mending the tear -

bridging the gaping abyss -
putting together what’s been
pulled apart -
the ripping sound
some kind of music -
emancipation of dissonance -
the tear itself
turning into a spiral -
perhaps the beginning
of a wing -

or the tip of 

continent hope.

page from a notebook

dusty memories

newspaper clippings

old photographs

blurred figures in grey

crooked smiles

torn pages like uprooted trees

stories from somebody’s life (whose?)

bare threads of meaning

dreams are spiderwebs

for catching juicy regrets…

I remember 

the soft cheek of a sadness

yet untouched by the frost:

tender, fragrant rose petals

poems not yet written

innocence not yet lost…

the second coming

everything changes

and nothing changes

winds shake the pillars of ages

seas disappear in the belly of time

receding into the dim light of forever

or waiting for another cycle

I’ve gone through life



to the cheering crowds

hungry for my stories;

I wasn’t even aware that

I was the chosen one

or that my choices were,

in reality, someone else’s;

I often thought it was just a dream

or that I was a jester, a liar,

a shameless entertainer

posing as a philosopher

It takes someone coming back

from the dead to show you

that you’ve never figured out

how to live

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