I watched a rarity across the street,
Walking like an endangered species
On his way to school, alone.
Don't his parents realize,
As ours did,
That single men live on his way,
Looking out windows
With coffee and cigarette;
Married couples are household occupied,
Labourers, professionals and unemployed
Are behind closed, locked doors,
Busily preparing for another day.
Cars drive by, one slows behind him,
To ensure her carrier pigeon fledges along.
The lad in question pays no attention,
Playing catch-up with his shadow.

On my belly
I conspire
To Live
A life of crime

Glory above
There is no
Such thing as
No Values

All fortunes
and deeds
become dusty
clouds

On the horizon
There is only
A legacy
of old jokes

Passed down
through births
and marriages
across towns

Held up
by gunpoints
and finger
points

Pinned down
by church
potlucks
and Casseroles

Propped up
by war stories
and movies
About heroes

Brought down
by their own
Glories
In the dust

“Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water. And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes you cannot even breathe deeply, and the night sky is no home, and you have cried yourself to sleep enough times that you are down to your last two percent; but nothing is infinite, not even loss. You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day you are going to find yourself again.”

[The lines of the hands formed a complex map]

Reality strikes
The days pass by
Two lines
Different seasons
Separate stations

[Reality hitting on the rocks]

Curve line erasing the good things of the past
2 drops of water falling on the way to the office
  |        |
  |        |
  |        |  Old soundtrack passes over parallel tracks
Theater full, broken line

Days pass and pass
Birthdays pass, not words
Difficult to pretend to be well
No words happen

Places I’m not, line closed
Places you are not, closed line

Romanticism doesn’t feel the same as maps on our maps
2 parallel drops fall
|                               |
The game hits me against the rocks
You don’t follow me in a straight line

[Reality catches me]

there are no words
there is nothing
thick fog

The same lines
Now they are parallel
Your reality hits

[The lines in my hand no longer form a map]

   - Codelandandmore // 4:00 PM ©

These words don't belong to you
or me

They come from down deep
From the low guttural rumblings
Of our sleeping planet

They come on the wind
as it flies into your ears and eyes
forcing you to take that deep breath: inspire

They come, gently, from the trees
whispering the song of the season
as you stroll beneath their branches

They come from the heart
as it pumps blood through us tenuously, with a rhythmic beat

They come from the stardust
of a thousand dreamy worlds
drifting slowly through the universe
and out the tips of our pens