Thursday, February 16, 2012


     what i really want
     is to scatter
     my own

I’m having too much fun to
pick the day I’ll die.  Can
that be right?  It’s Tuesday
after a strong Saturday
night.  No ashes but a
ring of wires aching for
fantasy eardrums.  Some-

times it’s creepy what I
predict.  Or how creepy-
poignant it is to pick up a
page written [some
time] ago with
eerie resonance;
say, the day after a
nuclear disaster,
for example.  Or

I was dancing
and I nearly had...
a time warp?  A
Rubik’s Cube
staring at another
Rubik’s Cube
in some sort of a
stand-off (or 3
Rubik’s Cubes)?
Softer back-

pedaling and
less disclosure.
Or don’t sweat
the small stuff.
I’m getting
way too

I’m taking
so seriously.