Poetry

Immolated insolence

We’re all old…

getting older.

Somehow

youth knows this

but is unaffected.

This myopia

lasts a long time,

but ultimately

yields

in a rending blow

across the bow,

sending a panic

through long-aching

bones.

It was never a secret,

it was well known

and well ignored

(long guarded

and feared).

Now it grips the soul

in a deaths embrace

of crushing truth.

Revealed,

in a harsh half-light

of our own illuminating.

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Write, but don’t

Don’t be a writer,

don’t hobble yourself.

Instead,

be a doer.

Make things happen.

Doing is where

the rubber

meets

the road.

Doers make the structures

where writers

craft

their reality.

Writers inspire,

but…

write while doing…

something.

Words have no value

if they carry

no weight.

Make weight,

write with a purpose

to challenge,

to contradict,

to insult

(if need-be).

Just

write.

Et tu, deja?

To know the future

because I already experienced it,

as a memory.

A thought that came to me

as a settled fact,

but pertains to things

that haven’t happened.

I want so badly

for this to be true.

To imagine

that some sort of release

from this

day-to-day drudgery exists

and is already settled fact

thrills me.

A piercing light into this dark room…

but I don’t want to look up

and see

the silhouette

and shadow

of the jailer

passing over the grate.