December 12th at 10:30 PM



i once wrote a poem about

a basket it was

a wastebasket in my living-

room, cornered near the mantle,

television flickering

                           the divinity of mid-autumn

sunsets stretching across

the back porch, sliding

in through the glass doors

and i said shit man, 

               shit, this

basket has been here pretty

much for ever, about as long as i can remember


so i started thinking

like a poet, trying

to forget all the tissues i had

thrown into the basket, 

                                  years of sitting beside,

worn blue carpeting, dosing off before dinner.

so you see like a child. does time pass slower.

drawing your own hand and never 

thinking of a hand.  


                          And i see

now and i saw then:

it takes so much effort to look

at the world without

the contamination of memory.

so much hours of hours in-

vested into pure perceiving,

seeing things afresh. 


Eh.  trim it or enjambment all you want, dude.


i still anticipate a time when love or responsibility will lead me to choose stability over this continuous affirmation of discovering but not knowing for sure, never judging, only true seeing i have wished and do still, these are not questions to fear just semi-congealed thought something comments that jump in from time to time, the unmitigated running wordspeak of days following days, here i go and where have i been. hmmm.  yes, actions speak louder than words.  here i am Old i am so Young.