January 5, 2020

Not for sure I’m quite here yet, 
spending time, 
wasting time, 
time seduced by fireworks and frills, 

distraction not being a place, 
a detour, yes, 
a movement smooth and effortless,
away from place and a time notched in meaning. 

Too bad, 
oh too bad this gong of presence is muffled 
in imagined past, and future projection, 
fueled by unctuous schemes and urgencies’ insistent barbs;
unanchored and drifting, 
in the current of lost, 
the waves of losing: 
tactile evidence grounding presence in the world.

Waving the tattered flag of surrender, 
a half-hearted life of neglect:
of discernment of porous beliefs, 
of connections barren and uncultivated, 
sometimes careless, often clueless 
to the ever-changing interdependence,

registering spikes of false confidence,
convinced that
when things go south
it isn’t you.