the final etching…

each day
he entered
his studio
like
a man
pushing his way
onto
a subway car
back arched
with
determined steps
and
each day
he followed
the same routines
he arranged
papers
and
pencils
for
his
personal project
then
proceeded
to do
the commercial
etchings
that paid the bills
taking small breaks
to make
sketches
for his
real
artistic project
but
turning quickly
from
such daydreams
to
the real work at hand
by day’s end
he had erased
the sketches
never good enough
the years
soon
took their toll
on his hands
and
he retired
was
a winter’s morning
when he entered
his studio
inspired
by a night’s vision
he began to sketch
what
had escaped him
all these years
he was found
slumped over
an
unfinished drawing

portrait of a man sitting outside in his underwear in yuma…

his eyes
follow her
unkept promises
to
another
mere
coins
tossed into
a wishing well
wishes
that cannot
nor
should be
granted
for they
are
faded memories
of
youth
so
faded
that they are
unrecognizable
without
the worn pages
of
a yearbook
pages
providing a list
for
deciphering
the names
neatly
printed
with
a small
font
in
the obituary column
a column
he
now reviews
daily
a routine
to give meaning
to days
squandered
calculating the odds
of
his
own demise

neo-babylonian walls …

these walls are not firm
they’re built with honor’s promises
freedom’s building stones
mortared just by history
and history’s forgotten

chasing our tails…

we invent things
to
believe in
it’s the nature
of
man
the void we live in
makes
it necessary
to
have some
purpose
in
the universe
a universe
where
even the planets
and
stars
are surrounded
by
the dark
and
airless
void
we
search for others
on distant stars
not
so much for
scientific reasons
but
in the hopes
that
they
may have found
the
purpose
which
has
eluded us
till then
we continue
to
invent things
to
believe in