I take walt seriously
For the questions
Question me
   untamed and reoccurring
They -
Aren't from him
    No, they're not from him
They -
Are light through
    a cracked door
They -
Are rumors told
    of secluded shores
They -
Are forcible ripples
    for what
        and who
           they're for

Sunrise explosion!
Sneaking up on no one
But the unawake
    At life, at the day
But to the awake...BANG!
And the planet we are on in all
    its Enormity
    and prism power - atmosphere
Separates the radioactive
    explosion
That is traveling
299,792,458 miles per second
From 93 million miles away
    (a whole 8 minute journey)
From a hot body
With a 432,288 mile radius
of glowing
    exploding gas
That, upon reaching us
Is recklessly
    Smashed
Into all potential tertiary shades
Of cerulean and sapphire
Of marigold and sandstone
Of shades beyond identifiers
    (we all experience them
    differently anyhow)
And for these opening moments
    of the day
All masterpiece paintings
    appear as preschool throwaways
And as quickly as the calm chaos enters
It stage exits
    On account
        Of the 432k mile monstrosity
            That will blind
                Any
                    Who dared look at it

Good morning.

In these hours
I look at your face  
I think
We two, separated, so long.

You with your drugs and ***, miniscule friends.
Celebrating a pale youth down bright corridors.
Me stagnating inside a corner or a cabinet of a deep red mind.
Brushing away cobwebs for years,
finally, to make room for you.

When we met again,
On the beach
Or on a ***** sidewalk
Or in the basement
Or with you beside me

With patiently thick fingers
Me screaming
**** me, **** me

It wasn't enough that time to ease the physical pain.
Years of ******* standing slouching smoking,

The complete erasure of my past coming in waves and then, suddenly,
Creeping back into the dark next to the spiders:

A man here, taking me for granted,
A dress with a tear near the knee,
An empty space
A mother placing her daughter tightly away in a large granite box a top a musty gray shelf and waiting outside with the key.

And me inside
And me inside

And the music, a century of loneliness and terror
others and their pain and my own

It all crashed down yesterday

Aha!
         I've got you now!

I went to the Bookstore today
    (can't do tablets or laptops
    when smoking cigars
    and
    ...also hate tv...don't like
    the way it makes me feel
    or other people look)
In downtown Boulder, Colo
Which, if you've never been
Displays fresh prints of Dave Eggers
And Edward Abbey
    In an 1899 erected structure
        That formerly hosted
            Ballroom dances
                Orchestras
                    And secret societies
It's not Powells in Portland, Ore
    (old school state abbreviations...
    deal with it)
But it's better for me
    Because I'm here
And it was a beautiful day
Even after losing at chess
    to a brilliant fool
    just outside
I couldn't help myself
    From browsing the poetry section
        In its entirety
(Only here for the $3.75 copy of the Poetry Foundation's monthly)
And I noticed an increase
    In fresh copies of Hafiz
    Same for Bukowski
    And Ginsberg
Keats was nowhere to be found
Typically, Shakespeare, Whitman,
    Wordsworth...are everywhere
I wondered if the American compilation
    by Garrison Keillor
    is worhwhile
There were dozens
    And dozens
        Of masters
            That I have not spent time with
Not "spent time"
Perhaps read a bit
    But not, connected with enough
    that I could say...I got it
    Not a fully aligned get
    But an education
        And appreciation
            To one who has pushed the craft
            in their own way
Or left me weeping
    at brilliance of love and language
But I resisted said temptation
    Of rampant reckless bookbuying
        And got my magazine
But on my drive home
    In the far East reaches of the county
        (Boulder's real estate no longer
        grants us commons much access)
    I stopped at tiny used book shop
        Bought an old copy of
            D. H. Lawrence poetry
                for a few bucks
And by the time I got home
To take inventory of tea
    Of coffee
        Of wine and cigars

I was rather pleased
    Pleased with myself
For I looked forward
    To the read
        To the sky
        To living soul free
            Once again