A small problem

What was not so clear
Has given itself to some transparency
Sitting as if in daylight
Resigned helplessly
To your blindedness

You notice yourself
As if for the first time
But it’s comfortably familiar
This is fitting
And describable no less

You are a man
Intelligent but not the feature
Passionate is your name
You seek to taste beauty
Creating it is your great challenge
And great desire

Otherwise jolly
Recklessly optimistic
With a small problem

Your small problem?
Yes, there it is
A coal of cheerlessness
In your chest
Made from many pains
Irreparable if not for time

I believe you are capable
Of allowing time to unravel
this core to dissolve
diffusing into the ether

And finally
Create the beauty that brings joy
To the hearts of others,
I wish this.



Quarter tonic
Sugar with sugar
Sweet tongue
Semolina Lena

Noncognizant strikes
Dodge brother, dodge
Relentless moving
Those dark eyes always worth it

What I would give
To make this right
To step out of character
Or am I in one now?

Tired of this
Fearing its endlessness
The closer I am to one
The farther I am from both

When the notes I hear
Or the words, dear
My world flips
But I’m quarter built

Flipping like it’s
Practice makes perfect
Play the notes, play
As close as I can get

Limits limit
But memories punish
Flabbergasted and expectant
What are you doing? Incredulous

I am flipping and practicing
Playing notes and replaying nostalgia
Giving love like watering the parched
Learning to strike the balance

Leave me be, demons
You turn sustenance into air
After I’ve fed my soul
I shall have my peace


Self Isolation

He paces back and forth,
Stamping his feet,
And for good measure,
Flips over some furniture,
In the living room of my mind.

Dressed in slacks,
Shirt and a vest,
A tie and polished shoes,
Hair neatly parted on one side,
Moustache a neat horizontal patch.

Let me introduce you,
This is my madman,
He sometimes puffs on a pipe,
Pacing back and forth,
In my living room.

“Listen to me!”
In an operatic overture,
He gives multiple directives,
All conflicting with each other,
All both Right and Wrong.

I compensate,
Balance and direction,
But it’s too late,
One lens is blue and the other pink.

My compass…
I cannot believe my eyes!
The madman’s cacophony,
Has led North chasing East,
West dancing around South,
True North rendered indecipherable.

He leads a non-syncopating orchestra,
The Emotions section,
Clashing with the Logic section,
And the Perspective section trips on its own feet and plants its face into the ground.

All this in my living room,
Wherever shall I bring my guests?
And how will they react to this man?
He will surely spit in their tea,
And slap them upside the head.