an inquiry

Have you ever hoped to be haunted, 

to be in the presence of one that is gone?

Has the ghost of your grandmother lingered 

a while as I selfishly hope mine does?

Did the cold touch of the spectre at

hand ever warm your bones?

whaddya know

Nobody ever whispers the answer into
your ear.
There is little solace in the unknown.
All the gods returned the
letters written to them.
Science has us in the dark.
There is little comfort in the unknown.

If everything seems hollow,
empty, and alone
there is little comfort in the unknown.
We have gathered all our
brightest in a room to discuss
how we now know
there is no comfort in the unknown
but we search and forage for
fragmented truths, piecing it
together - this puzzle - in effort
to see, to understand, to grasp
the unknown.

Every variable sings life,
the constants are not
that which we perceived,
and light always fades,
shining with dim pallor
into the void of the unknown.

morning meditations

6:00 AM holds no truth. 

7:00 AM is washed in sun.

8:00 AM is bathed in coffee.

9:00 AM is when we surface

to breathe the day into

lungs weak from the bite

of crisp, high-altitude dreams.

Dirt & Doggerel

The timbre of the phrase

excites me, brings the 

language to life.

Some silly Hudibrastic

will send me searching

anew for well-wrought

sentences in the midst 

of Hemingway's descriptions

rendering a mere 

 picador a hero. 

Sonnets, roundelay, haiku;

my interest wanes at

the confident poet's sad

interpretation of Spenserian

majesty, of T.S. Eliot's

vision, or of Bukowski's

fine and oft mimicked

outlook on the art.

This is visceral though

and I must roll the words

around, get a taste for it,

chew it up, spit it back.

This is emotion spilled out. 

It's all blue and blood red,

seeping from life to paper

and then, finally, forgotten.