You have this glimpse that it's not
gonna matter so much
in the future

and you ask
"Can it not
not matter right now

and I'll pay it in installments?"

Sunday the thirteenth

bereft
by winterwinter
handskin chipped
moleskin chipped
seabirds chirped

my good my ghosts my gusto
who else will I trust, Zaratustra?
you too is a ghost

I know it's coming rich and thick
with meaning.
but no siree
but no siree
it's not coming to me.

"all truths wait in all things"

how unassuming
and hotel-roomy
to intuit

to sit with me
and wait me free
each tinsy bit

I shut this day
and wake away
with him in mind

joys will elope
but jazz I hope
won't lag behind

keeping count

20 cigarettes a day
(hopefully now 17),
16, 13 pages written
times 5 writing days a week,
3 sets of each exercise,
each with 15 repetitions,
60 meals,
6 hours’ sleep,
20 nights properly spent
make 20 hundred (minus rent).

7 syllables a verse
50 poems would make a book,
1 idea might be enough
but I don’t know where to look.

the sheep sure jump by
(21, 22), but I
cannot see beyond the fence:
where do counted numbers go
after you count them?
themselves to sleep, so they can again and again
ennumerate?
or do they perhaps accumulate
into useless millions and gazillions?

that is the 101
of my countless indecisions.

pacerer's nightsong

pacing back and forth
past the time to sleep,
stomach starts to churn
skin begins to creep.

wish there was a way
to keep the sun at bay,
so I'd get there tonight
before first morning light.

birds of a feather
in warm, sunny weather
often flock apart.

it takes heart for togetherness
and heart sometimes
takes flight.