Things don't matter until they do.
I learned that the day I lost you.

I have you tattooed on my sleeve,
I hope you do not leave,
Is young love naive?

**** Hat

The American was an **** hat

A real ***** ball idiot

Who didn’t care what people thought

She did this and that what she wanted

A new tattoo left ****** coloured dark green

Right ear extended elf like

Having *** with 70 year old men

Just for the Hell of it

Not to get their cash

A real **** hat gal

She was a local character

One whom people detested

Crossed the road to avoid

Yet she was smart could argue

On vague stupid topics

Her real name was Dawn

In reality they called her slang

Names unprintable here

She’s the **** hat gal

Full of crap a real lunkhead

Imagine if you were her

So full of **** hat ****!

There are broken things
               I can never fix—
                         even though
                                I’m older—
      no matter
           how much I know,
my hands are still wounded green
                      with Spring’s earth—

from even before I knew
          the pain of destruction—or
the chaos of a single lie
             (before I knew it was a lie)

when I was crawling on sunset
                  in the tall grass
                       of our backyard,
          silently following
                       my brothers
                           (newly jaded)
                 as they joked in spite
       about our mother’s volatile shouts
from our sky blue house
            of loose and spurring rage.

i can say all kinds
of things that are confusing
none are really true

How the things get further away
Disappearing in the haze of a day
Undressed and bare naked
Trash made of freedom's desires

The vanishing of things remains
I threw up the yesterday
Cause yesterday served it's time
There is no movement in things

Present me a kind of a nightly dance
Move between the clouds
In the veil of everything imaginable
To dissolve with me at dawn

Today's soldiers are very young children
Fighting battles for accolades
Exchanging sweet freedom against things
Giving in to the opinion of strangers

How all the things fade in sheen
Among **** dreams and fear
We watch it or we look away
That's a new repetition

Things Worth, Or Not, Remembering:
T.S. Eliot,  O.L. Poetry and the Passage of Time

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“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present

All time is unredeemable.

What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.”

T.S. Eliot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

<>

Only in a world of speculation, but what if,
There was no such world, one speculates,
Where safely looking in both directions as
We cross the alleys and boulevards of now is
NOT required; living in series of moments,
a steady spasming of venturing, and always,
something gained, something lost, but never,
additive, cumulative and more sensational
than experiential and we have no memory,
and thus no prejudice for or against!

Living with constant aspiration, not reckoning what are
Things Worth Remembering, is that not more than
no footfalls, only footsteps, to new love, renewed love,
possibilities of all doors opened, and we take each day
as it is given, banishing longing, jailing regret,
believing round every turn is a new fragrant, radiant rose garden,
or not…but perhaps means eternal, forever looking.

O. L. Poetry