As a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.

This addiction to cogency
is holding me back.
We can snap our fingers, and
tap our toes
in different time but
the results would be the same.
The Pride of Saint Vitus
has a name, but
there are no parades
because, well, can you imagine?
I have little to give but
you are welcomed to it.
Its been said that cynics are disappointed dreamers but
as a disappointed dreamer
I say cynics are *******.
There are judicious uses of time and there are
beautiful wastes.
Its a shame that
I need to lay down in the evenings
when "good" T.V. is on and
the sirens wail a little bit less down on the boulevard but
there are these echoes, see, and
they keep me from reading that book I started in the winter of '77.
Let me rest a minute.

so much wrong 
in these hearts. 
these heads, laid neatly in a row 
on a pillow of stone are 
filled with fevered dreams 
of old kingdoms wasted and gone. 
fitful sleep stretched and stressed until 
tears fall upon this chest 
where you once rested and whispered 
something about home. 
no mercy, ******* – 
no redemption found on the skinny streets remembered from 
a misbegotten youth. 
no escape, *******,
up groaning steps 
made sweaty by air as humid as 
the breath of fate. 
i’m a stranger 
whose tires are unwelcomed on your highways and 
whose dollars are unwanted at your filling stations and 
whose soul is beyond saving. 
blood pooled on the sawmill floor 
when hungry teeth touched tender flesh, and 
left only a phantom.

As to this
cobbled together understanding:
The universe despises absolutes, and
cares not for truth seeking.
The grand spiral needs no faith.
It is not with the master's death, then
that we have become spiritual ronin,
beholden to none;
without obligation -
without the comfort of purpose....
Instead, here we are,
the rain dogs of the cosmos;
lost and alone
on a strange world
with no scent to follow.
We are the orphans of sun and moon -
bad parents if ever there were.

grass grows through the cracks in the asphalt
of what was once glass avenue.
flashes of grayed sunlight reveal blasted facades
offering a peek through the gauzy veil of
years both distant and near.
woe be unto those whose days are spent
looking backward, for the past holds naught but
the pail glimmer of souls lost
to all but thought and memory.
shade and spirit haunt this place.
the river rages unabated over the locks at TVA;
a reminder of the folly of all grand designs;
there is no power here.
gone are your craft beers and artisan pickles and
small plate miracles filled with
foraged mushrooms and
duck confit.
gone are your bike trails and long hikes and
nature walks
down around the ***, the pan and the handle.
appalachia has fallen.
the last stand lasted all of sixty seconds;
a minute too long.