I think that the world
has given too much power
to the average fool.
A thousand years ago
too much arrogance
would meet the metal
of the sword.
Today, the fine-art
of instant knowledge
makes geniuses
of workaday plebs
and shames critical thinking
everywhere.
Because we can,
we do….
It’s no longer enough.
Make me hunger for your insight…
cause me grief
for missing your point….
Charge me the labor
of some intellect
for decifering your message…
in my face
without pause
is no place
for genius.
The baby ran in the park
and splashed in the puddles
and we chatted
with the ex-pat nephew
about nothings
with happy zest.
A bold goose
took a nip
at my toddlers hand
and we offered consolation
with soothing voices
and the distraction
of play time
and swings.
The rain intensifies
and drives us back to shelter
in the forest of towers
with its endless residents
and cool indifference.
The baby runs ahead,
pleased to be going.
Leaving the desert
I could live here,
in some other life,
but this harsh
and stunning land
will remain a fleeting find
resolved to memory
and dream.
A host of evening stars
and sentinel saguaro
anchor my impressions
and leave me desperate
for more.
Goodbye cacti
I missed your blooms
but saw your beauty
nevertheless.
The city is ripe,
the scent hangs in the air
like a fog
that makes of you
a participant.
This is okay.
It has always been okay.
The jokes are old,
and tired,
but told as if new,
and the masses still nod
to this supposed truth
with each retelling.
They have missed
the mark:
This is a city
where industry
and art
merged into a singularity,
that legacy is still here…
when the tide is right.
The interlopers may chatter,
but they will never know
the truth
about this town
and its people.
I inhale deeply
and am renewed.
Just caught a glimpse
of the way creativity worked
in my youth.
My current output
is too structured.
I was revisiting an earlier concept
and the inspiration exploded in my mind…
like a crazy flower.
No drugs were involved.
I enjoyed it,
but I can safely say
I’m glad my process
has moved along.
I do miss the crazy sense
of superiority
it used to instill in me…
that’s gone….
Sick.
Festering
phlegm
boils
inside.
Tissues,
hacking
and
Snot.
Two weeks…
two
fucking
weeks
of fatigue
and misery…
how broken
is my system
that two weeks
yields no end….
Sick,
corrupted
and defeated
(cough….)
We are adrift,
all of us,
out in this fog
looking for one-another,
but no one looks for us.
We float these missives
like shouts for help,
fully aware none will be coming.
How much of our burden
are we willing to jettison,
the longer we tread,
to lighten the struggle placed upon us
by us
while we wait to be acknowledged?
We are moving through
the in- between times.
Like autumn to winter
or spring to summer:
neither here
nor there…
only we don’t know it.
We have no calendar
to mark or progress.
We have taken a deep breath
and need to exhale…
we are waiting
and we don’t know
what for.
Ink (flows, stains). 