10-1-11

I am an old sailor now
unencumbered
by the land or sea
I prefer
to dream
For this poverty
of life
Has filled me with hopes
for death
it seems a much gentler destination
for one such as I
accustomed to nature's rages
followed by emptiness
and waste
fertile abundance and famine
television shows
banner ads
and mailboxes devoid of
handwritten words
landlocked or seaswept
at peace with the heart of dreams
I find what was never lost
and lose myself in what can't be found

7-28-11

Change is the condition that can't be changed.
Sameness, normalcy, routine, habit
are illusions we buy into at the
expense of our lives.
Imagine yourself at the center
of an ever blossoming flower
Imagine this present moment is the
sun towards which you turn.
Now abandon these imaginings
what is left is the self
dark, lonely, afraid
the empty shell of the real life
you carry in your breath.
Now breathe

5-11-11

Prime numbers populate the date
Skeletons file out of the closet
where fleshed out by nostalgia they
fill up my daydreams with sighs
and pungent sweat of yesterday.
I dream, I live, I wish, I weave
in and out through traffic lanes
careening towards my Maker with
uncanny precision.  All roads lead
there and here, right now, my
face is still while my ego
kicks and screams flailing against
Death's cold grasp consuming me
cell by cell.  Incredulous, culpable,
sanctimonious, combustible.  I would
call this feeling "punk rock".   Smash
it all to smithereens, cremate it,
pulverize it.  Rise like bread or
birds and dream again.  Without
nostalgia is better.  Now is preferable
to what once was.