They talk oh how they talk about life,
Pleasant contentment in their laughs,
Carefree pleasantries, their words as they breathe.
And yet, I am elsewhere in another time and place,
Tapping the keys on the keyboard which play the strings of my heart,
And I imagine their heartbeat with mine,
I feel their connection with one another - that is my connection.
And at the same time I think big thoughts about the universe, the stars, the expanse of disorder,
And also, their conversation which slows my mind.

Listening to the rhythm and human intonation of their speech: A casual lull hitting the seas of infinite chaos.

On that autumn evening in 1962
I am falling for you,
And the sounds of jazzy-blue
Rambling lost and smooth.

In this moment I've contrived
While I am there by your side,
Inside of fiction, with you, I hide;
And walk the night under city-lit skies.

But that was an unrealizable time;
This moment was never mine.
Cloaked with nostalgic rime
Inside a Polaroid frozen in time.

All you left behind for me:
This black and white memory
Of a night I'll never see,
And a melancholic question: Who is she?

If for a moment time wasn't at my throat swinging like a pendulum with a cold blade at the end,
I’d challenge the world with that moment and in just a handful of seconds change everything —
but reality pulls back, those frozen seconds slip from my grasp, and I’m stuck in the infinite now;
trapped between the longing past and the hopeful future.

I’ve pondered the certainty of desolation;
The impossibility of the divine forever moments,
Against time’s constant undertowing motion,
we cannot contest / we cannot relent!

But now, as I stand and observe the city lights through the low-hanging mist,
I ponder the dark questions about humanity and what it has become from the early days through to now.
Is there not more wonder than a green blade of grass cracking through the crushing weight of the sidewalk’s concrete slab at my staggering feet?
I may enjoy this night — but I don’t.
I enjoy life despite a sorry excuse for love in a pseudo-relationshitstrorm and cheap *** with a sour aftertaste of pure regret.

I am heartbroken, and heartless.  Trying to make up for it with imagined feelings for a person who was never there.

And when I see all the people around me finding love in a bare, bar bathroom stall, I wonder in all my pity: did I miss out on opportunity?

Would I be correct to assume you are what you do?
I see you watching TV -- oh, you must be a watcher.
You walk across the street -- no way you're anything but a walker.

She eats, so why not call her an eater?
He sleeps, so he must be a sleeper.

Why is everyone so naive? -- they must be naivers.
Cause if they do it, that must all they are. Right?

I may write poems,
but I am not a poet.

I write the same way you watch TV;
I  watch TV the same way you cross the street;
I cross the street the same way she eats;
And I eat the same way he sleeps!

I am not what I do,
That's not even close to true!
And neither are you,
But if that's how you see me, that must be you.

I began as a sprouting blade of grass like Whitman said.
And among the millions of green leaves, I am.

Ground, oh found me dead, rooted where I stay,
I once dreamt to uproot and walk away.
Was I foolish in those days, and in my thoughts;
To dream of Life while Death lovingly held my hand?

Life's short part and Death's long verse,
And I, as they act their roles upon the stage my soul,
Weep for their sense to be sung.

She picks me up,
Dresses me in blue.
Clothes me in lace,
All dolled up, shiny and new.

We play our games,
I always lose;
I'm just the doll,
I let the girl choose.

We play for awhile,
And my threads begin to fray;
With every tug and pull,
She strains me with her play.

To her it's all fun,
My feelings: she's unaware;
But slowly I'm dying,
As my seams wither and tear.

Until one day,
Something finally snaps;
My threads unravel,
I'm riddled painful gaps!

So like the dolls before,
She'll toss me in the trash;
And out to browse some more,
For the next unlucky catch.