The Fountain at the End of the World

poetry, writing
he had traveled the world for a thousand years
thru desert sands and jungle deep and open field
by horse and camel and buggy and boot
port after port and vessel after vessel
and so forth until finally one night
as the sun was setting he fell to his knees
before a great wide black stone basin
each onyx brick fitted perfect and true
holding back water that bubbled forth
probably from the center of the earth
and he put his hands in and it was cold
and he cupped them tight and well-practiced
he lifted the water to his mouth and
there as the light was fading and the sky
was orange-red as it could ever be
and the water kept bubbling forth probably
from the center of the earth he drank
and it was so sweet and he drank more
and it was cold and perfect and he drank
more and his fingers only sealed so well
so the front of his chest was soaking
as he reached down to drink another handful
but he stopped

and there

just beyond the basin

where the horizon met the orange-red sky

he could see the end of the world

and he knew that things were over now

so he stood

and climbed in

and laid down

until the the water bubbling forth probably from the center of the earth

filled his every cavity

and his breathing stopped

143

poetry, writing
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Won’t you be my lover?
Won’t you be my friend?
Through thick? Through thin?
Here in the neighborhood
Or in the land of make believe.
Because we should tell each other,
the truth and the facts.
Because we should tell each other,
That it’s a beautiful day to be alive.
So won’t you be mine? Would you,
Be mine? Won’t you be?
There’s been 143 times 33
Days since we’ve married.
And 1 + 4 + 3 still equals
I like you.
I love you.
I want you.
I need you.
Just the way you are.