Twinkle, Twinkle

Being born
is a
death sentence,
the Reaper
sniffs out
our first
fog
of
breath,
tracking us,
carrying
our death
close to his
chest,
always
mystified
by our
apparent
surprise
when he
arrives
while the
stars
simply
smile,
they’ve been
around
awhile,
watching
suns
expire

Life

I fabricated
a true story,
one act of
uncertain
duration
and made
the decision
to play it out,
me, both
protagonist
and
antagonist
of a
tragicomedy,
thus far, anyway
but me,
being a
crude thespian
who missed
acting class
am a bit
half assed,
not at all
credible
in the role
of myself,
there’ll be
no Oscar
on my shelf
for this
unscripted
wandering
in and out
through
empty
rooms

Sometimes

Sometimes the

Fall

evenings

drape over

my shoulder

like a long lost

love

that knows

my every

hope

and

fear,

holding the

promise

that all

will be well,

only to

disappear

when day dawns,

leaving me

longing

for the

return

of the

stars

Autumnal

Maybe . . .
maybe it all made sense
before the leaves
began to turn and the
breeze through
my bones
took on a chill.
Maybe I had it all
figured out –
but it escapes
me now,
now, when pain is
common
and hope hard
to conjure.
Where did I spend
that power?
At what hour
did the magic
fail?
Those youthful spells
of certainty
dapple
the ground
around
my feet,
remnants of a
seasonal shift,
evidence of
what I missed,
dying
wishes
waiting for the
rake.
In my mind’s eye
a lake,
the air
cool
the sky
fair
as I ache
for what I
left
there,
a thing without
name,
but I feel
its absence
just the
same

Anyway . . .

A passion
might be nice,
or a pain
in the ass
waking me at
four
in the
morn to
scribble
nonsensical
crap
on yellow
legal pads,
a ledger of
sad
grasping at
greatness,
mad
genius
I would
imagine –
but not
today,
today I
ate a
burrito,
the whole thing
even though
I was full
halfway
through,
my
contribution
to a
September
Saturday.
Say what
you may,
it was a
really big
burrito
and that’s the
best I’ve got
till Monday

Sentenced

I’m a metaphor,
for what
I’m not sure
but the world knows,
the world decides
what I stand for
despite all the
books claiming
I am my own.
Just a metaphor,
a misleading door,
a bit of music
made to play
in other
people’s scores
and I like it
that way –
if there is
an “I” it
remains at peace,
unperturbed,
undiscovered,
even by me