Some songs
I only know
Through the same
twenty-eight-second pockets
Over carefully curated clips
Of impossibly perfect vacation videos
Knowing their fiction
Their hooks hook me
When thinking about?
Taking a trip to a waterfall
Impossibly immaculate
I’ll never take videos of the trip
my pop music palette
not refined enough
To share them.

I’ve read
More than enough,
To write the definitive work
On Kerouac and Ginsberg
But my dissertation
Will always sit
As blank notebooks
An empty New Document file.

I’ve watched
more than enough
to know Scorsese shots
and Spielberg framing
to make my cinematic opus
but I've never taken action
From behind my camera.

The idea man without the action
Unshared,
Unused,
Thoughts
Never have
to answer
To built up potential

They stay safe
And empty.

I can't know
What some convictions
Will mean to a world
I will never understand

I will keep the conviction
That each one in kind
Will bring
An understanding
And worlds
Not homogeneous
But congruous.
Never one
But together.

So many todays
Thinking about tomorrows
that will be
The greatest days I have ever known
That become the yesterdays
Wondering
Why they didn’t turn out the way I prophesied
To the church of one.

Always holding on
To the afterlife of this moment

Become an atheist of the promise
Find meaning
In the moments
Happening now.
The faith that
This
This now
Is it.

Don’t strain my vision
Looking too far in front
Or
over my shoulder

Unknown appraisers of artistic economy
Long ago proclaimed
A picture is worth a thousand words

Have we adjusted for inflation?
Rise and falls of expressionistic currency.
The crashes of markets and style.
The Eskimo language
Has a thousand words for one English noun
That must fluctuate the prices.

I never paid much attention
In class
When they discussed supply and demand curves
I was writing
Phrases and couplets
Of nonsensical angst then.
Now,
Pursuing the price indexes for
Sonnets to Still lifes
I feel
Writers are getting
The short end of the exchange rate.

Winds swirling
Pressures
finally got to the day
The high
The lows
Meet at the right barometric spot.

It rakes the blinds
Swirling dust
Into devils
Knocking the one on my shoulder to the ground
So I could take in
Dancing dermis dust clouds
Become ballerinas.

I left the dust there for these days
Instead of it being another chore I ignore
Listening to an entrenched shoulder demon
Blow hot air.

The days with forgotten pace
Of lackadaisical hours
Only worrying about if
there were enough building blocks
To create starships
To go to all the new
Dreamed up worlds

When my creative mind
Could lift time
above realities

My imagination isn’t gone
Not just yet
It just hasn’t had
Enough time to keep up
The regiment

Or is it…

My day has gained
so much more mass
my ships
Haven’t the ****** to escape.