The lights go out, The door is locked, The sign’s been turned To ‘closed’ — The streets are All-but empty now, The drive is Unopposed So many years Of driving home, The radio Your pastime You never thought The day would come You’d lock up for The last time But every dream Both starts and … Continue reading "24 Indulgences – XV"
They tell you “life’s a journey,” But they don’t tell you How much of it is involuntary. Of course, it is the journey Of the earth around the sun that gives us Our primary awareness of time; And that, too, is involuntary, Or at least, unheeding of any Requests we may have for it to … Continue reading "24 Indulgences – XIV"
I sat there, envying the rays That got to touch that skin; I wanted just to talk to her, Afraid of jumping in — I had a hundred things to say, My thoughts were wide and scattered — But I was twenty-three, and brave In no real way That mattered
parenthetic afterglow apoplectic dairy halcyon similitude carrion to carry periscopic panoply with a touch of colic luminescent lullaby dripping like a Pollock
I sit out at the park and write. I hear the distant voices; A bird is circling the lake Enjoying all his choices. A season of indulgences, A whole new book or folder: A time for loving summer back, And not just Getting older
In struggle and uncertainty You face the daily storm, And every form of trouble Seems to have become the norm — I know you’ll find your way at last, A way no one can show you; You ask why I believe in you — It’s simple — ‘Cause I know you
Towns made out of fiction, Pleasures never seen, Perilous restriction On the magazine Showing on the cover Every little thing: She was once my lover, I was once A king
He chased a hundredweight of gold, It fled from him like it had wings; She sought her pleasure in the wind, An all the promise summer brings They stood out in a field of red, Him, focused on his troubles, While she was barely listening And mostly blowing bubbles. “It is a scandal how things … Continue reading "24 Indulgences – VIII"
now a single rose is set upon the table, not as a present nor as an apology, but out of impulse, reminded of what days are, and what nights have been, because she dwells in this house and as a symbol of what i can’t say enough