shaking

the candle would only flicker
hesitating
the light was feeble
the combustion half-assed
the fumes nasty
so i grabbed that candle
and shook it,
“why won't you burn!?”

and it went out.

adrift

the ocean
she turned to him dramatically
sighed, “you are not a man
come home”

but he persisted and made
a tenuous peace with mountains

then he broke a man’s arm (for
raping a prostitute) and they
threw him in the can.

his real crime, though, was trying to catch
moments in words. now sentenced to life
finding words in the moment

his heart breaks

he is drifting monkey moonshine
he is a bedtime story
a pleasant dream

he is homeless apricot vinegar
he is

adrift.

driving

and so, i will have said everything that i intended.
looking back (way back) it could have very well
all been left undone. unsaid. this, too.

we are not so different, you and i, though
we surely are not the same (whatever
that means to you).

i sit here and look out. i sit here and the past
speaks out. there's no liberation in this,
just one more moseying whirlpool.

if i meet you on the road and wink, know that i have
not met myself. and if i fail to wink, check
my pulse if you please.

this poem will be like myself,
unknown, unknowing and empty but
for its contents.

this poem will be like you, driving with
sunglasses, waving thanks at the dude
who let you into his lane. mystery of mysteries.