Before Long Island

I
believed
in
myself
once.

A
long
time
ago.

Perhaps
too
much.

Perhaps
not

enough.

Like
I
believed
in
you.

A
long
time
ago.

Perhaps
too
little.

Perhaps
too

much.

While
your
many
faces
spoke.

Such
awful
beauty
spewed.

All
that
time.

I
heard

nothing.

Believe
it
or
not,
I

really
believed
in
everyone.

Spitting
tea
leaves.

Before
Long

Island.

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Start Digging

If you’re stuck in a hole,
remember:

Nobodies going to help you
longer than it pays.

Minimum wage doesn’t mean
livable wage.

And chances are,
they’re also knee deep.

So start digging.

Yin and Yang and Me

I had this friend
who did nothing all day long

and this other friend
who never stopped moving.

So all day long
I sat and wondered about these two,

like wings of a dragonfly
my mind raced back and forth

up and down
turning them over like a pair of Jokers,

all day long,
sometimes, all night even.

Pacing back and forth
I never stopped moving

contemplating everything
which turned into nothing.

As they wonder.

We
don’t
genuinely
love
the stranger
on the corner,
on the television,
at work,
on the daily news.

We
get
used
to them
like they
get used to us,
to being liked,
to being lied to,
to being accepted.

We
wonder
why they
have it so good,
why we can’t quite get it straight,
why the stranger
on the corner, can’t get his act together,
why the camera’s won’t turn off,
we wander as they wonder.

As they wander, we wonder.

I know you know what I don’t know.

I don’t know
which crushes my spirit more,

the heroin needles
outside my apartment building
or
the line of Ray-Ban wearing tourists
waiting for brunch.

I don’t know.
I
just
don’t
know.

Love & Fear

They’ll
cut
you
like
a
knife,
you know,
and
leave
you
in
an
instant,
scarred —
yet
polar
opposites
they
attract
one another —
it’s true,
I’ve
seen
their
workings
and they,
are pure,
they
are
direct,
they
hold
no
prejudice,
except
for
those
they
love
and fear.

Another On Depression. (written some time ago) Or something like that.

It doesn’t feel like a weight
or an isolated incident.

It’s more like a cloudy headed hangover.

The mind knows what it needs
but the body refuses to cooperate.

It’s like sitting with a good book
for hours, no wiser in the end.

Or driving aimlessly
with no set destination.

It doesn’t feel like anything,
really.

Just a relative constant
that comes and stays.

Like an uninvited guest – talkative –
with nothing good to say, whom

upon arrival you wish they would go
but on departure, a part of you wishes they’d stay.

It’s nobodies goal to be addicted,
is it?

It doesn’t feel like anything,
really.

Or something like that.