My life does not stretch out before me like the yellow brick road, nor does it cling to the past like the nostalgic mush of the old, it is a maelstrom of now and wonder with the eye my calm abode. The memories of fear and joy
always erode, as the pouring here lands hard in droves, and the
beauty of current crackles then explodes.
I try to deflect the winds of time, I try
to shelter my memories
of you, and I try
to ground my booming
poetics in the little solid I know, but these
ephemeral reprieves are the total domain of
my weapons against my world, and my raging
present is ultimately all I have to offer.