A poem is a messy thing,
a curious joyride
of unfamiliarity.

Readers bring their carload of desire
to make sense of
its momentum and inertia.

Of course.

We were taught
by the well-intentioned,
who never rode a hurricane
and couldn’t feel its eye;
who preferred the morning edition,
comforted by the comprehensible,
friendly and familiar.

Thrill seeking
attention demands
surrendering the need
for prosaic answers
in service of
the deeper dive
of questions;

resting in the exhilaration
of not knowing.

The music was without air,
random notes carom, insensate,
lost to each other
in scattered predilections;
deep affinities,
the currency
like the last ashes of light,
but not necessarily
of meaning.

Bombardment of total sensation,
this coexistence of dissimilars,
emotional jolts in series,
producing utmost bewilderment,
encountering fantasies and
erecting puzzling solutions,
to make sense of the discontinuous flow
that we absorb;
negating any longing
for a life more abundant.

Too much now,
at this moment
between all that came before
and all that will come after.

Today,
I am the product of your inadequacy,
and
I refuse to be a part of anyone else’s.

With determined, immense and weary consternation
I have no juice for your project orientation.

While taking out the trash and washing the dishes
I think about faith and love
and wonder what’s the difference.

And wonder if there is any difference,
And whether it really matters.

Without you
I would go about my day doing different things,
asking myself questions,
like these,
that don’t really matter.

This is today,
like I said,
and tomorrow will be different,
as I have faith in time,
and belief in love.

Oh,
to live experimental days
abundant with sumptuous moments
open to accident,
surprise,
unpredictable processes,
true serendipity 
and love of everything

being 
all good.

No narrative in the crashing waves

no story;

only elemental power,

primordial disturbance of the sea,

mad crashing

angry waves;

indifferent forces.

               Taking an exuberant plunge 
               over the junk nostalgia
               of order,
              doing this, doing that
              with the intimacy of a dog’s breath,
              documenting the change
              in my pocket,
              oblivious to epic ambitions,
              while a yellow flower breaks free
              from the mundane weeds.