So here I am at seven o’clock
Umm, that’s not the real time
Its where in my maze I’m lost at
Is really 9:20am to fix the rime
Lost inside this place
Of my own making
So I am amazing
Ain’t anybody here faking
Two glasses gone
A merlot for moi
What’ll you have—
Muscadine for toi?
Truelove went to Maine
Chances favor the Bentley
But we‘ll go home alone
Just saying truth, incidentally
No answers from my imprudent text
Who knows what’s coming next,
Chances swarm and the mind reels,
I wonder is that how kismet feels.
Around the bend and around the corner
Such nights as these I could be a goner
But the parade comes thither and anon
Beads, doubloons, and lingering glances and I’m so gone
Over my head for the goddess up ahead
Only to return solo to my Lysol-kissed unmade bed
Cat gets his insulin in the morning
Nine units to keep him alive
You think live isn’t fair
Well, I can’t disagree Clive
So here I am at nine o’clock
Umm, that’s not the real time
It’s just where in my maze I’m lost at
Is really midnight to fix the rime
In an ugly little room
By the side of the sea
The Sun still slow rises
For all, for you and for me.
With no gods, monsters, or ghosts;
We poor few make our own way
Thru the sadness of clashing agenda;
We’ve little room to have our say.
Yet so majestic the Sun claims honor-
Brooks no question, no how nor any why;
But once every twenty-eight days comes Luna
With the Full Moon to rule the sky.
All simple full answers do clever hide
To yield to the curious at the Hobnob.
Less surprised, we find, are all of us:
Of course you’re the one for the job!
Your place or mine?
Eyes careening in depth—
I line your profile into the divine.
Verbing strives insistent;
Efforting to the new day:
P’haps time for some laundry.
He coughs, I think, we say.
Nouns are overwrought;
Clasp this aging hand.
Child graduates and works,
Writing promises in the sand.
Present so imperfect:
Get your damn shot!
Why bleach your mask?
Nicole gives it all she’s got.
Is the past really simple?
The earthling hopes for answers,
But priest, poets, and politicians never ever speak true.
While Logic Impaired.
The World spins on axistically.
If you ask me, we’re all scared.
So at the Gates stood Conor
Awaiting his newest best friend.
Faye joined him eager yet sore confused,
This was no one’s idea of a good end
She’ll never be seven
She plays now in Heaven
And our tears yields no answers
To the never answered Oh God, Why?
Why did that thirty-something
Lose contact with his humanity?
Just playing outside in her front yard
These things are always so damn hard
Are we all so willfully and totally blind?
Is this some new flavor of miswrought insanity?
Our ocean awash in pain and despair—
There’s no satisfying answer, ever, anywhere.
Bad parenting, bullying, party drugs?
A chromosome split and expressed wrong?
Just why can’t this stop, just…please…stop!
Do we just let this go and let Pain chase erelong?
Faye and Conor skip off into the sunset,
We here, head in hands, perplexed and twisted.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Faye, and to you who still love;
While our tears coalesce with a countenance sorely misted.
It is a total and dark shadow so deep and far,
Cast from the white-hot glow of this misplaced passion;
Wrought from a longing poorly nailed about you,
I am now blind to understanding in any proper fashion.
Ignored or lost, the borderline fades between
What is easy and what is the right.
We seek sure the embrace of the nether hues—
A warming in the shadows, distrust for the light.
The years pass so fast, and achingly slow,
While Master Future mocks in beckoning.
My path I still cannot hope to discern—
The answer in the mists yet demands a reckoning.
Temperatures inch to drop to below freezing;
Four days to make do into a New Year, and then?
Dark and Light curry favors, and demand fair pay:
Where and how this ends passes beyond my ken.
With a new red wine’s old laughing sneer,
I snuff out the candle that flickers a false content.
With words to betoken a trail to a better dawn—
New Year’s hopes are grasped then onward sent.