i awake from deep slumber with thoughts of yesterday’s sadness still raw in my heart and mind. the song break it down again comes to me here in the red light of a cold morning. the weight of what it means to be an aging artist invisible after years of work and where-what now to put my energy towards leaves me curled up in a ball. i have no answers. and yet there is something i think in not becoming overwhelmed by giant thoughts. break it down again. the big picture sometimes just gets bigger and bigger until it floods the senses and leaves me paralyzed by the unknown. break it down again. what are the bits and pieces of a satisfied life. what do i act on. no more sleepy dreaming. break it down again. this is more than success, ego, or legacy. i do not seek the spotlight, but i also am tired of toiling in the shadows. what is my forum. is it time for me to dim, or to burn bright with compassion, to fade into love for the other and leave my dying dreams behind. where can i find in me the beauty of decay.
after i dropped him off
and made sure he was
comfortable in his room
through the fog
a mass of white
bit by bit
by going slow
i missed my turn off
confused by the changes
wrought by the mist
places once familiar
the lights adding
to my blindness
i found my
i know not what
the new year holds
the next stop
on the journey
the fog of
the not yet
faith keeps me
on the road
in my love for an
in a small
I have come to the conclusion that I fire on six cylinders.
The issue is that I am an eight cylinder man.
I can’t remember the last time I was firing on all of them.
They aren’t knocking yet, but it’s just a matter of time. There’s a lot of miles, hard ones, on the odometer.
It’s a wonder six are still firing. It makes it rather miraculous that I can make it through the day, let alone accomplish anything.
It seems I am pulling off on the side of the road to doze more often now. My mind knows where to go. I am just so tired and it takes so much fuel to figure out how to get there.
Others race by. Their exhaust exhausts me. Death is the end to this race. Why try to get there quicker?
Elegiac grips me until my mind spins.
Lethargy holds me down.
I am captured between the two, racing, yet going nowhere.
I am a six cylinder body with an eight cylinder mind.
Come close and you will catch the faint scent of burnt oil.
Maturity and innocence, wisdom and experience, meet before the God of spontaneity
The old man and the child hold a conversation within me and I am the topic, naturally
What is today without the future?
What is the future without today?
If we survive the next millennium,
What will the doomsday prophets say?
I live too much within myself.
I am never where I want to be
Or where you want me
I think I know,
But then I run far,
Far away from me.
The world no longer stops me
It is always a blur
The only frozen moments are the
Pictures in my head on the mantle of my mind,
Glazed around the edges to obscure the details.
I seldom give a straight answer because the life I see is crooked.
Disjointed, yet still talking, these two
Sitting on a park bench holding hands.