Another grey, rainy day
in Somerville
maybe that's why Patsy
Cline loops back
in baby's arm
bringing back Tom
ole Brentwood roommate shortly
after OJ murdered Nicole
and Bob who wrote the song
died in 2014 but it didn't
ripple through any brook
of our shared nook

Strange

Strange how we can only tell
stories with other peoples
stream
Strange how yours still in all
my dreams

How strange

We're at Harvard, the same one as Bill Gates and Mark what's his Facebook, except we're not students anymore and our safety net are passing away from cancer and infection leaving us eating pizza and working long hours on things we're passionate about but if we fail we can't go home again because Love isn't there anymore to cook us delicious food that we pack back to school every weekend because she really did walk the walk and not just the talk, walking in the sand of Christ's Word she believed in so much, loving everyone even though we all have little cheats, private incentives and selfish priorities-- but really, is protecting favorite nephews from a harsh world so that we won't have Viet Minh from a forgotten war haunting our dreams, coming to get you because we're French Colonial bad brand, bad? In the end it makes no sense-- we all become practical capitalist selling catfish to a buddhist America who talks a good talk about free love trade zones but the not so hidden agenda unilaterally transfers wealth with USDA inspected protectionist condoms.

going down a rabbit hole
of obscure references
really?
Good Times is lost?
are we really in our own Lost World
or Land of the Lost
or deep within Inception?

Who's Jimmy Walker, we now
never knew him
and is he still alive a quick search
says yes!
how can we not know
slanted sitcoms?
and blaxplotation with bad
back running Brown
acting totally different
than wet backs another
brown water should we flush
it down?

at least she knows
Alice in Wonderland
at least she's seen
one version on one
mode or another
book tape movie
there's also the **** version

We're waiting for the tactile mode
coming straight to our head
like Natalie Wood
just before she died following her own
Brainstorm into anther world
off to another lost reference
or obscure rabbit hole

You tell me it's not time to make a change,
just relax and take it easy. I'm still not young
And it's not my fault. But in a way it is,
And I know I have to go.
How can I try to explain when all
the words turn away, and
sigh in sadness that it's all the same
Same old story.
Look at me, and what do you see
Neither Father nor Son.

An algorithm
Is but sly slant rhyme
Math encoded rules
Like riding punk rails
Giving a gesicht
Remembering Zorks

The Alert
says I
should take a shower
now
but
the spray comes thin
like Twiggy from
the 70s
like Kate Moss from
magazines that can't turn a
profit like David Lehman's
warm shower trickling down
a cold April back
but
now
it's the tip of March
and the thin rain
comes
like my Blood loving
into mist memories

It's like steps, baby steps
in puffy, winter's clothes
from protective parents
bundles of joy, pushing through snow
white, pure,
in innocence

It's as if seasons ago
we ankle biters collected Maple leaves
as the colors changed
and froze them in between
pages of a college student's
journal full of love and passion,
in hope

that the spring of our lives
will come too soon,
and the dried leaf
and the driven snow
will add up to
something, anything
before the winter sets
in again.