born vita

my friends please come
to the pit with sand
in your hands bring your
children too and your parents
shed a tear or two
i am done with crying
the loss of heart
is suicide the end of
illusion time


understanding fellow
alas not what you
think he was
who are you
i am he but
he doesnt understand


i have returned from
the city of my childhood
left my cradle went back and
left again after having arrived
with arresting thoughts
on the nature of the returnee
the vacationer if you may
leaving relieved to find no shackles
cutting through the tendons
feeling freedom in the breadth
of the ocean like a crusoe
reconciled to his loneliness
objectively a shipwreck
struggling only
for a personal tale
of loss and renaissance
so desperately not
a story worth telling
forgetting is such a big part
of what i do


tired with mere
obsessing with the fallout
of petty crimes
moral and eventual
all recoverable
but what if they are
that is not the question
here despite the scorn
for jumping the signal
a fly by night
asleep on the journey
escaping as much
the punishment as the crime