We exist in the world
Of the living;
Living with the ghost of absence --
All the many losses;
We carry them in our breath,
In our bones,
In our eternity of memories
Passed down through generations,
After generation,
After generation --
Losing ourselves
But gaining many losses,
Becoming ghosts of absence --

Music isn't the same anymore.
The purity and grit are gone.
It's mechanical and cold.
I remember the days of
records and record players.
The crack and pop, the
sizzling booming bass that
rumbled in my soul.

I think of a song, let's say
something by Zeppelin.
I close my eyes and smell
the ****, see the
blacklight poster on
the brick basement walls.
I lift up the needle and
ramble on.

I dreamt this dream before I could speak it out loud,
Between the signifier and imperfect signified,
With all kinds of broken hours and promises never kept,
I tried transforming what was often said in the past.

This place would seem so real,
Made for me, trembling in the middle,
With small and growing earthquakes.
I wrote myself again—my little truths.

Looking for missing lines without wings,
Carrying stones inside my mind,
In tight, frayed bags from my beating heart,
without hope for a final insight.

Perhaps I just passed through the steam
Of a swirling, repetitive, chaotic dance,
Seeking tickets, carving an elusive imprint
With my mosaic in this human code.

Five minutes quietly slipped by.
My earned time vanished.
I had my moments going along the roadsides,
Avoiding the end of this poetic journey.

I stay wrapped in a heavy coat of suspicion.
I saw Moirés crafting another delusion.
I found a small reward in an addictive cliché,
To feel short relief from what I call my reality.

I remember what I did before,
Choosing every day not to cast a stone
Into the center of what I can’t grasp
With my breathing, human existence.
And this breath was enough.

I

   D
      A
        N
          G
       L
E
my participles
               To throw people
                       off of the scent of
Mr premise
            whose
              always guilty

                          Proceeding are a

          Cast of cowards
                       Colossal failures
                                        Contrite
       ­                       Abject Apologies
Corporate greed
           will never concede
                                  Defending
             ­                          There is NO need



Inspired songs
American woman
By The Guess Who 1970

You’re the one that I want
By John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John 1978



Written
July 15, 2025

my heart feels heavy
not like the metaphors
breathy
but it really does
I lay my hand
where it’s supposed
to be
it feels weak
almost
not beating

my lungs
breathing deep

my eyes tired
blurry

my throat
full of weird soft shivers
like my heart silently beats there
weak

my brother's music playing
in the background
my ears on sharp
listening

my hands...
sweaty

my legs
heavy

overwhelmed