Outside, out there… out.

Fake it…

just fake it

and keep faking.

Every day becomes

a charade.

Let’s pretend that

we are normal.

Lets pretend that

we do the “typical ” things.

This has been

the last 47 years

of my time

in this social – system.

While the rest of humanity

gets to enjoy the basics

of their day

(as an expression

of their true person)

we must pretend to be normal.

We must pretend to react

to the

day-to-day events

as if they are somehow significant.

When we get home,

when we shut out

the rest of the world,

we take a deep breath,


and try to figure out

who we really are….

It is a level of exhaustion

most will never



Deep cuts

More on melancholy:

Listening to music,


that was seminal

in my twenties.

The words

echoed back through memory,

trying to reinforce

the mood of those times;

they failed.


and experience

have rendered me numb

to these prior aspects.

I’m not sure

that I can be reached,

not by music, anyway…


These albums I listened to

on loop

are all like old photos

of people I once knew:

I recall the moments,

But not why they mattered.

A one and a two-ah…

I know

that when I die

it will be in January

or February.

These two months,

these awkward hurdles

that start the year,

they vex me.

It’s not the weather

or the lighting…

November and December

do not treat me this way.

It must just be

that the start of the year

carries with it

so much apprehension

of what must come to be

and so much disappointment

over what has been.

In a way,

these two months

are like the scales of truth:

In their eight short weeks

I must weigh out

all of my failings.

I move to put

my thumb on the scale

only to have it

slapped back.

47 year old pottery.

There’s a sadness

associated with listening

to these artists

who shaped

our youth.

Once upon a time

they lit the flame

that roared within us,

creating a furnace

that seared our creative juices

and kept us up too late.

Their latest cuts

are every bit as solid

as the music that informed us

so long ago.

But there is no spark in it

(or maybe no spark

left in us).

All I can do

is listen

and nod along

in an appreciation

of the immense talent

and dedication inherent

in each note.

But my 18 year old putty

has been through that fire

and is now a hardened ceramic

of 47.

Sadly, I am somewhat beyond

such immersive influence.


My boy

Such a euphoria

this moment,

my son,

desperate for sleep,

but unable…

or unwilling…

to embrace it.

We await

the inevitable nature

of sleep.

And then

he tugs

at my arm,

like a blanket…

such joy!

I lie, as if pretending sleep,

but I must hold back

my emotions

over this small gesture;

he is a trial,

at times,

but then, as it is now,

he is so much more…

… a reward.

The fog of the nog

Stinking from drinking

(a night on the sauce)

I sat near the fire

to spy the red-suited boss.

Winking (mostly blinking)

I gazed through my fog

and hoisted a toast

to the last fire log.

My thinking was kinking

as I knocked back a quaf

should I mix another

or had I had enough?

The linking of rhymes

was getting harder, I thought.

Is that sleighbells I hear?

I guess I ought not.

Merry Christmas!