He stepped haltingly over stones and debris
while descending the hill that abutted the tracks.
The steel rails seemed to vanish into the earth
just a short distance beyond where he stood.

The ruins of a station arched high into the pulsing sun;
casting uneven patterns of light upon its dark interiors.
While crossing the threshold of a large stately room,
he thought he heard a whistle blowing.

Once adorned but now decayed walls enveloped his thoughts
as tall weeds tapped gently against a cracked window.
He rested in front of his reflection in the dusty pane;
weary from the journey and warm from the sun.

Gazing intently into the face before him,
he saw the changes that had taken place.
His hands began to tremble and his breath began to seize
as he recalled the promise of his youth.

He awoke from several hours of restless sleep
on a long wooden bench in the waiting room.
While confessing the obsessions that possessed him,
he realized that a destination had to be chosen.

His eyes became fixed on the remains of a wine bottle;
its leftover bounty having long been dried by time.
The sharp jagged edges reminded him of church steeples
as he tightly cupped its base in his hands.

Rumbling sounds had become ever louder;
so he returned outside by the tracks.
Smiling broadly, he plunged aboard
before the darkness surrounded him again.

This morning the rains fell upon the city;
heightening the contemplative mood
within which I found myself.

It began as a cacophonous downpour,
followed by a brief but measured rest.
Upon resuming, the rains alighted gently and rhythmically,
as if relief had come from the initial burst
and contentment from the pause.

I longed to be in the presence of that revered trio
whose trumpeter's sounds still echo within me.
Yes, though my convictions have grown dubious with time,
an impassioned but faithful rendition
is something to embrace on such a day.

Having warded off a material challenge
from late afternoon's chaotic fusion of asphalt and steel,
the melodies continued well into the night.

The rains, bond between past and future,
temporal and eternal, are exalted
for allowing respite from the mundane and disconcerting,
and bringing us closer to the ground of our being.

It has been recorded on surveyor's maps
that Mount Everest, standing 29,028 feet tall,
is the highest point on the face of the earth.

Still, when you were here,
I could see its snow covered peaks below me.

It has been recorded on oceanographer's dials
that the deepest depths of the Pacific
lie 35,820 feet below sea level
and that it takes a one pound metal ball
63 minutes to fall to the bottom.

Still, on the day you left,
I stretched high but yet
could not touch that metal ball
at the end of its plunge.

It has been recorded on astronomer's charts
that the remotest heavenly body
visible to the naked eye
is the Great Galaxy in Andromeda
known as Messier 31;
2,120,000 light years away.

Still, since you have been gone,
as I reach out to grasp your hand
during moments of forgetfulness,
the east coast might as well span
twice the light years to Andromeda.

Indeed, though the distance between us
may at times seem unbearable,
the nearest one in my universe is you.

This has been recorded in my heart.

Imagine;
behold a glorious luminescence;
a radiance without equal;
an opulence of which still Eros
could have only dreamt.

Coalesce;
be encased in a provocative warmth
of indefinable bearing and scope;
beseeching the sacred
while disavowing the profane.

Awaken;
greet the day
through a dichotomous portal
with burden pulling one way
and aspiration drawing another.

Strive;
endeavor to find consequence
in a world whose noisy hands
(some set in "smiley" faces)
steer us toward the precipice
while we grasp forever but for an instant.

Lifting her knee socks
Skirt to the wind -an ally
To one in youth's throes

What Asian delicacies
have you set forth upon my table?
Free range birds; smooth yellow-brown skin;
perhaps slightly underdone.
Oh, the fragrance spewing!

Such an arresting presence;
surely good enough, if not too good, to eat;
tender curves and dainty features
quietly portraying a most honorable lineage;
lean legs supportive of finely trimmed thighs;
firm yet supple *******.

Shall I feel guilt or remorse
if these striking beauties were to succumb
to my gluttonous comportment? Undoubtedly.
Do I have the strength and resolve
to do what is right? Most certainly.
Chopsticks, please,
before they take flight.

Paris shall live in
My eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and heart
At least until death

The time has passed
in which the twig could bend;
awaken uplifted to a bright-eyed sun;
lay claim to its full legacy
with the comfort of nature's backing
and, at day's end,
caressed by tender winds,
frolic in a moonlit garden of blossoms.

I have heard it said:
if only I knew then what I know now,
how different I would have been.

Yet, I often think:
if only I had not been afraid
to partake of the things which I did know then,
how different I would now be.

For from a distance,
desire can breed obsession,
weakness can encourage excessiveness,
and regret can induce passivity.

I have read:
"Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind."

Yes, the twig is now brittle,
but I will no longer bemoan this state.
Instead, I will gain inspiration
from its determined posture.

For no distance is so great that
homage cannot be borne from desire,
nor strength from weakness,
nor action from regret.

And, even in the worst of times,
the Muses will appear,
the senses will rejuvenate
and the heart will beat heavily.