A man with a cat wanders the town;
Sunflower oil has dampened the ground.
Because of the oil
the whole town may spoil,
But what’s to be done
when reality can’t be found?

The cat tips his hat as he leaves on the trolley;
But with furpaws and whiskers he can’t be trustworthy.
The man who sees
Falls to his knees,
Then in consternation and conviction
runs to the river crying of dereliction.

Meanwhile on the other side of town
The egalitarian elite of fine formed exclusion
are breaking bread and rioting in choreographed confusion.
A candle, an icon and right indignation,
One more displaced soul joins the asylum of the nation.

But what’s to be done when the feedback of the senses
Contradicts what reasonable folk set up as defenses?
“Are you normal?” They ask, with fine seeming concern,
“Just answer me honestly and you can choose your own turn:
To stay or to leave, why freedom is yours.
But really, what sense in this story outpoured?

Can’t you hear for yourself the unreason and passion
That led you to these impractical actions?
A cat and a trolley, good sir desist,
Such fancy simply cannot exist.
And what’s that you said about the oil?
Yes, true a man died, but that’s nothing related.
A devil, consultant, professor and madman? With sight of the future? Do get him sedated.”

Was it true what he said, those things disbelieved,
Or was his head a bit loose from his Tolstoy shirtsleeves?
Is it madness to be maddened by impossible deeds,
Or is the only sensible response to take leave
Of one’s senses when faced with the knowledge
Of this world’s less wholesome college?

It was said long ago, when injustice prevails,
The just man has no place but the jail.
Perhaps then too when the world is in thrall,
The man of right heart to the asylum must fall.
For what’s to be done when the stories reported
Simply don’t match society’s courses?

The cat doesn’t mind, you can think what you may
He’ll have a shot of vodka and then on his way.
Likewise the consultant is not here to please:
True his exposé reveals man’s disease,
But it is of heart and not head he seeks complicity.

So watch out who you meet, what you choose to believe,
For letting them tell you what’s true can lead
To a schism of thought with no known reprieve.
Keep your head on your shoulders, If that you can manage,
And look for compassion from those on your road
To help ease the burden of life’s disadvantage.

Men are mortal, they say... sometimes suddenly so.

Imperfectly bound,
in this our mortal coil.
We yearn for the edge,
knowing all has been lost…

lost to time and tide
and tired eyes
that could not bear to see
the stumbling path we tread,

the hands we reached for
that withdrew, unawares,
as through the empty space we fell,
a tear for lost humanity.

We know not why, or where, or how,
just that we are, here for now—
with breath that shivers through us
and holds the strength to act

if we knew but some just cause,
some cold idea of truth,
that shone through space as dark as night
to lead us out of our youth—

our bright eyed dreams of purpose
or fiery throws of fear,
both alike in uncertainty
and both leaving us year by year.

Imperfectly bound,
we feel our own rough edges
and know there should be more,
but have not sense to see the way

to guide our ships to shore
and reach the rest we dearly need,
the place where all is still,
where questions do not linger
and we have no need to know.

A shock to the heart
As your hand slipped from mine,
A chill deeply felt
More of physics than mind.

This beating, this desperate
Ache from within—
Why does it feel
More like living than an end?

As though it were not
The sorrow of parting
But that first gasping breath
Of life long disregarded?

As though shocked into motion
My heart now constricts,
To leave you, to cleave to you—
Nothing else forces this

Senseless muscle to reach
Beyond its cage,
To beat as though it
Would break for salvation;

Nothing but these
Two diametric causes
Can snag that fine string
That twines between ribs

And restart the thing
With a painful yearning
That confuses and awakes,
That would drive me to you

Or away toward my grave.
A sense too vital, too demanding by far,
To turn back to practical
Tasks of the hour.

To live in this heat, this feverish cold,
I know not how to breathe
Unless you tighten your hold.
To forget the feeling, regress to the old,

If hearts are capable of life untold,
Of existing in stillness
Without deafening pulse,
It’s not a trick I’ve ever been sold
Or have a mind to endure.

One footstep away,
The light glows rosy;
Another forward,
The faults are forgot—

Leave your lover,
You’ll know in an instant
The tone of past moments
Was heaven unthought.

I have often loved places
While others loved people.