Clack clack clack clack
Bing zzzzzzzzzzzpppp
That's the sound it makes
Not Parkinson's
My typewriter
That's the sound it will make
When I type up this
I really don't know what sound
Parkinson's would make
I really don't care
Ha ha
That's ironic
Apathy is a symptom of Parkinson's
I've just used against it
So yeah, I will sit at the typewriter
And clack this out
It will make my fingers hurt and cramp
It will take effort for us both
Stubborn old machines
I will bend you to my will
And when time comes
To stuff me on a shelf
Broken machine
Obsolete
I will have wrung
Every last bit of creativity
Out of us
**** yeah
That's the type of person
I am

I stare down the beach
Past the sand
It's gradient
Shifting from light to dark
Dry and fluffy
to wet and hard
Past the water line
Where children Play
summer games
Where summer is
Still a verb
Past the tiny frigid waves
That quickly conquer
The body
Past the buoys
That trigger
Shrill whistles
For errant swimmers
Testing boundaries
Past the powerboats
Racing
towards the  Weekend
Past the improbable *******
Momentary refuge
As temporary
as a beautiful
Summer day
Past the sailboats
And their
Loitering indifference
Past them all
to the horizon
An illusion
Of affinity
A paradoxical
Infinity
where cobalt skies
And azure seas
Conspire
To never meet

Pick a number
One to ten
Such calculus
I find
Impossible
Uncharted territory
My inverted world
There is no translation
For things that are
Difficult to put into words
Are inumerous
Therefore y
Being undefinable
Makes for an algorithm
Whose sum cannot
Be proven
Logically
A tangent
Of acute panic
An irrational
Conclusion

Words
Are powerful
They teach us
Yes
And no
Love
And hate
They shape us
From the outside
With what we say
And from the inside
With what we think
They can erode us away
And build us up
Bind
Or break
Us
A beginning
Or an end
Ultimately
Starts with
U

I've always found puzzles
Exactly that
Puzzling
It seemed to me
An exercise in futility
Put the pieces together
From this jumbled chaos
So it looks like the orderly picture
On the box
Hardly puzzling
The answer
is right in front of you
The puzzles here
Are worn
And weary
They have been assembled
And broken down
Over and over
Again and again
The cracks and
Worn edges
Interrupt their picture
Some are missing pieces
They will never look
Like the picture on the box
Others are mostly assembled
Left here
Waiting
For someone to finish then
Some have no box at all
No way to contain them
No picture to show them
What they should look like

I am not in Kansas anymore
That much I'm ******* sure of
I'm trying to follow the road
But it seems to lead nowhere
If I walk it long enough
Diligently pace myself
The path should unfold
But I'm tired
And cramping
And there is no wizard
Or witch
Just me
Scarecrow
Tin man
Lion

The coffee here
or something that passes for coffee
sort of coffee
but watered down
weak
tasteless
benign
unstimulating
that's the best word for it
I guess that's it in a nutshell
where I am
waterdown
unstimulated
some approximation of
me

Draining pools of blackened filth
Tiny pockets amass
An ocean of sludge to horizons end
Stone heart is cast away
Descends to the bottom

New blood bursts forth
Seeps into empty spaces
Mortar for the soul
In this wounded way
Ascend to begin again

I.
I have fallen in love with
the mid-June evening skies, and
It's volatile shades of grey
Like a temperamental canvas of inky blacks
And blotted blues, lines of translucent paint drizzle down
From the canopy of clouds, marred and bruised.

II.
Lovers separated by atmospheres and seasons,
A torrent of raindrops ravishes
It's earthen companion,
caressing the jagged scars across it's parched skin.
I have fallen in love with
The heady scent that permeates the humid air;
The love-child of storm and soil
Infused by the sweet, rich aromas
Of a 6pm cup of chai.

III.
I have fallen in love with
The rivulets of rainwater that
Trail silver maps across the ridges and contours of bottle green fronds;
And the dewy droplets that adorn the Gulmohars and Cassias that are strewn beside my bare feet;
Like a bejewelled carpet of scarlet and gold.

IV.
We are words
Ricocheting off one another,
Relief, catharsis and a safe space after a long day.
We are the comfortable silences, the content sighs,
And the barefaced truth
Between mother and daughter.
I have fallen in love with
The tapestry of words that we weave.

V.

I have fallen in love with
Coming home.