rains falls, grim and grey
the park is empty–
soaked mud leaks in streams
across sidewalks like
pulsating coffee veins.
but at one hoop
the wet thuds of diminished dribbles
a small boy shoots
his watery reflection in the inverted world
following his every move.
The music is
it is it is
and how it lives
it lives, oh
how it lives!
The bass it throbs
and all those frilly
fills flutter o’er
top of everything
and that’s the part
that sings, it sings
I swear we’ll make it sing
the hopeless romantic has a problem.
if he’s truly a romantic it will end well
which will ruin the plight he’s learned
to love.
said plight, gone from life, makes the
romantic struggle. how can he be optimistic
about the future when the now is so
good?
we learn to enjoy our lives in hope
for hope is necessary to endure the now
and then the hope is realized. and we’re
at a loss no longer in need of hope
but of thankfulness.
and so i begin to ponder my favorite
bands/poets/writers/thinkers of old.
how can they feel the way they do
still?
it’s been 15 years. is that girl still just
out of reach? why haven’t they caught
her? fear of a lost muse?
the sieve and the sand 