Poet's Lament

The same old story

a fight for love and glory

with a lack of lead in the pencil.

Not a complaint, a love song

for all those lost on the rocks

or, straight up futilized; the play’s

a bitch when the truth is revealed.

Sisyphus run out of rocks to roll…

it’s nice standing on the other shore

that magic feeling of nowhere to go.

“My heart is an owl that is nailed, 

unnailed, renailed…” (Appolinaire)

This moment seems perfect because of

the tomato juice with tobasco and pepper,

beautiful space, a nice mental taste…

(with losing memory comes also lack of

concern about the future…"now" by default.)

And so it goes, the mornings, evenings, 

afternoons, days that flow like unimpeded

timeless water on the way to its ocean.

No argument, no clear intent, 

no overwhelming question.

Everything absolute correlative.