Flying Debris

does the past even exist
oh to oneself certainly
it is everything you are
but hopelessly private
reconstructed of shards
shattered over and over
flying debris you live in
just able to stay calm
enjoy the ride and not
expect it to make sense
though it perfectly does

Driving Faster

the better man realizes
he is in the middle after
all alternatives exhaust
lowered energy limits

driving faster than his
father he still arrives
later devalued money
flowing like gasoline

competition itself lies
for the sake of ego its
action compromised
before its life begins

the son always rises
from the father's ash
burnt as the traveling
man erases all roads

Changes

everything changes even if we
don't believe it think everything
stays the same plodding through
the seasons over and over while
we ourselves gradually expire in
fatalistic bemusement older and
wiser finally accepting ourselves
as we deteriorate hardly noticing
everything else is changing too

Off Limits

it's only me I can speak for
my circumstantial self white
a man I can entirely accept

others I can't imagine or
presume to think are much
different or much the same

off limits or my victims in
spite of personal good will
never to be reconciled with

all the mistakes we all keep
making the best of a nasty
history we never learn from

Watching the Light

if it isn't words it isn't anything I can
use or have purposes for disguised as
absent-mindedness like lying in the
hammock beside the creek listening
and watching the light slowly change

if it is I can do something with them
with or without explicit intentions to
marry and see what happens nothing
to be afraid of or live alone and do
exactly what I want my whole life

Real Things

can be awake when asleep
think of real
things I was going to
drifted off

or being cryptic
"camp" as irony
against flatness
I studied in New York

the dead alive again
practicing theory
a form of madness
but enjoyable