Poetry

Gray Area

You stay strangely vacant
from the grey matter these days.
Why, it was a traveler–a vagrant–
who saw you
so that they could relay
it to the rest of us.
Eyes, so to speak, who composed
music of the loveliest girl
in the world.
Translated it too. Translated it
for all the senses, for all the muscles,
the blood, the bones.
Why did they look to you
when they can just get by?
I could get you off my mind
but the vacancy
seldom lasts.

Poetry

Half of the Time

My heart’s only in it half of the time,

the other half fast fades away

but then for a bit, a moment sublime,

it goes along with the charade.

A bittersweet vision dancing in light,

a vision undoubtedly you,

but fast does it fade and try as I might

my world fades to a shade of blue.

Poetry

When I Tried to Think of Her

The streets are wet with tears,

the roads dry with apathy.

At the intersection

there’s a yellow light

blinking at the speed

of dying dreams.

Above, above the radio chatter

is the singing stars,

coughing in the orange glare.

I walk along the gutter

and pass old friends and foes

in tandem.

It’s a long way but a short trip

and I haven’t seen you yet.

Poetry

Thoughts of Nothing

In the dead of night

when my eyes are heavy

yet open,

I think–

not as Descartes

or as anxious philosophers,

nor the poets or painters

with brushstrokes

of black and black

upon the conscience’s easel.

I think of thinking

in a roundabout way,

a simple machine whirring

within every muscle

of the brain,

trying to compute itself

without ever computing it.

Poetry

Add title

Start writing…

but what?

Where do I draw the line

between the words

and the inspiration?

Will they know

what I’m saying

when I don’t always know

myself?

Maybe if I cut the line

instead of drawing it

then there would be

room for change.

Start writing…

and tiptoe

through your mind,

stomping with

evasive words

Poetry

The Sungazers’ Waltz

I never looked directly

into the sun’s bright rays

to fully appreciate

the splendor as I gaze

at the brushstrokes on the land

and the painted heavens–

a feeling unparalleled,

unmatched in its pleasance.

It’s not that I’ll pay no mind

when our paths intersect

for I’ll still see the splendor

all around, indirect,

and you will still be beauty

and pleasance as you are,

and often I will ponder

of that brilliant star

Poetry

The Wide Web and the World

Perhaps if I write my thoughts out

on paper, in pen,

then the catacombs

of this empty mind

might continue to echo

the algorithms of a cluttered brain

and a physical world

rather than the ones

found in a world wide web

of 1’s and 0’s

Are your eyes sore yet? I just wanted to see if I could still write cursive after all these years.
No. No I cannot write cursive after all these years.