This Too Shall Pass

Beautiful— 

The word becoming so worldly 
Obscene, exploited, wretched 
The many failing

To wonder why 
And to what use 
Hoping 

It will all come in good time. 

On the Road at Two-and-a-Half, or Blowing in the Wind Called Phaedra

Oh, I like this new game 
Of Papa’s—these strange little 
Light things he picked up 
To show me—he calls them 
Leaves—how they race along 
Where he placed them next 
To each other turning 
Over and over and me 
Running after them 
Like crazy I hope 
The one he said was mine wins. 

Truth's Like a Fly Swatter

Cross my heart, hope to die— 
It looks like they’re droppings

Of flies, the eschatological 
Ephemera of poets who swear

Their shit will last and not 
Stink to high heaven forever— 

Though from where I sit, 
It all smells a little too much

Like a downright rotten white lie. 

Silver Linings Playbook

when storm clouds scud 
your way, the sun does not 
up and check out— 
it stays there 

high above the weather, 
looking out the window 
of your world, saving 
for a rainy day. 

Ex Libris Vazambam

With all the time in the world 
At nine months short of three, 
My granddaughter tells me 
She’s going to follow 
In my footsteps and read 
All the books in my library. 

Looking back at how 
Haplessly I fell 
Short of that goal, I do hope 
She doesn’t take after me— 
For better or worse, 
Let my feat remain 

No small consolation 
I won’t be round to see.