Plight of the Poet

We are the children of memory, which seems so unreal now, when childhood a distant dream. It’s hard to imagine you once were young, it’s...

Not all pebbles are in focus, not all dreams are still there when you wake, not all memories retain their luminosity, because life would...

The poet is a procrastinator. He goes out of his way to find other things to put his mind to. The poet knows everything else he does...

"Pontificatorily (stage 1)" how do you say to say? how doesn’t one forget to rhyme? i’m not wearing any clothes today, am i? it wouldn’t...

“dandelion parapet” whimsical shoes remorseful they don’t walk more a cup worth of soup making love on a cool spring morning to a tin can...

how colorless it seems to be forgotten whereas milk laments all rational in daydream breakfast cereal profanity becomes mundane singers...

i dream once more of pasts gone by through life to limb of futures to come the soft wind and a clearer mind make one last complete...

“periscope vernacular catastrophe daffodil” people are just sounding boards for other people’s emotions my cell phone knows me better...

To what end will my existence find? To what extent and on what grounds will my existence thrive? These questions have no answers ...

the thrill of hope is lost somehow in the petals of a gilded rose that blooms away from that what it once was it is a two-leaf flower now...