"Where do you want to be in five years?"

Happy,
safe,
full of food and mirth,
and not wishing
to die.

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.

(F)or all the
t(o)ugh times
that (c)alled
for (u)ltimate
(s)trength...
remember
them..

it's going to be a long day
long night
long morning
whats the difference
if you don't


sleep



anyways.

pale sun
painter's fault
paint finished

I ran three miles
for the first time, she was fast
just not fast enough