Having been born in Nineteen hundred forty-four,
Some say (and rightly so) I'm from "the days of yore;"
Wars were being fought, and the whole world seemed deranged,
Though many years have passed, the world's course has not changed;
But I know I have changed -- now with faltering sight
I search in vain for the dreams that never took flight

I was young once and focused on my golden dreams
Of romance, love, adventure . . . the very same themes
That you dream about, I still dream at this late stage --
So I know how you feel . . . we're on the same page;
Throughout life we reach for the brass ring, but at length
We have to admit we no longer have the strength

I understand now why back then old folks would speak
Of how "the spirit's willing, but the flesh is weak;"
And I yearn for the dawn of my life's yesterday
To once again pursue those dreams that went astray;
But the winds of Time are whispering a simple truth:
It's too late for me now . . . the spoils belong to youth

Line dial phone rings the past
what was, what is, and what lasts
The fast, the gracious and the present
Year after year, tone after tone
Toll free collecting
The connection between me and myself
Becoming ever so inconsistent.
“What man am I?” I ask.
“I don’t know “says me on the receiving side
I am a different person, same body, same tone
I am a old soul lurking, same mind, same goals.
What man am I?

When youth was moth, love flowed over us in prismatic waves—systems of romance.

Then came the phoenix of your heart, and everything was a ceiling. I moved clockwise past infinite shadow and onto your wall.

Sorry to wake you. [...] I forgot to tell you something. [...] I'm like the sun or perhaps the moon. And there are times when I know I'll make you sad.

Distant polyglot in its timbres, its psychological profile, and its pulse, it could not sound less like a soundtrack for a search. More like a Middle Eastern funeral.

Stemmed from a shared anxiety over self-definition in an indefinite world, and each of them has searched for answers in the amorphous space between where “you” end and “I” begin.

By turns, august and sweet—revealed a complex stillness, a set of detached passions attempting to rebuild themselves, a desensitized state searching for soul.

I have loved you into oblivion and now move into thin air. Please remember me as a time of day. As long as you can hold your breath, we'll always be together.

What is it that I truly seek?
What happened to the beauty,
in all that I used to see?

Can someone explain what happened to me?

I used to have the buzz and the impetus, that you'd see in a bee.
But these days, I look like a stone tied to a tree.


Asking myself,
at which age did happiness decide to flee?

Slow as a growl
Go some verses from a folio,
Like little frogs in dozens wake up on a lily pad,
And I'm singing them inside.

Cloaked is an owl,
Toads converse as roams an embryo
Like fiddle logs and cousins make up on a silly path,
And I'm singing on a ride.

Float does the vowel,
Go some verses from a folio
Like tittles fog in fuzzes flakes up on an ill leafed pad,
And I'm reading them with pride!

Slow as a growl
Go some verses from a folio,
Like little frogs and cousins make upon a lilly pad,
And I'm reading on a side.

The temporal beauty which fades and falls,
vigor of body that to vale gives way—
dissolutions of bloom—have much to say,
as life’s costly sermon achingly calls:
“Put not your heart’s hope in gifts eyes now see
nor set store by charms easily broken.
Vibrant buds o’er which praises are spoken,
erstwhile by Fall, forgotten shall be.
But in Christ waits sure glory eternal
and by loss here that beauty there’s gaining
its resplendent weight, e’en now attaining
through Jesus intimate gem troves internal.”
God’s wisdom turns decay and frailty’s gruel
into a Homeward driving kind of fuel.

~
gone to earth

left for dead

everything is tickety-boo

forget your iron-on measures

and scuttled installation

your life is a bakery

that cake is like your head

bittersweet

and full of regret

what am I reading these days?

a book across the stars

where dreams in the throes

of giddy aerosol cans

**** the passersby

and sleep against

the exit sign
~