this old year in its last hours
checks its tie
its coat tails
its long trousers
spats
its insalubrious look
gets ready for one last stand
at the times square of our minds

sick in singapore she wrote
i rather be caned that live one more day
and i concurred i rather she'd be caned
than i
here in ohio i hear some winter birds
i swear and i attest
their forlorn cries carry far
and sometimes i believe i see their shapes
remotely flitting far
their cries carry far
here in ohio
where the winter snow came and went in two whole days
its surprising whereabouts both seen and felt
now we are back to flimsy silver lace affixed on
windows

infirm in beijing she said
they all spit!
i took that as a sign she was getting well
here in the post soltice winter there is hope
for longer days ahoy
the maritime soul departs in yet another lost boat
inexplicably tied to the date

sick in mazatlan she said the water makes me puke
i heard later she bought a boat to sail from the west coast
down to the panama canal then up the east coast to new yor
k
that was her plan
but no she gave it up after she bought the boat
she realized she would have to fill it with ***** and nothing
else
choice give up the ship or sink under the influence
i hear the "Rosa Linda" i still tied in long beach pier

I mourn such passing as the days
disclose and hide in a foggy patina of misremembrance
see this was her coat her gloves
the angle of her visor gave us more of her
than i can just now tell i cant even remember the color
of her eyes
and yet firmly believe that we once met

as i get ready to welcome a new year
back to the chalk line
on your marks
ready
set
go to my habitual everyday

here in ohio some winter birds
pester the air with their calls

perhaps they know something about time
I don't know

anyway, let's go meet another minute hour or day

sick  in
ohio i say

I've booked my ticket like a Spring Break trip.
Cancun or Mazatlan, but this trip will be permanent -
An exciting prospect of new adventure,
Regret at what's to be left behind.

The date is circled upon the calendar
And does it ever race to hand.
My last grand adventure to plan,
To take part of before I hit the end.

There will be no more and
What once was will be lost.
I hear the sun shines there
But not in the traditional sense.

Say goodbye to the girls -
Tell them I love them -
And don't forget to pass word on to my brother.
Its sad I didn't get to see him again before I climbed aboard.

Worse things have happened and
I'll see him when he decides to visit.
No worries once he takes up permanent residence -
Sorry to ruin the great secret.

So, let's make the wheels turn
With the time that's left on the clock.
The sand in the hour glass is running short.
We've got time for one last game of Pictionary before I depart.

Let's act it up and act it out.
Let our actions resonate in screams and shouts.
So ket's do the best not to waste our time
As those last grains drop by and by.

Our actions speak as words,
And when all clocks finally stop,
Its towards the horizon that I will look,
Thinking of tomorrow as I board that box.

Just know that I will miss you so well.
Mom and Dad, even though I put you through hell,
All I wish is for you to be whole,
And even though I am off on my own,
Know that I leave behind my soul
So I will still be here even after I'm gone.

It was the summer of 2005. I remember being 16 and packing my suitcase with my sister. We were getting ready to leave for San Diego the next morning. That's where the cruise ship departed from by the way. We were going to visit the warm beaches of Mexico, and walk along the golden sands.
Families selling handcrafted goods neatly stretched on the stands of Mazatlan.
Then there was the forest. Everything in the rain forest comes alive before you and the air was wet like one of those Korean spas you never want to leave. The other travelers we'd meet on the boat were like us, and we were like children experiencing the magic of Disneyland for the very first time.

I am a blind hamster on a creaky wheel.
I am the weight at the bottom of a sack of drowning kittens.
I am your overdue taxes with thirteen attachments and nine different forms.

My life is mud.
It is a paradise for sickly toads and preying swampthings.
I slog through it lik ea nine hundred pound woman climbing a flight of stairs.

What do I want?

Everything.

Ocean sounds echoing off the walls of my sanctuary.
Soft cushions topping heaps of treasure.
Hot tea in a rainstorm.
Lovers from here to Mazatlan.
Seven angelic children singing like bells at Christmas.

I want to stay young.
I want to be young, younger than I've ever been --

I want straight shoulders
and hairless skin
and white teeth
and perfect eyesight.

The grace of a dancer.
The vision of a priest.
The life of someone starting over,
wisdom remembered, energy building,
all in love with skylines and jet trails.

Mostly, I want your eyes
meeting mine
and telling me
I'm not alone in this.

That day near Mazatlan you suddenly turned to me
and declared,"You were a romantic once, when I loved you."