the day.

And one remembers, one drank tea:
How very odd a memory –

The pressing ache of no goodbye,

The loss of

[ you ]

the end


( i )

… full of words and tales

i kissed you once out
here beside these trees, and
in soft regret your eyes were
turned inward, towards that part
of your life invisible to all but,
or even and, yourself

but the memory is not the
kiss, it is the look and the
feel of your face as i touched
it, brushing the hair back
off your forehead, appraising both
the moment and the look in
your eyes

but what is frozen often
melts, if enough time passes, and
only now do i recognize something
like fear mixed with your
longing – for while you felt something
for me, i was a strange, unpredictable
creature in your eyes, full of
words and tales

and the stories you knew
best always ended up being
scary ones: perhaps this was
a false setup to a frightening
ending – you weren’t sure

but i mistook that look for
a bad grade, and

dropped the class

in soul of search mates



the sad is search and
difficult with all of its
dramatics to turn oneself into a
prize it’s moral

acrobatics we love because
we love to love to need to feel
inside but all that ever was
and is is made of clove and

pride we string along our
platitudes we soon evince our
longing but souls are made of fragile
stuff and yearning for



we stood transfixed,
transported in the splendor:
splenetic though we’d traveled,
traversing mood and parsimony,
particularly aggrieved,
aghast in light of our ignorant

paralyzed and paraphrased,
odiferous and otiose,
we nevertheless found nemesis,
colloquial colors, and
exculpatory explosions

scalene possibilities

scalene possibilities, left
to rot and oxidize out
in fields where ambition
passed into nonbeing, knowing
only that what once behaved like
people, now behaves like

calls come in through a
central switchboard, desperate
requests for meeting with
the council or the mayor of
retrogressive turpitude, following
nights of snow and
tumbleweeds that have heard
all your

A colossus of dusty Rhodes, once

On a high and windy Calvin hill

And dale Evans was crossed beside

The middle Sea —

We stood in broken line of sight

Of many battlefields that ran with

The Chicago bulls, and many an

Ancient Seattle mariner had dared only

Wear pink if its one of your colors

Still waving

Photo credit : ID 100750893 Gorelovs | Dreamstime.com, modified by Adobe Photoshop