Rear viewed

Time is short,

and getting shorter,

I know this

more and more

every day.

Middle age

is technically

behind me.

The path ahead

is shorter

than what came before…


Just shattered.

I am crawling forward

while looking over

my shoulder.

How can I embrace what’s left

if I can’t see it



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.

Sundays…… and so on

Some great songs

from 30 years ago

(thanks prime)

and my mind reels 

at the conversion

from youth

to ruin…


drama aside, 

it feels that sudden. 

Yesterday I popped

that singular cassette

into my dumpy car 

(a car more loved 

than any “far-better” car

I have owned since) 

and watched the world

reveal itself  to me

while inviting me

to the glories of a youth




my four-year-old seems intrigued

by the music

of yesterday. 


or older…

It sucks,

and the perspective gained

goes ignored. 


Christmas is
too melancholy;
so looked forward to,
and so quickly passed
as to draw sadness
from the ether.
The wait
and anticipation
bring so much
and echoes
of youth
and past
that no present reality
can reasonably match
those fuzzy memories
(made sacrosanct
by time and trials)
or supplant them
with new ones.
with the soft whuff
of needle on vinyl,
Bing sings the Latin
of Adeste Fidelis
and I realize
my three-year-old son
has never heard
this gift
and some hope
is restored
that new yesterday’s
are possible
and happening

HD chanel 2

so I’ve become
An unknown artist
on the station
that features
the unknown.
Her voice
is restrained
she is a successor
to the chanteuse
of my youth.
She is,
as each new generation must,
taking her first stabs
at the world,
and all my ruined mind
can muster up is,
“you’re doing it wrong”.
She isn’t,
of course.
There is beauty
in her soft lament,
but my stained soul
cannot accept it
I must compare
and contrast
because my era
has passed
and I can’t grant her
this one.
It is only fitting,
for her,
that it is not mine
to grant.

I listened to the whole song:
It was very good,
and I was better
for having heard it.

Chronos moves in.

Time pursues me,
like a lonely friend
or a desperate lover.
I eschew the advances
and shrink back at each approach…
I am reluctant.
Time comes in for a hug,
I stepĀ aside and opt for the hand-shake,
but still feel the cool grip
of its embrace.
I am busy avoiding its gaze,
likeĀ a party guest, avoiding the drunken advances
of the hosts wife.
Time has parked itself on my couch
and I have no power to evict.
Now I have become aware
that while I am sleeping
Time has been snuggling me
and the wounds of its harsh form of love
are beginning to show.
Time and I are now an item,
and I have no way out.