Where ever I go I’m here. Everything bad happens to me here. When ever I try to go away I end up right back here. Damn it I don’t want to be here, I want to be there. Buddha says: tough luck.

A question that doesn’t already have an answer is a philosophical question, one whose answer makes up the rules for the question

Thinking you have the only truth is worse than being wrong.

A year of summer, fields
turning crisper and crisper,
no tully fog creeping
into the valley to soften the burn.

Watching as the sun drips light like a melting god
and the noon comes with the urgency of a death knell.
Seeing the morning sky clear as a bottomless lake
and the night dark as a dry well.
Hearing limbs relax into pools of bone and flesh
and minds tense between a few recalled words.

The distant deliverance of cold rain
echoes in the future,
while the repeater of heat
flash forwards to yesterday.

Touching my temple,
seeing more and more and less and less,
meaning flickers inside a dusty bulb.
This is something simple I’ll forget someday,
what it means to never leave the fire.

The only thing worse than Black Friday Sales starting a day early is when Post Christmas Sales start a day early.

Nice guys are great! They make better coffee. – Imagined Steve Jobs

Sunset slides by in stoic moments,
Beauty denied by absent eyes,
Colors and columns, the streaking
Fury of a riderless chariot,
Cold spray rising below the rocks,
This is the world when we don’t care.

Lost at sea, clouds hover
At the horizon, further from me
Than the moon is from the sun,
Interstellar puffs holding in
A gift of life; cruel misers.

Drifting dreams cross the sea
Reaching me in my hammock.
I listen to them and chuckle,
So that’s what I should want:
Crossed palms and a hammock.
Oh well, I’ll do with straight palms

Slippery these words we sing.
They slither and slide through slaloms of vowels.
Grasping one, I wonder aloud,
“Do these sounds come for the satisfied calm
of a sailor seeing land on the horizon?
Do they arise from the full belly
of our collective cache of joy?
Do they lie in wait to immortalize the sunset?”

I wonder and listen to her shuffling feet
as she hums sounds absent the meaning,
the pauses and glides glisten on her lips,
the momentary drawl leaning
over the chasm between beats.
I say, “ I love to listen to your sounds.”
She smiles and opens a window

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