Epitaph For A Die-hard Nihilist

I remember 

You always wondered why 
Nothing made sense 

But never why 
Nothing could explain it. 

Veiled Facebook Plea To My Readers

Perhaps you will have noticed 
But more likely not, my writing’s 
Composed 

Of very simple thoughts 
With lots 
Of oft-repeated old- 

Timers like black, white, 
Sunrise, noon, twilight, night— 
And now and then, a few 

Youngsters I’ve created 
Along the way like 
Thinkamajig and scurzy, 

The latter which I thought 
I’d made up and wanted 
To include here 

As a world premiere, 
But which looks 
Like it was 

First coined by one Sarah
Curzon as the name 
For her 

Instagram account, so 
That one’s no longer my exclusive 
Baby but I can still fall 

Back on my all-time 
Favorite, nothinglikeness, 
As a Google check shows 

It continues to be 
Completely unknown 
To millions like yourself, 

Very much like me.

Bipolar Parting Is Such Bittersweet Sorrow

Janus, half of me wants 
No part of you when 
You’re no longer yourself 
And your mind’s long gone— 

The other half stays behind 

Hung up on selfies of so 
Long it’s been awesome 
To know you, how long 
Are you gonna be gone? 

Mundane Matters Above All, Poet

There, Glaucus— 
Don’t you see 

Plain as the gathering 
Crepuscle crossing 

The transparent blue 
Rush of mountains 

Most majestic, now purple 
Rhetoric clouding 

The poor mind’s eye. 

Emptiness Is Your Lot In Life

Where you were only 
A minute ago, the vacant 

Space is now full 
Of longing. 

Becoming Slightly Unhinged In The Bank Waiting For My Priority Number To Come Up During Another Record-Breaking Heat Wave

Mine’s sixty-eight—I’ve been 
“Cooling my heels” over an hour 
And the priority slip I’m now using 
As a bookmark says my waiting 
Time should’ve been around nine 
Minutes; in the meantime, I’ve been 
Making do in the overworked air- 
Conditioned inner sanctum 
Of the nightmare 

Institution which looks after 
My rapidly dwindling bantam 
Nest egg with all the care 
Of a crazed mother hen, 

And reading a slender volume 
Of poems called Sleepwalker’s Songs,
All the while thinking of what I could do 
If my nest egg were fatter, watching 
Customer after customer go up 
To the teller and walk out again 

Onto a dazzling, searing asphalt so hot it could fry 
Enough dinosaur eggs to feed an onslaught 
Of famished, day-dreaming somnambulists 
Armed to the teeth with nothing 
But a slew of cool blank checks— 
I wonder what 69’s thinking of. 

A Few Words For Richard Hugo

He never liked whitewashing phantoms. 
Gray haunted his poetry. He used it 
To wash all shades of grayness away. 

Ham Method Actor In Deep Shit

Here’s your cue, Horatio:

You’ll never find your true voice 
If you don’t plumb the depths 
Of the shallowness surrounding you—

Cast us a line when you do. 

Wet Behind The Ears

That old Greek he knew you 
Can’t step into the same 
River twice, for even 
If you could, you’d still find 
Yourself high and dry 
On the banks of certain 
Uncharted shit creek 
With nothing better 
To do save wait 
To pay a certain smart-ass 
Ferryman to paddle 
Your dumb ass across. 

Here's Your Daily Dose Of Blue Mornings' Treacle

Each day you get up you know 
The sun must be 
Somewhere out there, too— 

You just have to rise 
A little higher, only 
Earthbound creatures find it

Hard to do. 

Futility Is Alive And Well In Aetos, Messenias, Greece

Out there 

Under a thick canopy 
Of centenarian 
Plane trees with her 

Tried and true 
Black walking 
Stick, that feisty 

Old woman jabbing 
The ground, dead set 
On keeping 

The pathway 
To her home clear 
Of any intruding 

Dead leaves 
Set on squatting 
There permanently.

Catharsis On The Threshold

Straightaway as you 
Open wide the narrow blue 
Window shutters 
Of the old stone house 
By the sea, wave 
Upon wave of small white- 
Capped memories begin 
Spilling in, slowly 
Washing the grit 
That clings to the grey 
Walls clean, while the wind
Murmurs welcome back 

Pilgrim, again and again.