i'mpatient

life is
n't waiting, but
i'mpatient. i'm
here, merely
this
fleshen bone, skinned
with sunshine, thinned
out by the wind.
there.
where i wait. i'mpatient.
or resigned, skied by rain
clouds of color
aloof.
my vision. of
an afterlife. after
life begins, or
ends (which way am i
going?), things look
up. down here. i
find peace. or pieces. but
joy?
it is in
describable. subtlety. it is
all that remains. to be
seen. to be believed.
i believe
nothing.
feel everything (this joy
of painful living).
of this i am certain.
nobody survives
life.
such as it is.
killing us like this.
softly and with
sweet surrender.

the day nothing happened

life went on. do you
remember? that day when
nothing happened,
when everything else
was going down? shit
simmered and water shook,
those passing clouds
dissipated elsewhere,
flocked with birds
from nowhere.
remember? we never
knew. we thought
we lived, motionless,
astray with numbing
thoughts, though hearts
beat. maybe we stopped
believing because nothing
needed believing. did we
understand? it had to
happen. we lost track,
nothing happened and everything
else was going down.
not that it matters now.
we are always.
failed for destiny,
in my hands.

nothing?

nothing,
as in what
isn’t potential,
yet may
be some kind
of possible.
though it is
nameless, so no
thing. in
describable, in
delible in
my mind, in
credible insistence.
so. nothing
then. and i can
not even imagine
what it
is. much less
talk.
about it?
perhaps emptiness,
or hope. i
wish. it
was this
simple.

hope fools

this wall of frontiers,
perhaps tears reaching back,
flowing in reverse. this
is no river. a backwater.
backlogged, waterlogged,
clogged sense of self.
some denial.
we can live? only
after the killing
off of certain selves,
those parts of me,
them hopefuls.

hope fools. shapes
shift. scrapes and scratches
a living. this hope, full
of poverty. a pot empty,
nor pissed in. this then
is what is called
life? give me then
death, so i may see
what i’ve been.
missing.

living is

of this life, it is
piles of books, clutter
and the haphazard chatter
of birds this morning.
the frogs last night. fitful.
at times unfit, others
perfect, bereft
of dissonance.

living is
collected pages memorized,
forgotten when it matters
most. times
of abundance, inevitable
like decay. in this
way we navigate
the streets and alleys
of our lives, begging alms,
window shopping, tripping
over the refuse of falling
time. we seek our gates
amidst the squalor, find
a home and bury
our wings.