Till the day we die
tiny words upon our lips
our eyes drill into the unseen
for us to create what will become.

Late in the day we find
a sunset too soon upon us
rushing down a hush
before our world bloomed to life.

A young impetuous boy
terrible with temptation
taunting the audience
daring them to discover unwanted secrets.

Made sullen, weakened
drunk and unvictorious.
Ripped by a wave called Timeline
that was more monsterous than his provocations,
making no exceptions, just anhilating all without predjudice.

Suntea ripened and flatend
before we could attend to it's invitation
the afternoon sank without us
taking one moment to cuddle amongst ourselves at dusk.

Now evening lolls in, black shoulders knudging
peircing lamps outside disturbing a softer natural dark
buzzing us, alien energy stimulating our eyes, our humors.

Someone orders a drink, and the night becomes lost
as his mind fades to forget his tiny, tiny words.

When I am alone I can imagine a future for myself
I plan, It seems like there are possibilities again.
I might meet a stranger with potential
I might meet an outstanding lover.

If my room is empty of anything save my life
then I can fill it, empty it, fill it, empty it
as long as I am able to attract something to me.

I can rewrite my story time and time again.
Today I can be a drunk sleeping with slobs.
Tomorrow I can be vegan cooking with my earth friends.
Then I can be a writer and pick up some dangerous man
who will steal from me soul or property.

Walking through my life again, from begining till now.
I want to find my life again, and somehow keep what is gone.

What do you do when the world stops encouraging you?
You've passed the nubile age of 18-24
you are no longer a fledgling,
in fact, long past that point.
You have no charm in terms of possible potential
you've aged out of that category
Now you are only an uncomfortable, wierd old person in the audience
and God forbid if you try to get on stage,
embarressment, boredom, pity
that is your comeuppance.

What do you do, then, when the world has no more encouragement for you?
By now you should have succeeded, or be on your comeback tour,
not still be in the gate!

Breath, hold in the hate, dissolve back into understanding, breath again.
Your chance hung there like a celluloid moment
on your twenty-third year, you were daring.
When the Midwestern plains rolled by undiscovered still
Preserved innocently in a Laura Ingels Wilder novel.

Rolling green waving grass
sunlight burning warm to my skin
sweat beads down and wets my cheaks
no where to go, everything to be.

The intellectual saddness of Camus was found by only by those diving into the abyss in search of divinity.

Bow your head, take one more breath, release...
your life had mistakes, fear, weaknesses you let rule the day.

Someone asked why (if you write) do you write.
Well...

I can't say I have a cause anymore,
I'm not an activist these days.
I've given up on the fight between good/evil
right/wrong
big/little
rich/poor
Let them all win, let them all lose
the side to be on changes too quickly
and in one slow word, I am the enemy.

I am not after being the ***** mystery.
I don't write to be a *** symbol, ******, a **** poet
It just doesn't work for me.
My boyancy deflates,
there is no pucker to my lips,
no pout on my face.

I hesistate to declair writing "fun".
It isn't, well, it can be if you don't care if it is "good".

It's not that I even have anything to say to the world.
The World knows much better than I.
So why?

No reason.

Your lives are much sweeter than mine,
triumphs mixed with parties,
action and crowds.

I can hear it when you speak up
despit your fear, agony, youth, or depression,
at least you drive
finding someone
or you paint your lips with color
smacking them on the cheek of a compadre.

You drink crap beer or wine
maybe you even smoke.
Vices.
Mine are long gone,
sacrificed.

You visit darkend, pulsing clubs
people know you
they even come up
honestly glad to see you,
you are embraced.

This room is empty now. No words in here to complete the sentiment for the feelings that sweep over you when a person you care for walks away from your life leaving you in the room you have furnished for yourself.

They walk away into the empty zone mixed with new faces, red haired ladies in tight see through black bras, excellent jobs like stock analyst, lobbyist, journalist, emergency room nurse, or worse. They don't let anyting stick to their walls, not yet, not now. They get to rewrite their songbook while yours becomes yellowed, dogeared, coffee stained.

Your room, blanketed in dust, dirt in the corners, dog hair covering your bedquilts.  ***** laundry piles up, you never become wealthier or smarter.  Your circle of friends degenerates into locals and deadenders like yourself. Days pass, you become old.

You latch on to anything that is moving.  Hopefully it is moving upward and outward. You dream about driving away, far away from where you live, driving for miles into the desert.  You want to live in a town where nobody knows who you are, you don't know anyone either; your home an isolated, small, cheap apartment like the one you had when you were a freshly freed adult.

Dreaming and dreaming about a life where you can be left alone so you will have the freedom to maybe, this time, find a life that resembles your fantasy of what it is supposed to be like.  All the promises of what education and college would bear.  Intelligent friends, moving and shaking the conciousness and politics, life, and town were supposed to surround you, invite you to dinner parties where you would drink smart wine and discuss shaping the tone of the future.

Turning over in your sleep, you wish everything around you would walk out and leave you. Everything except your child. He would stay, weather the change, ride the storm into your own empty room where you could paint the walls of life newly.

as my body rots in place
as new souls stand out and shine
as I die without notice
my age, my age
I will not survive.