Even if it’s me
The cause and effect
Of this love that burns endlessly
And in the end, dissolves within me

Even if it’s me
The shadow that waits for you
In the randomness of late hours
On empty streets where memory falls

It doesn’t matter what they say
Or what they think of us
What is love if not the pain
That inhabits what makes us alone?

Even if it’s me
The one who gets lost,
...

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But When We Zoom In
We Second Guess.
Could I Even Breath Through The Rest?
What’s That Stuff Floating In My Vodka?
Prince Charming Feeling Awkward?
That’s Two Or Three Times Bad for My Health.
That’s What They Say, When I’m By Myself.
Can You Bluff When You’re Dealing Hell?
I Got A Lighter, So I Might As Well.
I’m The Numbest I Ever Felt,
Bluffing My Way Through Hell.
Because I Share ...

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This poem came to me after a visit to London, where I was thunderstruck by the  scale and beauty of the restored Reading Room at the British Museum. I was also wrestling with Existentialism at the time.

A Book of Hours

There was Time when its Arrow

flowed like a ticking clock

as it carved the future from the past

like a blind sculptor in one dimension

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Swaying flowers,

passing hours,

birds in evergreens

happy smiles,

worth your whiles

and sappy little trees

muddy faces,

fraying laces,

and a gentle summer breeze

swaying flowers,

passing hours,

making memories

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