A constant natural attraction
to the darkness lurking
beneath this force
we evade
only ever temporarily
by some action.

We may end up
soaring for
a bit, if we are lucky (by any other name),
but the darkness will sit patient
underneath
like a well trained dog
that only bares
his teeth
when you get
too close.

It has all the time in the world,
you don't:
there's no flight high
enough,
no escape
velocity.

Ending up consumed
by the sun
would be
no greater
tragedy.

Between ripe
and rotten
stand
a few letters
and not nearly
enough
time.

Encountering
by chance
a past
flame
is muck akin to
the aftermath
of the habit
of setting aside
half-smoked joints
on the ashtray
to save for later
and then
promptly forgetting
about them:
sometimes you are surprised
to find
more
than you remembered,
but,
more often than
not,
the opposite
occurs.

Seventy two
virgins
always sounded
quite the rotten deal -
it is
too few.

For an eternity,
only infinity
would do.

On the news,
the other day,
hundreds of people
(of all ages)
hospitalized
for putting sun blocker
in their eyes
to watch
the eclipse.

Now,
I'm no doctor and yet
I'm fairly confident
that cannot be
considered
a life threatening
injury,
so it's almost
certain
some of them will
outlive
me
and you
too.

The sun shines
regardless.

Not quite there yet,
not yet here quiet.

Life is this discomfort
trying to escape itself,
a pulling string
to one side
or the other,
a wave rising and crashing
against its own
endless sea:
because life demands to be
somewhere
not quite here.

A sound continuous,
sometimes music
sometimes noise,
sometimes shout
sometimes whimper,
but never
mute

and yet here
we are,
still so
afraid
of silence.

What does not **** you
Brings you so ever closer
To ultimate death.