It's the separation
The distance
The indifference to one another's
Affairs
Some of the time
That gets to me

In wait
I stare at the screen
Out the window as
The rain
Smashes into my window
At high-velocity
No thoughts come
**** if I'm not numb
Most of the time

Prose and poetry
Sometimes
Aren't enough
Inspiration
Sometimes
Isn't enough
Life sometimes
Just doesn't cut it
But then I'm left
With a simple question:
What else
Is there?

She sneezes and I recall
The past;
Images against a hazy backdrop.
So much rain.
Lots of snow.
Not knowing where either of us -
The pair
The individual -
Are going to go.

Life comes down to choice,
Opportunity, and
Self-knowledge; knowing
What the hell
You want.

The road signs will
Appear then.
The magicians face will
Come forth then.
The words writ, spoke, sung, sold, built, molded, etc.
Will ring true for you
Then.

The only way
To know
If
You've got it,
Is to accepting
You'll never really
Know
If you do.

Accepting chaos
Staring into the moving flame
Hearing the wind rap at one's window
The tea kettle hisses
Like a snake trapped in a cage
Seeing the food has all gone bad
The stores have all been shut down
Their is a hopelessness in a baby's eye
So vast, so true, so knowing,
That no man
Can know its meaning
Past the age
Of
Five.

Campbell, in all his tall wisdom,
Resorts to refreshing the past spreading
Its happenings upon the present.

A tall order for many who do not read.

History is our skin
Our blood
The characters before us
We were once them
And they will be us tomorrow
The difference
Is in
The faces, but never
The character

Few move through the mold
Taking eccentricities past the Bible
Holding their time, culture, present
Like a whirling fireball
Inside of their gut.

A Romeo and Juliet kind of story line.
An Iago and Cassius kind of melody.
Macbeth and his ghosts play cards under
Dim candlelight, swords play by their knees.

The world
Is a monstrous stage.

Wind swept and grand,
Devouring any who
Miss a cue.

Though they are not devoured,
They are
Tossed aside by time,
Up to Heaven or down to
Dante's hell,
Remembered by few or all
(In the end, does it even matter?)
Their stories always twisted
Like the infamous pop
Of a cork ***** at a bad party.

Our liquid state
Clear as a puddle on the sidewalk
Reflects our
Own
Insecurities in daily life.

Spotted tombstone engravings
Of a life lived through and passed;
The oil drum leaks toward a church,
Creating the chaos
We are born from and
One day

Die back into.