I am not accustomed to feelings of longing
As it is now not from a person

I stand on the creaking logs in the middle of a swamp's river
Balancing to remain afloat

I watch from a distance
Sitting on my rain cloud
As my acid raindrops on your safe haven homeland

I have hidden my heart under these planks
And the beating is like black and yellow sparks
Screaming in my ear
"Now,"
They shriek,
"Now."

I'm like an artist staring at a canvas
The rainbows swirl in my mind
But there is no shadow
There is no story.?

I watch the band from below
I shower them with photos
And they ask me to be there
Again and again

I watch from the wood
Longing to be in the rainbow rain
I describe the floorboards
Because that is all I know.

Show business isn't as glorious as you'd think,
There's not much glory that comes form this stage,
Yet us actors trade all the lovely pieces of our life,
For a split second of grace and beauty.

Don't mention the back stage,
No to an actor at least,
I'm afraid nothing good happens there,
At least for us, it's just heartbreak and longing.

I never knew you wore a mask,
Not one stitched of velvet and lace,
But something deeper, carved in silence,
A role you played without a stage.

They called you charming, bold, and bright,
A leading star in life's cruel play,
But now I sift through tattered pages—
Scripts you wrote, then cast away.

Each line rehearsed, each smile strained,
A careful act, a practiced art.
But somewhere in the endless stage,
You lost the echoes of your heart.

Did you ever dream of slipping out,
Of shedding costumes, painted grins?
Or did the role become so seamless
You forgot where it begins?

Your laughter filled the hollow halls,
Your voice rang sweet, devoid of doubt.
Yet I can see it now—between the lines,
A silent plea you dared not shout.

And when the curtain slowly fell,
Did you expect a standing cheer?
Or did you hope, in some cruel mercy,
That no one saw you disappear?

I found the notes you never spoke,
The truths you buried in your chest.
The world’s applause still lingers hollow,
Yet you have finally found your rest.

So take your bow, oh phantom friend,
Beneath the lights that burn so bright.
I only wish I'd seen you sooner,
Before you faded into night.

Exeunt omnes
Exeunt Omnes is a Latin stage direction,
commonly used in theater and drama, which means
“all (of the characters who are on stage) leave”.

Emptiness glares at the unbemused,
and bemused as well,
the entertainment, reenacting old tales,

has left the stage empty, curtains wide open,

O, hear, backstage, listen,
the next act, this is the set, the empty stage,

O, see, that light came on, soon it must shine
on something we must see, from where we sit,
- a light on an empty set is a Chekovian gun
- it must illuminate, a plotted point…
- replat to arrange room to expand

waiting, imagining someone peeking,
through the fourth wall
from behind the backdrop, counting empty seats,

and finding none not empty, but mine,
where I sit, this is it, I am the attendant paying
attention to the nuance evolving constant artforms,
reactive agents
acting out the gluonic mythos accruing arts
eventual discernment, messages to all who see,
rising mist
hear the outside world through the open window,
stare contentedly into the white noise, listening,
obscuring fog
carried on winds, on which prophets say Jah walks,
wafting down
from the empty stage, to fill
the emptiness between us each, in
a sphere of influence, as it were, as real
as Glenda of the North, oozing after ousia,
epiousiatical usual rational, vital substance

essence of first intention, to tell the truth,
about why any creator's mind makes peace,

the heroic struggle is the truth, per se,
indeed, working out your own salvation,

while involved with fear and trembling
anticipation, hoping to be chosen,

as the sorting hat allows, destination,

local J.C., augmented
by an L.A. County Library Card.

-- in the realm of all seeking sanctioned
American citizen level access to idle records…

some never imaginable incredible proofs lie,
credibility discovered while unbelieving lies,
what a freeman,
wombed or un, is,
believe me, no person in prison, is. That
is believable, while incredible is really not.
Free is lonely.
Believing is an act we are assumed
capable of performing, before we have words,
we are bound up in some kinda love,
or we just fail to become what we could be

as we become, we all pass all our infancy,
without words, that is what an infant human is,

not a pup or a kitten or a chick or a kid,
a wordless form of a flesh encased spirit,

a measure of our whole truth weform, as we
breathe and have our being, our behaviors,

in the medium between empty stages.

VOG  cut the house lights.

My 500th poem, on my 9 year anniversary of writing. Perception of time.

It seems like nothing can humble you
faster than time. It affects everyone,
regardless of race, gender, or age.
And yet, it somehow feels personal
when bad things happen
depending on what stage of life we're in.
But what if it isn't time that changes us.
What if it's our perception of time
that changes us? When we're young,
time seems to move so slow.
But the older you get, all time sees to do
is go, go, go. What if we never lose
or run out of time.
What if it's the stress of living that's committing the crime of breaking us down.

it all started with a single hi
three days, three nights
of unstoppable phone conversations
life lessons from three decades
of each other's existence
then, one midnight
you drive past the city lights
to meet me on the other side..

las cortinas cierran
el escenario está vacía
yo miro la luna en el fondo
estoy hablando tontería
estoy llorando en el piso
es un acto de un solo hombre
así que el lugar está sombrío
y nadie está haciendo nada