Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me . . .
I tapped my own head;
it was glass, an inverted bowl.
It's small thing
to rage inside your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself.

O sweet are tropic lands for waking dreams!
There time and life move lazily along.
There by the banks of blue-and-silver streams
Grass-sheltered crickets chirp incessant song,
Gay-colored lizards loll all through the day,
Their tongues outstretched for careless little flies,
And swarthy children in the fields at play,
Look upward laughing at the smiling skies.
A breath of idleness is in the air
That casts a subtle spell upon all things,
And love and mating-time are everywhere,
And wonder to life's commonplaces clings.
The fluttering humming-bid darts through the trees
And dips his long beak in the big bell-flowers,
The leisured buzzard floats upon the breeze,
Riding a crescent cloud for endless hours,
The sea beats softly on the emerald strands--
O sweet for quiet dreams are tropic lands!

Go ahead, answer that phone call.
Swipe your finger across that screen and it’ll be signing your night away.
At a subtle7:30, the sun has already settled in its shallow watery grave, or is being lowered currently in its ball of fiery orange casket.
Answer that phone anyway, and say yes to whatever they have to offer.
It could be an adventure of a lifetime, or it could be a question of someone’s whereabouts.
You could watch from your window, the cars passing by and the overhead light flickering.
Grab your keys and go out, no matter where they are.
Step into the night and enjoy her lonely company.
Let the peach fuzz on your face be pushed up by the wind, and just go out.
Meet anyone and everyone anywhere.
Drive to the water only to stare in her vastness and welcome her sandy footsteps cover your feet.
Go to the brightest store and say hello to the cashier, make their night interesting with a conversation of commonplaces between the two.
Talk about their car or bike, talk about their job, or comment on the beauty of such a night.
Greet the rolling fog as it fills up these streets with a hazy glow.
Take a stand in the middle of the street and yell “HERE I AM” with arms stretched out as if holding the weight of the world in them.
Grab it all in, the smell of stale saltwater and the gritty stench of exhaust.
Travel to Central Avenue and awake to the nightlife of the inner city.
Bask yourself in their neon lights and flashing signs.
Embark yourself on a golden glory to adventure.
Treat yourself to wanderlust and feed that ever needing hunger of it.
Help yourself to its buffet, but don’t forget to share.
Company yourself to a stranger in need, whether they need their car pushed blocks to the nearest gas station, or drive a friend miles upon miles away to cities you barely even know about just to pick up his bag of clothes.
You see any night can become an adventure.  They can be filled with plot twists and surprises, good or bad. Take them all in, and don’t forget to answer that phone call.

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me . . .
I tapped my own head;
it was glass, an inverted bowl.
It's small thing
to rage inside your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself.

Where are the poets
who devote themselves to music
to the songs that are too good
for the lyrics to the melody
so that nothing impairs
the sound of the feelings?

Songs without empty wishes
Songs without tall talk
And no commonplaces in rhyme

Only tenderness and joy
to my anger and anxiety
my melancholy and desire
my sadness, the love
and the wonder
at everything

Otherwise a title is enough
even difficult enough
for a song without words

First I look at the man at the table
then at the window of the beach café
still as a photo, white lines around the panes

holding my attention
so beautiful that I don't get bored -
the white! the light! the division of the plane!

I consulted the wisdom
of the internet: Why
are photos never boring?

and I got a doggerel of commonplaces
which ignore the marvel
the marvel of the world

In photos, news reports and holiday
snaps, I now see the background -
the world around us