Stolen from a friend

A writer -- and, I believe, generally all persons -- must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art."

Jorge Luis Borges

Ennui

This is a time to gloat 
we are such pieces of work
This is how we go about
our daily Ennui

We bathe in the Sun
We Love, eat and try to gain Respect
We then amble along
Gnawing into space

We hate the sound of white noise

"This is mine, this is yours"

We croak until hoarse,

scratch until bleed.

We send our children

Into prompt assemblies

to ask for wisdom

good thoughts, words and deeds

We build our castles

And etherise our air

Then ask for allegiance

to our whimsical gods

We broker peace

Sober in solidarity

But hide our rancor

To light a wayward fire

Love Goes On

He and She

Sat across open windows

Once in a while,
Over the shoulder
Glances were sought,

Not completed.

That was a long time ago
Between rushed breakfasts
Keeling over happily

From fast moving bikes
Rushing through sentences
Proclaiming loud love

Not completed.

Now there is dry earth

And songs sung

Distractedly so

Still melodious though

A walk in progress

A smile at work

Still not complete

Have you time from Bellow and Whatman

Looks like you need
A cold compress
To soothe the errant bigwords
That run by your tired eyes
That giant sized

Nietzsche

A couple of crippling sonnets
Riding once smooth, but now
Beaten down
Or does Greer look at you
In scorn
What about rags
Do they stick out their cursive
Tongues
"Read us your random thoughts"

Do you switch back then,
To rabid cherry pie recipes
Alien but niggling
Or rant along with a shrewd
Adapted
That won some praise sometime

Come on, give up now
Surely, its relaxing
To swim with the tide
Try to make your peace
In the bright glow of your
1 GB
Amongst other Bellows and Whatmans

Elizabeth

Elizabeth is not a mistake
So what on a rough, edgy morning,
Tumbling
On a tablefull of stale bills
On a bed, groaning with lost hope
Around a shrinking therapist
Amidst pressed aunts and
Pasty moms
Drilled by starved minds and
Most uncreative soccer dads,
You gave in and gave up
Lizz, you are not a mistake
So don't make one