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would i rather wait in line
at the entrance to Hell
knowing at least
that i had

than to stare at the Pearly
Gates coming up with
excuses as to why
i didn't

s jones


fine grains of desert air
stir into the tightening
manifestation of a

warrior slain in a charge
with such quickness—

he ran several paces before
jettisoning his weakened
vessel in order to continue

the assault...

s jones


on quiet nights lately i hear
something similar to a sheet
slowly being pulled
across a bed

thinking maybe it is just
the ringing in my ears

but i am afraid now it could be
the sound of sand pouring
down the hourglass
of my lifespan—

echoing through a
nearly depleted
vessel above...

s jones


~since the Past is a memory
supported by evidence  
of what was once "now"–

~and the Future is a mental
projection forward since it
has not yet happened–

figuring for the nerve impulse
latency to the brain, which
in turn must process
this information—

we therefore experience
the Present in Past tense,

relying upon the Future
to fuel a continued


s jones


lying on a closet floor
that stretches for over
two decades—


messages, pictures and songs
from back in the day stored
inaccessibly in a rusting box
that has not functioned in years

and next to it, a laptop with a
deployed CD tray sits sideways
partially draped by a sheet

these machines may have
shared stories once,
but its doubtful they really
knew each other

miles away in a nursing home
a petrified brain rests in some
kind of medicated peace

while another lays quietly on his
side under a blanket watching
for the other one's last breath

hearing kids just outside
laughing into their devices —

he hopes for a chance to take
his last spin on –anyone's–
old record player...

s jones


why is it every time
i look into your eyes
i am upended

falling into them
like a pouring into
your crystal goblet

of some

s jones


it was working towards me
in tiny increments with this
unusually adamant

loop-scooting itself across a
hot gravel desert populated
by abrasively inert killers

scraping off bits of itself
in detail along the way

i gave it a lift—

it rolled into a tight ball,
relaxed and then died
in my hand

its last act, a lamenting as if
i had denied it some chosen
final resting place

leaving me holding
this barometer

for measuring the spaces
between those less than
lofty of goals in the better
part of my years...

s jones

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