this body is a resilient thing
bequeathed to us
our scrapes and bruises
found in moments of frivolous joy
and our dark experiments of flirtation
taught us little
didn't change how we acted
we grew calloused, over time
we lost that keen edge
given to a new blade
it got us here
but here, we found ourselves stranded
writing screeds 'bout nothin' 'nor the other
and what was it all for?
but to bring us 'round
for another round
again, and again, and again.

earth is a place in which a poem is produced at least once a minute
or so it seems
HePo has spaces in between
how we love to linger amongst those
but not everything ends up here
and so much goes unsaid
there is ink on page - an anachronism in these days
as waves crash down on sand - unrelenting
on all the beaches
witnessed or unwitnessed
lost in the solar wind
perchance, I saw yours
perchance, you saw mine
and perchance, an arc sparked, cross this distance
in this fleck of time

there is such great art in this place we inhabit
but for a blink of a moment
it's on our walls, copied or true
it pours into our ears
it drums our heart
how can we not SCREAM
as I pass you in the street
drinking this in
soaking in sun
the places we're going may not be great
aren't great
but that BLEED of sound as we pass by each other
staticy howls of bliss
in THAT world
is where we should be
HOW are we HERE
instead
as the sun beats down
the cicadas purr and whine
and vision narrows but to a point
how are we here
when there is such great art
the moments past, I fear I've lost so much
of what could've been
on this track, my track
as it slows to a rumble
cars on rails
ba-dum... ba-dum...
till I sleep, till I face the eternal
nothing of note poured out these fingers
no art - no great art
and what was it for?
but to be a witness.

to put words down
when I'm so enamoured with those I've laid before
to think myself to be inferior to my past self
surely is a milestone
that from here we swim down towards
that THING
that dreadful, thing
we've reckoned with
since we lost our first friend
the hampster, the gecko, the end
and beloved L-
there's nothing to fill in past here
cause we've spent our unique gems
out into the ether
with little recompense
started by musing on 1s and Zeroes
'course I always saw myself as the letter
and as always, this is not for you
das ist nicht for zie
like Zampano
most I can hope for
is esoteric footnotes
lost in hallways
always
(and forever)

the best part of the champagne is the sound
effervescent spiky staticy tv on the wrong channel sound
(back when tvs could be on the wrong channel)
detuned radio's perverted whispers twisted 'round freaky frequency and amplitude sound

ah, the **** of this
somehow envibing makes the words pour out
that old cliche 'bout writers
where would we be without 'em
our toasts less profound, at least
ting ting ting

fewer songs to go with the crack of fireworks
groaning accordions
and all the other ancient anachronistic ephemera persisting
like us, persisting
for another round

I want those flecks of gray
thru my temples
on my chin
shining away
I want to be granted
the title of "distinguished"
simply at a glance
cause truth is
I didn't do too much
with all these years
that've slipped away
I'm in my autumn
smilin' at those spring kids
jaunting down the street
side by side, unrepentant
pushing me onto the long grass
soon snow's crunching
beneath my feet
and closed eyes
as those crisp flakes fall
settling finally down
ad infinitum
while I'm gone

there exist far too many systems of which I do not wish to be a part
systems inextricably entangled with every aspect of Being
they are unavoidable, no matter how far I step back
they lurk behind me, around me, in every direction
slowly reaching towards me, with spidery fingers
they circumvent my attempts at stasis, my seeking of peace
glancing against them reveals their depth and putrescence
their touches spark blinding, scalding light
light flaring in the minds eye, which cannot be shut by any means
well... except for one.